MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 540: The Title Path Set

And finally, after weeks of silence, hype, rumors, and subtle jabs, the UFA dropped the announcement the MMA world had been waiting for.

Balim Chemasov vs. Damon Cross.

Official.

The undisputed UFA Middleweight Championship was on the line.

Social media exploded within seconds. The post had millions of views in minutes. The comment section didn't even load for most people, crashed from sheer volume.

The fight was scheduled for four months out.

Just enough time for both fighters to go through a full training camp.

Chemasov had just claimed his crown in a gritty war. He'd earned time to heal and reset. Damon, on the other hand, was riding off a dominant win over Desayen and had been training consistently since. Both were healthy. Both were hungry. Both were undefeated in the UFA.

It was shocking how quickly the deal came together. Fans expected drawn-out negotiations, maybe even media tension. But no. The moment Chemasov said he wanted Damon, and Damon responded with equal fire, the fighters teams and the UFA brass got to work.

And they got it done.

This was set to be one of the most anticipated middleweight title fights in recent years, undefeated champion versus undefeated challenger. The present versus the future. The wrestler versus the striker.

It was time.

The road to war had officially begun.

Damon's fight against Balim Chemasov would be the main event. His first ever PPV headliner.

Set for early next year, the timing was perfect.

It would happen just weeks before Damon's 24th birthday.

If he won…

He'd tie James Jonas as the youngest champion in UFA history.

Another milestone.

Another reason why this fight wasn't just about gold—it was legacy on the line.

With the fight locked in and the world buzzing, Damon had other matters on his mind, matters that felt bigger than the cage.

Svetlana was now three months pregnant.

The pregnancy wasn't complicated, but it was demanding in small, daily ways. Fatigue, nausea, changing moods. nothing severe, but enough to remind both of them that life was shifting.

Damon was deep in training camp, preparing for the biggest fight of his life. But even then, he wanted to finish most of the heavy work early. His goal was simple, go hard now, so when the final weeks came, he could be present.

He wanted to be there for her, for every part of it.

Svetlana didn't ask for much. She could still move around, cook, take care of herself. But Damon helped anyway.

She never refused it. Never pushed him away. And truthfully, she loved how involved he was becoming.

He wasn't just training to be a champion.

He was learning how to be a father.

But not just that, Damon was learning how to be a good husband.

He loved Svetlana deeply, and more than anything, he wanted to see her happy. He paid attention to the little things, how her eyes softened when she spoke about the future, the way her hand instinctively rested on her stomach now, how she hummed when she was at ease.

She seemed genuinely happy.

The nerves from earlier had faded. Of course, she'd been nervous about becoming a parent, just like he had. But now? She carried a quiet glow, a natural calm. Like she was already connected to their child in a way he couldn't quite grasp yet.

And Damon… he couldn't stop watching her.

There was something different about her now. Stronger. Softer. More radiant. Pregnancy suited her in ways he hadn't expected. He didn't want to say it aloud just yet, but he found himself thinking it more and more:

She looked beautiful.

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Not just physically, though she absolutely was, but in the way she carried herself, the way she smiled through discomfort, the way she lit up when they talked about names or little things they'd buy for the baby.

She was glowing.

And Damon, in his own quiet way, was falling even deeper in love.

Training for Chemasov was fun in its own way.

Beyond the hard sparring and sweat-drenched drills, Damon found a certain joy in breaking down opponents.

He didn't just fight with muscle, he fought with information. Every session was backed by hours of footage, system-fed simulations, and deep analysis.

The more he watched, the more the system learned, and the more Damon grinned.

Chemasov was strong. No question. But strength alone never impressed Damon.

What caught his attention first was how Chemasov initiated every fight the same way, fast, direct, pressure-heavy.

He liked to close distance quickly, bulldozing through range with the same forward motion that had broken most of his past opponents. Damon didn't flinch watching it. If anything, he leaned in closer, studying the timing.

The system confirmed what Damon already sensed. Chemasov's wrestling was elite. The kind of elite that suffocated people.

His chain wrestling wasn't just effective, it was seamless. He could shoot low, switch mid-shot, drag opponents down like gravity itself was on his side. And once they hit the ground, he didn't let them breathe.

His ground-and-pound was punishing, and more than that, it was smart. He wasn't spamming punches, he was calculating damage while controlling posture.

But as Damon watched, something else became clear.

Something he already knew.

The man didn't like striking exchanges. Sure, he could throw, and he had moments, but whenever he couldn't dictate pace through grappling, his rhythm stuttered. His defense during long-range trades was shaky.

Something that had showed in his match with PDD.

His chin wasn't bad, but it wasn't bulletproof either. The few fighters who could stuff his takedowns had landed clean on him, more than once.

And that's where Damon's grin started.

Because Chemasov didn't hide it well. When his initial takedowns failed, frustration crept in. His footwork got sloppier. His strikes lost purpose. And his energy... it dropped.

The man burned hot in round one, but by round three? He wasn't the same fighter. His cardio wasn't poor, but his style drained his gas tank faster than most.

Constant wrestling, constant squeezing, it added up. And Damon knew how to weaponize fatigue better than anyone.

Another weakness stood out, though it was subtle. Chemasov had a tendency to over-commit when he was sure he had control.

Whether pinning someone to the cage or chasing a dominant top position, he left openings if the other fighter had the awareness and tools to capitalize.

Damon had both.

The system flagged something else, Chemasov's reliance on the fence. He used it to trap movement, to collapse space. But Damon wasn't like the others. He welcomed pressure. He trained for it. He turned being cornered into an ambush.

And when it came to the ground, Damon wasn't intimidated.

People forgot that he wasn't just a striker. Damon could grapple. His submission defense was sharp, and his sweeps came from unexpected angles.

He was planning to out-wrestle Chemasov, but he didn't need to.

But again, he always wanted to face his opponent in their strongest realm.

Back in the gym, Damon stepped off the mat, grabbed a towel, and nodded at Victor.

Damon sat, towel draped over his neck, replaying a moment in his mind where Chemasov missed a cross and left his ribs open. He smiled to himself, slow and cold.

"I see you," he muttered.

The pieces were coming together.

And come fight night, it wouldn't just be strength versus strength.

It would be pressure against patience.

Power against precision.

And Damon was already planning how to break the new champion's rhythm, step by step.