MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat
Chapter 660 - 660: Train Harder

The moment Nankalayev tapped, Damon released the hold and bounced to his feet, chest pumping as he roared, arms stretched wide.

His face lit up, not just with adrenaline, but with realization. The belt, the legacy, the goal of becoming a double champ… it was no longer a distant wish. It was right in front of him.

Victor was already climbing the cage, yelling through clenched fists. The Cross-Era section of the crowd exploded, their chants rising in rhythm, shaking the arena.

Svetlana stood backstage, both hands over her mouth, eyes locked on the screen. Ava, in her grandmother's arms, clapped along with the roar of the people.

Inside the commentary booth, there was a pause, then awe.

"That… I don't even know what to call that," one of them finally said. "That was one of the strangest, cleanest submission transitions I've ever seen."

The second voice followed up, sounding more stunned than excited. "I thought the armbar was the end, but then he changed angles… laced the legs, trapped the far arm, cut off the blood and air, just picture-perfect control."

"It wasn't just flashy," the third commentator added. "That was efficient. He shut down every escape. Every roll. That's a judo base, BJJ fluidity, and MMA pressure all fused into one, people are going to be breaking that down for years."

Nankalayev still hadn't stood up. He sat on his knees now, arms resting on his thighs, breathing heavily.

The medics checked his neck and shoulder, but he waved them away again.

His face didn't carry frustration, just acceptance. He knew what had happened.

Damon turned and looked at him, nodding once. A quiet show of respect. Nankalayev gave one back.

"He just submitted one of the hardest guys to even hurt," the first commentator said, voice still shaken. "And he did it in round three. Unlike his first match in the division this one had little to no mistakes."

A statement to the division.

A statement to the world.

And most of all, a statement to whoever held the light heavyweight title. Damon Cross was coming.

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Alex Tereira sat back on the couch, arms folded, eyes locked on the screen.

His translator and close friend sat next to him, quietly watching the replay, Damon Cross locking in the final submission, forcing Nankalayev to tap.

Tereira didn't say anything at first. He just stared.

He had been grinding hard these past few months, traveling across camps, New York, Rio, Dagestan, sharpening his wrestling defense specifically for Nankalayev. That was the matchup. That had been the mission.

Or... was the mission.

His eyes didn't move from the screen as Damon Cross cinched in the final lock. Nankalayev tapped. The replay looped once more, clean.

Tereira's friend sat beside him. They'd been watching in silence.

"Caralho," Alex said, low. "Ele fez parecer fácil." [Fuck. He made it look easy.]

His friend shifted, nodding slowly. "Mais fácil do que devia." [Easier than it should've been.]

Alex didn't blink. "Eu treinei meses pra defender aquele cara." [I trained for months to defend that guy.]

"Todo mundo treinaria," his friend replied. "Ele era problema sério." [Anyone would've. He was a real problem.]

"Era," Alex said. "Agora... agora ele virou escada pro Cross." [Was. Now... now he became a stepping stone for Cross.]

His friend gave a quiet whistle. "Tu acha que ele vai pedir o cinturão agora?" [You think he's coming for the belt now?]

Alex didn't answer right away. He sat up straight, grabbed the remote, and paused the replay mid-frame. Damon Cross stood tall in the cage, pointing to the crowd.

"Ele não vai pedir," Alex said. "Ele vai pegar." [He won't ask. He'll take it.]

The room was still.

Then Alex stood up, stretching his shoulders. His voice stayed level.

"Então vamos trabalhar." [Then let's get to work.]

His friend stood too. "Mesmo plano?" [Same plan?]

"Não," Alex said. "Plano novo. Agora é outro tipo de luta." [No. New plan. This is a different kind of fight now.]

He grabbed his gym bag from beside the couch, already thinking ahead. Damon wasn't Nankalayev.

And he was coming.

Alex didn't need to say it out loud. They both felt it.

Time to train harder.

Back in the arena, Damon stood in the center of the cage, his chest still rising steadily from the effort.

The energy hadn't faded yet, but the adrenaline had begun to cool. Around him, his team gathered, Victor was the first to reach him.

Victor clapped his hand against Damon's shoulder and gave a short nod. "That's what I'm talking about," he said. "That was clean. You controlled him. You didn't rush anything. You made him drown."

Damon gave a small grin, still catching his breath. His gloves were loose, one half-unwrapped, his hair damp with sweat. Joey stood nearby with a towel over his shoulder, shaking his head.

"You just submitted a guy I spent a week watching tape on and couldn't figure out," Joey said. "You made it look like he didn't have options."

One of the assistant coaches leaned in. "That last transition, armbar to neck crank to that choke? Nobody expected that. The way you stayed calm in the scramble... that was different."

Damon nodded once. He wasn't gloating or anything, but he wasn't humnle either. But the pride was there. He felt it.

He looked out across the cage. The crowd hadn't left yet. Many were still on their feet, still buzzing from what they'd seen.

Some held flags. Others were already holding up phones and posting. The replays were already running on the large screens, slow-motion angles of the choke, the commentary couldn't have enough of the submission.

Behind the fence, media and officials were starting to move in. One of the staff handed Damon a water bottle.

He took it, nodded in thanks, and sipped as he turned back to his corner.

Victor looked at him, then said, "One more."

Damon didn't need to ask what he meant.

One more belt. One more fight. Light heavyweight gold was next.

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