MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 795

Chapter 795: Chapter 795: Quiet Before the Storm

The night passed quietly. Damon stayed on the call with Svetlana until Ava finally drifted off to sleep, curled against her mother’s side with the stuffed bunny still in her arms.

Damon lingered a little longer, watching them on the small screen, before he said his goodbyes.

By the time he ended the call, fatigue hit him hard.

He set the phone down on the nightstand, rubbed his face, and lay back on the hotel bed.

His body was exhausted from the day, but his mind still ran circles.

The tournament was nearly done, two semifinal fights, the finals, and then his own main event with Ivan.

That thought weighed on him, but tonight, the sound of Ava’s laughter still rang in his head, softening the edges of everything else.

He closed his eyes, finally letting sleep take him. For the first time in weeks, it felt peaceful. Tomorrow, the work will resume.

When Damon stepped into the UFA gym that morning, the air felt heavy. Not from exhaustion, but from the reality of the bracket.

Four fighters remained under his roof, Max Taylor, Kenji Sato, Theo Brunner, and José Alvarez. And every one of them would have to fight a teammate.

Damon didn’t waste time pretending it wasn’t awkward. He lined them up by the cage.

“You’re all here because you earned it,” he said plainly. “But from this point on, none of you are training side by side. You’re opponents now. I’ll make sure each of you gets the work you need, but there won’t be overlap.”

They nodded, none of them eager to break the silence.

Damon split them immediately. “Max, you’re with Coach Ramirez in the east room. Kenji, Coach Hughes has you in the west room. José, you’re with Coach Vargas upstairs in the pad room. Theo, you’ll stay here in the cage with me today.”

It was clinical, deliberate. Each fighter walked off in a different direction with their assistant coach, doors shutting one after another until the gym felt strangely empty.

Theo stayed in the cage, shadowboxing as Damon leaned against the fence. Damon wanted a close look at him, not just as a fighter, but as a problem José would have to solve.

“Move like you’re fighting someone longer than you,” Damon called. “José’s reach is real. Don’t plant until you’ve cut the angle.”

Theo nodded and circled, throwing jabs, slipping, then ripping heavy combinations into the pads Damon held.

The raw power was there. Every strike thudded like it was meant to finish a fight.

But Damon watched the recovery, slight drops in the guard, a second too long to reset.

“Keep your hands up,” Damon said. “José doesn’t need much space to find your chin.”

Theo gritted his teeth, adjusted, and powered through the next round, his athleticism shining.

Theo drove forward into his combinations again, his gloves smacking heavy into Damon’s pads.

Sweat was already running down his back, dripping onto the mat as his breath came sharp through his mouthguard.

Damon kept circling with him, forcing Theo to adjust angles instead of firing straight down the middle. “Don’t just chase,” Damon said firmly. “Cut him off. When José circles, you don’t follow, step and meet him.”

Theo listened, tightening his footwork. Instead of plodding forward, he shifted his lead foot outside and fired a stiff jab to Damon’s pad, then immediately followed with a right cross that snapped loud in the empty gym. Damon nodded.

“That’s better. Don’t admire your work. Reset fast. He’ll come back at you.”

Theo pushed, throwing a three-piece, then slipped an imaginary counter and answered with a heavy hook to the body.

His speed wasn’t the same as José’s, but the power was undeniable. Damon felt it even through the pad.

“Good. You’ve got the strength to make him respect you,” Damon said, lowering the pads briefly. “But power only matters if you can land it clean. José won’t stand in front of you. He’s sharp, he’s technical, and he’ll punish you every time you’re late on defense.”

Theo nodded, jaw tight, and went back into motion. He pawed the jab, faked the level change, then lunged with an overhand. Damon slipped it and tapped him with the pad against his forehead.

“You can’t just throw and hope,” Damon reminded. “Every punch has a consequence. Keep your chin down, keep your hands home.”

Theo reset, this time more disciplined. His jab was tighter, his cross snapping straight down the pipe.

He dug a left hook to the body and immediately covered high, waiting for the counter. Damon gave a short approving grunt.

“Now you’re thinking. That’s what will keep you in this fight.”

They went another round like that, Damon pushing Theo’s conditioning as much as his technique.

By the time they finished, Theo’s chest was heaving, his gloves hanging heavy at his sides, but his eyes were sharp.

Damon pulled out his mouthguard and patted his shoulder. “That’s the version of you that can win. Strong, patient, smart. Don’t let the fight turn into a brawl, you won’t beat José like that. Make it clean.”

Theo nodded once, sweat dripping off his chin, his whole frame trembling with exhaustion. But his grin told Damon he understood.

“You’ll be ready,” Damon said.

Damon did the same for each fighter. Once Theo’s session ended, an assistant coach stepped in to cool him down and run through conditioning while Damon moved on to the next room.

Kenji was waiting in silence, already wrapped and shadowboxing lightly. Damon didn’t waste time.

He tested Kenji’s patience and counters, holding pads at odd angles, feinting shots, forcing Kenji to fire only when he saw real openings.

Every drill focused on efficiency, two strikes at most, no wasted motion.

From there, Damon shifted to Max. Unlike Kenji, Max thrived on volume.

Damon pushed his pace, circling around him, barking short commands as Max let his combinations fly.

The power was there, the intent was there, but Damon stopped him mid-round more than once, pointing out openings. “You’re too open on that last cross. Anyone sharp enough clips you clean. Fix it now.” Max would nod, grit his teeth, and push harder.

Later, he climbed upstairs to José. The Brazilian was calm, methodical, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Damon tested his precision, switching between mitts and body shields.

José’s strikes were crisp, one after another, sharp as if he was cutting air with every punch and kick.

Damon nodded quietly but gave little praise, José didn’t need it. He already knew who he was.

That was how Damon’s days wound up through the week.

Four fighters, four separate rooms, and Damon moving like a man caught between parallel worlds.

He gave each one the tools, the advice, the adjustments. Never favoritism. Never overlap.

By the end of each day, he was drained. His shirt soaked through, voice hoarse from giving commands, legs heavy from the hours on the mat.

But he didn’t allow himself rest until each fighter had gotten what they needed.

It was the rhythm of the week, separating, adjusting, preparing teammates who were no longer teammates.