MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon looked around and took in the huge area of bright white light that was all around him.

The dark figure stood still, almost like a doll. It was quiet and didn't move.

Suddenly, a soft ding broke the silence, and a message appeared before him.

[Welcome to the Simulation World]

[Host is the master of this simulation. You can imagine any environment and any opponent. The system will use the information in your mind to form that ideal person.]

[If the host desires a simulation closer to the real person, they must learn and watch past matches of that individual; otherwise, the host might train against inaccurate opponents.]

Damon's eyes scanned the message, realizing the potential. He was in control here, able to create any setting, any challenger, all tailored to push him exactly where he needed.

[Think of any environment and set your own limitations.]

He then took a deep breath and thought about the room he had just been in: Victor's cozy guest room.

The glaring white went away in an instant, and he was back in that familiar place, with just a hint of morning light coming in through the window.

Everything felt eerily real, as if he had never left.

Testing his control over this space, he clenched his fists, feeling the comforting weight of the room around him.

The possibilities swirled in his mind, every fighter he'd ever faced, every environment he'd ever fought in, could be at his fingertips.

Thinking of something, Damon closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he found himself standing in a small, familiar room.

He looked around, heart pounding, knowing where he was, his old bedroom in Ireland. Everything was just as he remembered.

Things from his childhood, like the worn-out wooden dresser, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed with sheets with comic book heroes on them, were still there.

As he took it all in, his breathing got faster. He slowly sat on the bed and felt the soft, worn-out cloth under his hands.

He could smell old wood and washing detergent mixed together in a weak way.

This felt so real and intense.

Damon clutched the sheets tightly, feeling the weight of memories he hadn't touched in years.

For a moment, he was no longer the fighter or the rising star with a powerful system.

Here, he was just a boy, back in his childhood room, where everything had once felt both small and safe.

Damon stood up, stepping carefully out of his room and into the narrow hallway.

His footsteps echoed in the quiet, and he paused, glancing down at his hands, which were trembling.

A knot twisted in his stomach, fear, creeping up from somewhere deep inside.

'Why am I scared?' he thought, trying to steady himself. 'He's not here.'

Moving through the house, every detail came into focus.

The familiar creak of the floorboards, the worn edges of the walls, and the shadows that seemed to linger in certain corners, just as he remembered.

It was hauntingly accurate, yet he knew it wasn't real.

Closing his eyes, he took a long, slow breath, and the scene shattered, dissolving into fragments of white light before fading away completely.

He exhaled, grounding himself. This simulation was something powerful, something incredible.

There was no need to waste it on the shadows of his past. He'd come too far for that.

Damon closed his eyes once more, focusing his mind. When he opened them, the scene had transformed.

Gone was the small bedroomhe now stood in the cage under the blinding lights of Madison Square Garden.

Seats filled the arena, walls loomed high, and the crowd's cheers echoed around him, just like they had last night.

In front of him stood the dark figure, silent and still.

"Am I supposed to imagine someone?" Damon muttered, watching it closely.

At his words, the figure began to shift, its shadowy form stretching and morphing until features emerged.

A tall figure took shape, solidifying into a man with a large, thick black beard and a bald head.

This was a powerful, formidable opponent, an image pulled straight from his subconscious.

He began circling him, his gaze sharp, taking in every detail.

Balim Chemasov…

Damon's breath hitched.

This was one of the fighters he aspired to face, a living legend known for his relentless aggression and raw power.

He'd seen Chemasov dominate in the cage, overwhelming opponents with a terrifying blend of skill and ferocity.

Especially Whittier.

And now, here he was, standing across from Damon, a product of his own mind, yet just as imposing as the real man.

This was a chance to test himself against the kind of fighter he'd one day face, to measure his skills against one of the best.

Damon clenched his fists, feeling a surge of adrenaline. Every instinct in him screamed to be ready.

Slowly, he raised his guard, eyes locked onto Chemasov's every move.

Chemasov began to move, his steps deliberate as he circled, watching Damon with an intensity that felt unnervingly real.

Damon's smirk widened. He'd studied Chemasov's fights, analyzed his style, and now, face-to-face with this simulation, he felt ready to test himself.

I can hold my own, Damon thought, a fierce determination rising within him. Maybe I won't win, but he'll know he's been in a fight.

He mirrored Chemasov's movements, keeping his guard up, feeling the familiar rhythm of a fight settling over him.

This was his chance to see how he measured up, to push himself against a level of power he'd yet to encounter.

The crowd roared, and Damon could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. It was as real as any fight he'd ever been in.

In a split second, Chemasov dashed forward, his movements explosive as he shot low for a takedown.

Damon's instincts kicked in, he'd seen Chemasov use this exact maneuver to dismantle opponents with brutal efficiency.

Bracing himself, he dropped his weight, widening his stance to resist the drive.

The impact was like hitting a wall of force. Chemasov's grip tightened around Damon's legs, relentless and unyielding, pushing him back with sheer power.

Damon gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he fought to stay on his feet.