MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

"Seven matches last year, and I just fought recently," Damon echoed, his voice calm. "Yeah, I get it, but–"

Victor cut him off, raising a hand. "No buts, kid. You've been grinding non-stop. You're not a machine. Your body needs time to recover properly, even if you feel fine right now."

Damon frowned, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.

He understood what Victor was saying, but the itch to fight was strong.

Fighting wasn't just something he did, it was who he was.

"I get what you're saying," Damon admitted, "but three weeks is plenty of time to prepare. It's not like I'd be coming off the couch. I've been training every day."

Victor sighed, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together on the desk. "It's not just about being physically ready, kid. Mentally, you've gotta be sharp too. You're climbing the ranks fast, but burnout is real, and you don't want to take unnecessary risks, especially on short notice. One bad performance could set you back."

Damon nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "So you're saying I should pass?"

"I'm saying you should think long-term," Victor replied firmly. "It's not about this one fight, it's about the career. You're not just fighting to fight anymore. You're building something."

A moment of silence fell over the room as Victor's words hit home. It made Damon feel bad to think about missing a chance.

Victor studied Damon's expression, then softened his tone. "Look, they're asking you because they know you're good. That's a win in itself. But it's okay to say no. You've already proven yourself, you don't have to take every fight they throw at you."

Damon took a deep breath, leaning forward. "Alright, let me think about it. I'll let you know tomorrow."

Victor nodded, satisfied. "Good. Take the night, clear your head. We'll make the call in the morning."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Damon stood up, grabbing his bag. "Thanks, Vic."

Victor smirked, leaning back in his chair. "That's what I'm here for, kid. Now get some rest."

Victor's grin went away when Damon's door closed behind him.

His shoulders sagged as he let out a long sigh. The situation was getting to him.

His face showed worry, which told its own story.

When Victor was that young, he was like Damon, he was a hungry fighter ready to take on any task.

At that time, no one had warned him or kept him from making bad choices.

He had learned the hard way, through injuries, setbacks, and fights he had taken when he wasn't ready.

Victor didn't want that for Damon.

He ran a hand over his face, leaning back in his chair. "Damn kid," he muttered to himself.

The look on Damon's face as he'd left the room was clear, he was tempted, and Victor knew there'd be no stopping him if he truly decided to take the fight.

"Just hope he makes the right call," Victor said quietly, shaking his head.

He looked at the stack of papers on his desk again, but Damon kept coming to mind.

This was more than just a fight; it was a crossroads in Damon's career.

And Victor could only hope his warnings had been enough.

Damon stood at the curb, waiting for a cab, the night air against his skin.

His mood wasn't exactly sour, but it was off, like something was eating at him.

He tapped his foot, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Why wouldn't he fight?

It wasn't like he'd taken any significant damage in his last match.

Calvin had landed a few strikes, sure, but nothing that had truly rocked him. He was healthy, he was ready.

As he stood there, the city around him, his thoughts churned.

Taking a short-notice fight like this? It could be the move that catapulted him forward.

His name would spread like wildfire, and the UFA would have no choice but to book him against higher-ranked opponents after this.

"Dang it," Damon muttered, running a hand through his hair.

He realized something glaring, he hadn't even asked who the opponent was.

He had forgotten that important point because he was so eager to fight and prove himself.

Now Victor's words made more sense. The man wasn't just being cautious—he wanted Damon to think things through, to consider every angle before committing.

Despite that realization, Damon still felt certain he could do it.

Even if he had taken damage in his last fight, his system was a trump card no one knew about.

Healing elixirs could patch him up faster than any rest period could.

The cab pulled up, and Damon opened the door, sliding in with a sigh.

As the car pulled away, he leaned back against the seat, his mind still wrestling with the decision ahead.

Damon arrived home to the familiar comfort of the apartment.

The warm glow of the television lit up the living room, and his mother, Aoife, sat on the couch, casually watching a drama.

"Hey, ma," Damon said, dropping his bag by the door as he kicked off his shoes.

Aoife glanced over and smiled. "Hey, kiddo. You look wiped. Long day?"

"Yeah, a long one," Damon admitted, sitting down beside her.

He leaned back, letting the cushions engulf him as the day's weight began to melt away.

They chatted for a bit, catching up on small things.

Damon made sure not to mention the short-notice fight offer.

He could already imagine her reaction, worse than Victor's, by far. It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have tonight.

Instead, they laughed about the show she was watching, the mundane gossip of her day, and the general peace that came with just being home.

By the time they were done, Damon's mood had lifted completely. Sometimes, it was the little things that made a difference.

As the night wound down, Damon retreated to his room.

He spent an hour on the phone with Svetlana, their conversation flowing effortlessly.

They talked about everything and nothing, about training, her day, and plans they might have for the future.

Once done, Damon entered the simulation to finish his day off.