MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Trauma is a strange thing.

You can live with it for years, carry it around like an old scar that doesn't ache anymore.

You can convince yourself it's healed, that you're fine, that everything is behind you.

But it only takes a moment, a word, a memory, a fleeting image, to unravel it all.

Suddenly, the emotions you thought were buried resurface, raw and unrelenting, stronger than they ever were before.

For Damon, it wasn't just a memory. It was a presence, always there, lingering in the corners of his mind like a shadow he could never outrun.

The scar on his back wasn't just a mark of what had happened; it was a reminder of everything he'd lost.

A normal family.

A childhood.

A sense of safety.

And in that reminder, a dark truth settled deep in his chest.

He wasn't healed.

He wasn't okay.

And maybe he never had been.

The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating and unyielding.

It wasn't just sadness, it was a hollow ache that drained the color from everything, a relentless whisper in his mind that said, This is your fault.

You let this happen.

You didn't fight hard enough.

You didn't protect her.

His mother's face flashed in his mind, her tired smile, the way she tried to shield him when she could barely shield herself.

The guilt was unbearable.

And the anger... it burned so fiercely it felt like it could consume him whole.

He hated the man who had done this to them, hated him so much that the mere thought of him made his blood boil.

But the hatred wasn't enough to snuff out the sadness.

He hated the man, but he hated the boy he had been more. The boy who couldn't stop it. The boy who cried instead of fought.

The boy who let it happen.

Damon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands as they trembled.

His body had grown strong, his fists capable of breaking bones, but it didn't matter.

It didn't matter. Continue reading stories on empire

Because no amount of strength could undo the past.

But what confused him was why these emotions were coming back now, when his life was finally happy.

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.

.

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While Damon wrestled with the shadows of his past, across the ocean in another country, a bond was quietly taking shape.

A connection forged not out of necessity but understanding.

A friendship, a brotherhood.

There was still ice on the ground from winter when the wind blew across the rough scenery of Dagestan.

There was still snow on the sharp peaks of the Caucasus Mountains, but there were signs of melting snow in the valleys below.

The land was gray because of the clouds that hung low and looked like they were going to bring more snow or rain.

There was a gym that wasn't like the others in a small, quiet town.

With its brick face worn down by years of bad weather, the building was simple and useful.

A small plaque on the wall reading "Gym" in Cyrillic showed how well-known it was in the area.

The gym was simple but efficient. Thick mats covered the floor.

A cage stood in the center, surrounded by walls lined with photos and medals, proof to the gym's legacy of champions.

The trainers were a mix of stoic and commanding, their presence unmistakable.

Some were older, their experience evident in the way they moved and spoke, guiding young fighters with a sharp eye and gruff encouragement.

Others were in their prime, sparring and drilling with the same fighters they coached.

One trainer, with a thick beard and an authoritative voice, called out commands in Russian, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The trainer wasn't just any trainer, it was Kamil Murnamadov, a name that carried immense weight not just in Dagestan but across the UFA community.

His presence in the gym was magnetic, commanding respect with every word and gesture.

Kamil stood near the cage, his thick beard slightly damp from the gym's heat.

He wore a simple tracksuit, the kind that didn't draw attention but was practical for movement.

He looked around the room with sharp, analytical eyes, watching each fighter so carefully that he didn't miss anything.

As one of the young fighters struggled with a combination on the heavy bag, Kamil's voice rang out like a whip cracking through the air.

"Быстрее! Сильнее! (Faster! Stronger!)" he shouted, his tone firm but not unkind.

Another fighter faltered during a takedown drill, his movements hesitant. Kamil immediately stepped in, clapping his hands sharply.

"Что это? Ты так дерёшься? Давай, давай! (What is this? Is this how you fight? Come on, come on!)" His words, though stern, held an undercurrent of encouragement, pushing the fighter to dig deeper and correct his form.

After a few more rounds of observation, Kamil clapped his hands again, the sound echoing in the room.

"Все сюда! Быстро! (Everyone here! Quickly!)" he called out, his voice cutting through the rhythmic thuds of gloves against bags and the grunts of exertion.

The fighters, ranging from young prospects to seasoned athletes, stopped what they were doing and gathered around him in a tight circle.

Kamil waited until everyone was present, his sharp gaze making sure no one lingered.

Kamil Murnamadov stood in the center of the gathered fighters, his piercing gaze scanning the group for a moment before he raised a hand to silence the murmurs.

"Сегодня у нас новое дополнение к нашей команде. Новый брат. (Today, we have a new addition to our team. A new brother.)," Kamil announced, his voice carrying an unmistakable mix of authority and pride.

The fighters stood still, their expressions curious yet respectful.

From the back of the group, a man stepped forward.

His short hair was neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven save for a faint shadow of stubble that hinted at ruggedness.

He bowed his head for a moment and carefully stepped into the circle while facing the group. He introduced himself in a soft but clear voice. His words polite.

"Здравствуйте. Меня зовут Иван Новак. Я здесь, чтобы учиться и работать. (Hello. My name is Ivan Novak. I am here to learn and work.)"