This was what he wanted.
Rameiro had no plans of slowing down. He pressed forward again, launching a short left hook that clipped Damon's guard, followed by a quick inside leg kick. Damon barely registered the strike, bouncing on his feet, staying composed.
Then, as Rameiro lunged in again, Damon fired.
A perfectly timed check hook smashed into Rameiro's jaw.
The Cuban stumbled, his momentum halted for the first time.
Damon saw the opening.
A sharp right straight crashed into Rameiro's nose, followed by a brutal left body kick that echoed throughout the arena.
"Damon's starting to find his range!" one commentator called.
"He's making Rameiro pay for every step forward!" the other added.
But Rameiro wasn't backing down.
Blood trickled from his nose, but his expression remained stoic. He wiped his face with his glove before stepping forward again.
Damon feinted a right hand, baiting Rameiro into reacting, then slammed another body kick into his ribs.
This time, Rameiro grunted, his posture shifting slightly.
The fight was shifting in his favor.
But Rameiro was still dangerous.
And he wasn't about to let his guard down.
Rameiro was still dangerous, but he was predictable.
The moment Rameiro stepped in again, Damon made his move.
He feinted a right straight, forcing Rameiro to flinch just slightly, then, before the Cuban could react, Damon shot in for his own takedown.
A quick level change, a deep penetration step, and in the blink of an eye, Damon had scooped Rameiro off his feet. The Cuban's eyes went wide, realizing what was happening just a second too late.
Damon slammed him to the mat with authority.
"That was huge!" one commentator shouted.
"Rameiro never gets taken down like that! Damon just ragdolled him!"
But Damon wasn't done.
He immediately transitioned, moving like a machine, securing a deep crossface to keep Rameiro pinned. The Cuban thrashed beneath him, trying to buck his hips, trying to explode back to his feet.
Rameiro tried to shrimp, Damon flattened him out.
He tried to turn to his knees, Damon hooked a leg and stuffed him.
He tried to create space, Damon drowned him.
"Damon's control is ridiculous," one commentator marveled.
"This is insane," the other added. "He's making a world-class wrestler look helpless."
Damon tightened his grip, pressing his full weight onto Rameiro's chest, making it harder to breathe. He could feel the Cuban's frantic energy, the frustration in his movements.
Rameiro was strong, but it didn't matter.
Strength only worked if you had space.
And Damon was giving him none.
The Cuban tried again, straining, twisting his hips, using every ounce of his power to break free.
Damon responded by effortlessly stepping over and sliding into full mount.
"He's got the mount!"
"Damon Cross is dominating a former world champion!"
Rameiro's arms shot up, trying to frame, trying to push him off.
He grabbed Rameiro's wrist and pinned it to the mat.
Rameiro had nowhere to go.
Damon took a second to look down at him, their eyes meeting.
"You ain't getting up," he muttered.
Then, he postured up.
And began raining down hell.
A sharp elbow sliced down, cracking against Rameiro's guard. The Cuban grunted, twisting to cover up, but Damon stayed on him, adjusting his position, throwing another hard shot that snapped Rameiro's head sideways.
The sound of the impact echoed through the arena.
"Damon is mauling him!" a commentator yelled.
Rameiro, for all his experience and toughness, was in deep trouble. He was used to being the one controlling positions, dictating the pace. But now, trapped under a relentless force like Damon, he was drowning.
Another elbow came down.
Each shot forced Rameiro's hands higher, his body curling inward. His legendary durability was keeping him in the fight, but there was no doubt, he was losing.
Damon grabbed a wrist, pinning it to the mat, and smashed another elbow into his exposed temple.
Rameiro bucked wildly, trying to explode out.
Damon anticipated it.
The moment Rameiro bridged, Damon rode the movement, floating over his hips and smoothly transitioning to side control. The Cuban grunted in frustration as Damon locked him down again, pressing his shoulder into his jaw, keeping him stuck.
"Damon is bullying one of the most dangerous middleweights of all time," the other commentator said in disbelief. "This is a clinic!"
Rameiro tried to roll, Damon shut it down.
He tried to frame and push off, Damon yanked his arm away and smashed another elbow down.
For the first time in his career, Rameiro looked helpless.
But instead of rushing for the finish, he took his time.
This was about making a statement.
He let Rameiro struggle, let him burn energy, let the frustration set in. Every time the Cuban thought he had an opening, Damon shut it down with ease.
It wasn't just domination.
The crowd, once deafening, had quieted. The Irish fans were roaring, but even the neutral spectators were stunned.
"Rameiro has nothing for him!"
He faked another elbow, making Rameiro flinch, then slid into mount again.
This time, he didn't posture up.
Instead, he grabbed Rameiro's wrist, forcing it across his own throat, pinning it there with brutal pressure.
Simple. Efficient. Inescapable.
Rameiro's legs kicked against the mat as Damon squeezed, cutting off his blood flow.
The Cuban twisted, fighting to break free—
Damon tightened the grip.
Rameiro's eyes flickered. His movements slowed.
Damon let go immediately, standing up, arms raised as the Irish crowd erupted.
He turned to the cameras, smirking.
The commentators were in shock.
"A first-round finish against one of the toughest guys in the sport! This is insanity!"
The ref lifted his hand.
"And still undefeated, DAMON CROSS!"
But Damon wasn't done.
The real show was just about to begin.