With Chemasov pressed against the cage, Damon didn't slow down.
Every knee, every shot, calculated, sharp, vicious.
Chemasov tried to frame off Damon's shoulder to create a little space, but Damon stripped it away like it was nothing, dragging him back into the clinch. He laced his leg inside Chemasov's to trip him slightly, forcing more weight onto the champ's already unstable base.
Then Damon made his move.
He dropped low, locked his hands tight under Chemasov's hips, and with a sharp turn and lift, dumped him hard onto the canvas.
Chris Dalton from commentary shouted from the distance, "Huge takedown from Cross! Just bullying the champion now!"
But there was no pause.
Damon slid effortlessly into half-guard, pinning Chemasov under him. And from there, the rain began.
Chemasov's head snapped to the side from a brutal right elbow.
Then short, suffocating punches right behind the ear. Clean. Heavy.
Damon's top pressure was terrifying.
Chemasov, for all his ground pedigree, was being drowned.
He tried to shrimp his hips out.
He tried to grab wrist control.
Damon stayed glued to him like a wet blanket laced with violence.
Chemasov shifted hard for an underhook, desperate to escape, but Damon recognized it instantly. He threaded his own arm underneath, crushed it down, and punished him with more elbows.
Blood started to smear across the mat from a cut opened on Chemasov's eyebrow.
Chemasov finally exploded, a big bridge, a big roll, classic wrestling instincts kicking in.
It got him to a knee.
But Damon was a step ahead.
As Chemasov posted up, trying to rise, Damon snatched his neck in transition, threatening a front headlock position.
But instead of chasing the choke, Damon smartly switched, dragging Chemasov back down, then sliding behind him like a snake tightening its coil.
Chemasov clawed at the hands, breathing harder now, panic in his movements, not yet broken, but forced to fight just to breathe.
Then —BANG Damon postured and dropped a crushing elbow straight to the side of the head.
This wasn't just wrestling anymore.
Pure, suffocating, technical violence.
Chemasov was stuck defending, hands glued to Damon's wrist to avoid the choke, but that left his head unprotected.
Damon wasn't rushing. No reckless mistakes. He'd made his point.
He was better here too.
He had everybody on edge at the moment.
The camera zoomed in, Damon Cross, sitting high on the back of the reigning champion, in full control, the crowd roaring behind him, but all you could see beneath him was the growing pool of red.
It wasn't just a cut anymore, it was pouring.
Every shot Damon landed, sharp elbows, tight punches, reopened the wound above Chemasov's eye worse and worse. Blood dripped down into his own eyes, onto his cheek, into his beard, but more than that…
It was splattering all over Damon.
His forearms were stained. His wrist tape darkened. His chest, marked with streaks from posture strikes, looked like a man in a warzone, primal, savage.
This was becoming a bloody scene.
And Damon stayed calm through all of it.
Like a hunter who'd cornered his prey.
He dug the wrist control deeper, forcing Chemasov's hands apart again, trying to slide under the neck for the choke.
But Chemasov, for all his pain, for all the beating he was taking, still had fight in him.
He ripped at Damon's left hand with both of his, peeling it off his chin, preventing the choke. His hands were slippery, soaked with his own blood, but for the first time in a long stretch, he bought himself a breath.
A small pocket of space.
But survival rarely is.
Balim Chemasov, drenched, battered, half-blinded by blood, got both hands to Damon's grip and turned just enough to ease the back control pressure.
And everyone watching felt that same thing.
Jim Logan whispered on commentary, as if he was seeing something primal.
"Look at this man… fighting like a cornered animal."
Chris Dalton's voice was low too.
"Blood everywhere. Chemasov's entire face is painted red. Damon Cross? He looks like he's been baptized in it."
Mike Brewer summed it up in one sentence.
But Damon Cross wasn't frustrated.
Because he respected that.
But respect or not, mercy wasn't coming.
Flattened Chemasov once more.
And the crowd leaned in again… holding their breath… waiting for what was next.
Damon gritted his teeth, feeling Chemasov's grip lock around his wrist like iron. For a moment, just a moment, the champion had slowed him down. Made him work for it.
But Damon was patient. Calm.
One hand fought the grip. The other posted heavy on the mat for balance. He yanked once. No give.
He ripped Chemasov's hand off like tearing roots from dirt.
And in that moment, Damon rose, his posture towering above the battered champion.
Chest out. Shoulders wide. Covered in blood, but none of it his.
Straight into the arena lights.
For a second, frozen in time, he didn't look like a fighter anymore.
He looked like a warlord.
An apex predator who had dragged his prey to hell.
Cameras flashed like lightning. Fans from the floor to the nosebleeds could feel it, this moment was history.
Jim Logan practically shouted, losing composure.
"LOOK AT THAT IMAGE! THAT'S ONE FOR THE AGES!"
Chris Dalton's voice hit awe.
"THIS IS MADNESS. CROSS IS COVERED IN BLOOD, AND HE'S STILL IN COMPLETE CONTROL."
Mike Brewer just let it out raw.
"HE LOOKS LIKE A VILLAIN IN A MOVIE, MAN."
He didn't care for the lights or cameras.
Elbows rained down like axes, tight, brutal, cutting.
Hammerfists pounded Chemasov's guard.
Body shots to break him down.
More elbows slicing through whatever space Chemasov left.
The crowd roared with every brutal thud.