A few days passed, and the day had finally come.
Damon had been waiting for this one—the World MMA Tournament Finals. He had followed every round leading up to it, watched the eliminations, noted every upset, and tracked the patterns that kept showing up.
There was a lot to study. Not just styles or skillsets, but outcomes.
And Damon had noticed something.
A lot of prominent names—especially from UFA—were missing from the final brackets. Not all, of course. But more than he expected.
A few middleweights from UFA had entered the tournament and failed to make it past the early rounds.
He didn't say anything publicly, but he noticed.
The contrast to his own run in the last tournament—the first one ever held—was striking. Back then, the talent pool felt deeper, heavier. More dangerous. The fights were tighter. The margin for error, smaller.
Still, despite some gaps this time around, one thing hadn't changed.
UFA still stood at the top.
It was no secret that the Ultimate Fighting Alliance was widely considered the pinnacle of professional mixed martial arts.
No other promotion matched its reach, its consistency, or the depth of its roster.
And while debates always surfaced—mostly from prideful corners of other organizations—none of them had taken enough from UFA to truly shift the balance.
Some argued that UNO was the second-best promotion in the world. Depending on who you asked, maybe even the best. There were always people who favored different rule sets or preferred different stylistic environments.
But when it came to recognition? When it came to what fans and fighters saw as the real proving ground?
UFA was the mountain.
And that's exactly what this tournament had become for many: the world versus the mountain. A chance for regional champions, dominant names, and rising stars from other countries and organizations to test themselves on a global platform.
In a way, Damon thought, the World Tournament was less about showcasing international unity and more about checking how many of them could hang with the best.
Last year's results had made that clear. The heavyweight champion. The lightweight. The flyweight. Even the middleweight—that had been him.
So tonight, as the finals loomed, it didn't just feel like another big fight was happening.
It felt like another challenge to UFA's throne.
And whoever won—Joren Edlen or Anatyr Tolkov—would be stepping into the cage with Damon soon.
He was ready for both. But he still wanted to see who climbed the mountain first.
Damon sat alone in the living room, the glow of the TV washing across his face as the announcer's voice echoed through the speakers.
The World Tournament Final was starting.
He had received an invitation from the organization behind it—front row seats, full accommodations, VIP access. But Damon had politely declined.
He wanted to watch from home.
The tournament had taken place far from where he lived. This year, the host nation was Singapore, and the time difference was brutal. The final card was airing deep into the night in the U.S.
Svetlana and Ava were both asleep. The house was dark except for the television and the quiet hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Damon sat with a blanket tossed over his legs, a cup of black coffee in one hand, and his eyes focused.
The camera panned across the arena. It was packed.
The crowd roared as the announcer stood center stage in his custom tux, mic raised.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—WELCOME TO THE FINAL OF THE WORLD MMA TOURNAMENT!"
Damon leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
He'd seen both men fight. He'd studied their movements. Watched the shifts in their timing, the traps they set, the holes they left. One of them would be next.
And tonight would show him which one.
The camera cut to the corners.
On one side stood Joren Edlen, loose in the shoulders, pacing with quiet confidence. On the other stood Anatyr Tolkov, motionless, staring forward, calm as stone.
Damon sipped his coffee and set it down.
Alone in the quiet house, the champion waited to see who was going to come knocking.
The arena lights dimmed for only a moment before bursting back to life, casting sharp white beams across the cage. The announcer exited with a flourish, the crowd roaring behind him as he passed through the cage door.
Inside, the two finalists stood motionless.
Joren Edlen of the United States paced in slow lines near his corner, rolling his shoulders, eyes sharp. On the other side, Anatyr Tolkov of Russia stayed still, his arms at his sides, staring straight across the cage.
Their eyes locked as the official stepped between them.
The tension was immediate.
Up at the commentary desk, the voices came through, crisp over the roaring crowd.
"This is it, folks. The World Middleweight Final. Two men, two very different styles—and both looking to stake their claim at the top of the international mountain."
"Absolutely," the second commentator added. "Joren Edlen, the American fighting machine—he's been grinding his way through the bracket with relentless pressure and top control. Anatyr Tolkov, the Russian technician—stone-faced, surgical, patient. You make a mistake, and he takes your head off."
The camera cut to close-ups of both fighters. Sweat glistened, jaws tightened.
"And let's not forget what's at stake here," the third commentator said. "Normally, the winner of this tournament would walk away as the de facto world champion for their weight class. But not this time."
"Right—because Damon Cross of Ireland, the defending champion from last year's tournament, didn't step aside. He chose to defend."
"So this time, the winner doesn't get the crown. Not yet. They get the right to try and take it."
"In a few weeks," the second commentator confirmed. "Whoever wins here will face Damon Cross for the undisputed title. And if you've watched Damon fight lately… that's a tall mountain to climb."
Back in the cage, the ref gave final instructions. Neither man blinked.
The climb was about to begin.