Chapter 40: The Weight of Expectation

The day wore on, with fighters continuing their weigh-ins. Meanwhile, the hall where the matches would take place was slowly filling up, with over 200 people already in attendance.

Damon had spent his time trying to imagine his opponent, since he knew nothing about him. He was stuck with speculation, his mind racing with possibilities.

Just as he was about to leave the room after changing, a ding sound echoed through the air. He sat back down, his eyes fixed on the system interface as it opened before him.

A quest notification flashed on the screen:

[Quest Issued]

[TITLE: AN ENTERTAINER]

Damon's eyes widened as he read the details:

[WIN YOUR MATCH IN A DRAMATIC FINISH AND MAKE YOURSELF KNOWN]

He felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of a dramatic finish. But then he read the next part:

[WIN BY KO: STRIKING MOVE AND PROFICIENCY FEATURE]

[WIN BY SUBMISSION: SUBMISSION MOVE, PROFICIENCY FEATURE]

Damon's heart raced as he realized the stakes. He had to win, and win big.

But then he saw the punishment for losing:

[LOSE: GRADE DEDUCTION ON PHYSICAL STATS]

He swallowed hard, his mind racing with the implications. He already had a bad physique, and the thought of making it worse was terrifying. He didn't want to find out how bad it could get.

Damon's eyes remained fixed on the screen, his mind reeling with the weight of expectation. He knew he had to win, no matter what. The question was, could he do it?

Damon smiled to himself, feeling a sense of satisfaction as he looked around the room. He began to clean up, placing his belongings in the box that Mr. Steele had sent him. He would leave with it when he departed.

As he worked, his gaze fell upon the mirror. He stared at his reflection, taking in his appearance.

The shorts and gloves made him look like a fighter, but his 6'2" height made him appear very skinny for a 125-pound weight class.

He shrugged, not worrying too much about it. He had more important things on his mind.

Just as he finished packing, a knock sounded from the door. Damon turned to face it, his heart beating slightly faster with anticipation.

He remembered that they had asked him earlier what music he wanted to walk in with. He hadn't known any popular songs, so he had simply said "any cool random music." He wondered what they had chosen for him.

Damon took a deep breath, feeling a sense of excitement building inside him. He was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

With a final glance around the room, he turned and walked out the door, leaving everything behind.

The sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway as he made his way towards the unknown.

Damon stood alone, unlike the other fighters who were accompanied by their teams.

As he arrived in front of the door, a song blasted through the speakers, and he felt adrenaline coursing through his veins like a powerful elixir.

He pushed the door open, and it swung wide, revealing a dark hall with only a few lights illuminating the space.

The crowd cheered and clapped, creating a deafening roar that echoed off the walls.

Damon walked through the hall, his eyes fixed on the ring ahead.

The air was thick with anticipation, and he could feel the weight of the crowd's gaze upon him.

As he approached the cage, a stern-looking inspector blocked his path.

"Hold up," the inspector said, his voice firm and commanding.

Damon raised his arms, and the inspector began to pat him down, his hands moving with practiced efficiency.

He checked Damon's torso and arms, ensuring there were no hidden objects.

Next, the inspector examined Damon's gloves, tugging at the laces and tape to ensure they were secure. "Gloves are good," he muttered.

Then, he asked Damon to open his mouth, and Damon parted his lips, revealing the mouthguard snugly fitted over his teeth.

The inspector gave it a quick glance before meeting Damon's gaze.

"Cup check," he said simply.

Damon tapped the front of his shorts, giving the inspector a brief nod to indicate everything was in place.

The inspector applied a small dab of Vaseline to Damon's cheekbones, the cool gel soothing his skin. "This'll help with cuts," he explained.

Finally, the inspector took a step back, his eyes meeting Damon's. "You're set," he said, giving a brief, approving nod. "Go show 'em what you got."

With a final deep breath, Damon stepped past the inspector and into the octagon.

The door closed behind him with a loud clang, and he was enveloped in the electric atmosphere of the ring. His mind was focused, his body ready for the battle ahead.

The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, "Damon Cross!" Damon stepped into the ring, his eyes scanning the crowd.

Then, his opponent made his entrance, and Damon was surprised. The guy was short, much shorter than Damon had expected.

But then he realized, he was already too tall for this weight class.

As his opponent entered the ring, the announcer said his name, "Johnny Creed!" The crowd cheered, and the announcer left the ring, making way for the referee.

Meanwhile, in the broadcast booth, the commentators introduced themselves. "Hello, I'm Michael Bosley, and welcome to Battle Xtreme here in Stockton, California. I'm joined today by my partner, Daniel Greene."

Daniel added, "That's right, Michael. We've got a spectacular card lined up for you today, but we're starting off with a flyweight match that's got everyone talking."

Michael continued, "That's right. And what a peculiar match it is. We've got Damon Cross, the towering flyweight, taking on Johnny Creed. Daniel, what are your thoughts on this one?"

Daniel chuckled, "I mean, let's start with this behemoth of a man. I repeat this every time, just as weight has an impact on the match, height is too. When one cuts weight so low for their height that they look like they've been starved, then they shouldn't be fighting. That's my opinion, I don't know about you."

Michael laughed, "Well, as we speak, the referee is telling the fighters the rules."

The crowd, oblivious to the commentators' voices, continued to cheer and chant, eagerly awaiting the start of the match.

As Damon and Johnny stood face to face in the center of the octagon, the referee stepped between them, his presence commanding attention.

The noise of the crowd faded into the background as the referee's voice took precedence.

"Alright, gentlemen," the referee began, his tone firm but calm, "you've both been briefed on the rules. Protect yourselves at all times. Listen to my instructions, and keep the fight clean."

His gaze shifted from Damon to Johnny, ensuring both fighters were locked in. "No strikes to the back of the head, no knees to a grounded opponent, and no grabbing the fence. If I say stop, you stop immediately. Understand?"

Both fighters nodded, their eyes never leaving each other.

"Good," the referee continued, stepping back just slightly. "Touch gloves if you want to, and let's have a good fight."

Damon and Johnny tapped gloves briefly—a show of respect before the battle ahead—then backed up to their corners, muscles coiled with anticipation. The referee glanced between them one last time, then raised his hand.

"Ready? Ready? Fight!"

With that command, the fight was on.