Damon Cross was champion now.
Undisputed. Official. No debates.
His name wasn't just known, it was global.
But like every fighter who touched gold early, the hunger didn't fade. It sharpened.
Most fighters peaked between twenty-eight and thirty-three. That was the usual prime for MMA fighters. The body matured. The mind settled. Experience caught up to talent.
Damon didn't feel like he was entering his prime.
He felt like he was already there.
Twenty-two wins. No losses. Tournament champion. UFA middleweight champion.
It wasn't confidence anymore.
It was conviction.
He believed he was the best middleweight in the world. And there wasn't a record, performance, or name that said otherwise.
Nobody had touched him.
Nobody had made him bleed properly.
Nobody had slowed him down.
He didn't feel lucky.
He didn't feel blessed.
He felt right.
