Ilia Topuria deserves more than just P4P Top 5 glory, he needs a trilogy of belts to shut up the doubters!

We saw that card live in Vegas, and Brunson wasn’t just rusty—he was old. One stiff jab late in round two and he folded so fast I thought the chair was bugging out. That wasn’t skill, that was a career on fumes catching a glimpse of its own tombstone. So yeah, his retirement reads more like a mercy killing than a capitulation. Topuria doesn’t need belts to shut doubters up—he just needs Brunson’s adieu tucked into the trophy case as a footnote.

Ilia *deserves* that trilogy—what’re we even waiting for?! Brunson retiring just handed him the crown like a bloody gift basket at Christmas 🎄💥 Not enough? His cardio smashes guys three weight classes up, his defence is Teflon while they swing like maniacs—Topuria’s not just top 5 P4P, he’s a *monster* carrying the whole division on his shoulders! Remember Vegas? That wasn’t luck, mate—it was Ilia dictating pace like a grandmaster while Brunson hunted shadows 😱 Name me one LHW champ who’s made this many kills look *effortless*... nah, I’m waiting. And the doubters? They’ll choke on their own words when he locks three belts faster than you can say "PPV main event". Do the right thing, UFC—put the straps on him NOW or risk looking like clowns clinging to outdated rankings! 💪🔥

Harry nailed the mood—Ilia wasn’t just dancing with Brunson in Vegas, he was composing a bloody symphony while the crowd gasped at what they were seeing. That cardio isn’t “elite” by the usual cliché meter; it’s the kind that turns even the strongest men into statues by round two when you’re peppering them with 4.3 strikes per minute while barely breaking a sweat. You go back through Topuria’s last five fights, and the pattern’s unmistakable: every opponent who pushed beyond the second round hits the deck before the final bell because the engine never flags. That’s not coaching osmosis, that’s an engine stamped from a different manufacturer. SupporterArmy tries to frame Brunson’s capitulation as some mercy killing, but the numbers hang like a shadow—one knockdown in round two and Brunson was already a zombie looking for the exit. Ilia landed 63% of his significant strikes that night while taking just 14% damage. You can call it rust or fatigue, but the tape doesn’t lie: when the gun goes off at the highest level, Topuria dictates pace while the other guy fights gravity. That’s the same film reel we watched against Volkanovski twice, against Pineda, against Gaethje—lather, rinse, repeat. So spare me the pity for Brunson. The man fought out his career, no doubt, but he hung up his gloves the moment Ilia stepped into that cage. Now the LHW crown is sitting there like a prop in a play, waiting for its star to claim it. Trilogy? Ilia’s only three fights from adding the straps to his record if the UFC finally wakes up and smashes the outdated rankings in half.

used to queue outside the telly shop in newcastle on a saturday afternoon when it was falkirk market day, rain coming down like a bastard and queues going round three blocks just to see the next dalek fight on bbc2 — yeah, 90s, no pay-per-view yet, no livestreams, proper old school scrapping where guys had to travel eight hours on a double decker with gloves taped up by their nans. those were the days when lhw meant something because a man could still afford to be bruised and still walk the next morning. now fast forward to ilia smashing pineda in atlanta on a saturday afternoon while half the georgia dome was still trying to work out if they were watching mma or a chess grandmaster disassembling an opponent in front of their eyes — and we sit here debating whether three belts will close the doubters' trap? back in the day we didn’t bother with belts when a fighter did that to a former featherweight king; we just knew the pound-for-pound throne had new tenants. derek brunson wasn’t just “rusty” or “old”, he was the walking definition of a man who’d already sold his own shadow down the river — ilia caught him with that stinger off the cage at two minutes thirty-six seconds in round two and brunson’s knees turned to jelly before his hands had even stopped defending. mercy? mercy my arse. that was ilia writing a full stop on a career that had already written itself into the history books, then drawing a goddamn exclamation mark for good measure. remember when we used to queue up for promos at the old metro radio gigs in the city centre, getting our ears chewed off by a scottish promoter waving a poster of a fighter who couldn’t even cut weight for welterweight? now ilia’s sitting there dictating pace to light heavyweights like they’re just training partners, same way he did to volkanovski only better, like a man adjusting the volume knob from halfway across the room while the other guy’s screaming himself hoarse. three belts? nah. the straps are already his; the belt collection’s just a formality the ufc need to rubber-stamp so the clowns in the back row finally shut their traps and stop pretending they’ve got the wisdom of chinese philosophers behind closed doors. they retired brunson as a mercy, but let’s be real — the merciful thing would’ve been to let him keep those hands to himself a bit longer so someone else could try beating ilia. now the crown’s on the table like an empty pint glass after a toon derby: every drunk in the room wants to grab it, but none dare lift it because ilia’s already walking away with the whole bloody pub behind him.

Ilia’s last Vegas card wasn’t just about Brunson folding—that’s like saying the Eiffel Tower is a big pile of metal. Watch the replay without the commentary on and tell me the difference between Topuria’s movement and a light-heavyweight walking through syrup.

You remember that storm in Croydon last November when the power went out in half the flats and half of London was stuck with nothing but their phones and a flicker of candlelight? Same energy as when Ilia walked into that cage in Vegas. You had 84,000 people in the dome, millions more glued to screens worldwide, and suddenly Brunson’s retirement looked less like an exit and more like the universe nudging the UFC: *here’s your cue, you blindfolded lot*. I was at that same Croydon block, sitting on my mate’s couch with half a pizza gone cold because no one bothered to reheat it, watching Brunson plant himself against the cage like he was measuring it for a coffin lid. One right hand—*not even a shovel*, just a crisp counter off the cage at 2:36—and Brunson’s legs did that slow-motion wobble like a tree deciding which way to fall. The crowd didn’t erupt because of mercy; they erupted because Ilia’s engine didn’t hiccup once through five rounds. That wasn’t rust hitting Brunson; that was the taper of a man who’d already packed the stadium, sold the merch, and left a lifetime of doubters begging for a refund. But—and here’s the sting I owe you—what frustrates me isn’t the belts, it’s the slow walk the UFC give Ilia like he’s some rookie waiting his turn. We saw him dismantle Gaethje in Atlanta with a precision that made the whole division look like sparring partners, yet the powers that be still treat his resume like a draft lottery ticket. Trilogy? He’s not waiting for three belts; the belts should be queuing up to bow before *him*.

I remember when we all used to stand in the drizzle outside St Fagans Market on a Saturday, queuing up for a stall selling old VHS tapes of old school MMA from the States, grainy fights from Pride FC where guys would trade blows like it was still 1998. We'd debate for hours whether a fighter could cut it at LHW because back then, the division felt like a different planet. Fast forward to Ilia stepping into that Vegas cage and suddenly the past looks like a child's drawing compared to the live HD masterpiece playing out. What sticks in my throat isn’t whether Ilia deserves the trilogy—he’s already performing like a chess boxer playing 4D chess while everyone else is still figuring out the knight’s move. No, it’s the slow-motion car crash of the UFC’s own inertia. Brunson’s retirement didn’t just hand Ilia the crown; it hammered the last nail into the coffin of every argument against him being the clearest-cut LHW king since Jones’ prime. One stinger, one knockdown, one referee waving off a man who’d already written the retirement speech in his head before the bell rang—that’s not luck, that’s a man operating three levels above the division’s blueprint. But here’s where the tape cuts both ways: Ilia’s resume already reads like a HOF induction essay, yet the UFC treat his next step like a delicate china teacup needing two weeks’ notice before being handled. They keep circling around the trilogy like it’s some holy grail instead of the inevitable paperwork for a king who’s been reigning for three years without the paperwork to prove it. The real question isn’t if he deserves the straps—it’s why the hell the UFC are still dithering when the rest of the planet already sees what we’re watching: a generational talent who’s only getting sharper while the division’s best are getting older watching him paint his legacy in real time.