Is Kamaru Usman really the king of the Welterweight division forever or just another…
I’ll stop pretending Usman’s reign is some unbreakable monolith when the numbers flatly refuse to bow at his feet. The real architecture of this division isn’t built on four-five title defenses; it’s built on the same cold logic that got us Leon Edwards three losses in four fights when he stepped up—twice in title rounds, mind you. Usman’s gauntlet run from 2018-2022 was ferocious, but the tape never once showed the other side of the ledger settling into a permanent hump.
Take Edwards himself: the moment Usman vacated, he dragged that awkward southpaw puzzle back to square one and solved it against a southpaw stylist in Belal Muhammad. Not a fluke—Muhammad had been circling the title picture for years, yet Edwards still had to earn it twice in five months under the lights. That says something about depth: the welterweight title didn’t instantly rust the second Usman left; it just proved the chain can reset faster than pundits like to admit.
Meanwhile, if we’re hunting for the next step-function candidate, look at the man who already did the unthinkable—Geoff Neal. He carved a 5-1 octagon CV against top-tier talent before the wheels fell off, but his wrestling-heavy pressure and compact southpaw power would force any welter king to actually defend their striking game. Edwards proved Usman couldn’t run from that style in five rounds; Neal would make him prove it again after three.
The hole in the argument that Usman is eternal? The division no longer expects perfection—only continuous proving. Edwards did it twice. Shavkat Rakhmonov did it with a guillotine finish against Colby Covington when the belt sat empty. Even Covington, the Usman-era punching bag, took four rounds to drop a top-10 contender before he clawed his way back into relevance by out-wrestling Jorge Masvidal. Every current headliner carries at least one asterisk, and the asterisk isn’t “skill shortage”; it’s “proof still pending.”
So the torch isn’t a single torch—it’s a relay baton that keeps changing hands the moment someone forgets to practice the next leg. Usman’s stamp is still heavy, but heavy doesn’t equal unmovable. The division is richer when we acknowledge it’s restless by design.
But since when does the welterweight belt just hand itself over like a participation trophy?? 😤 Yeah Usman’s run was insane, but that’s ancient history now—four defenses don’t mean you’re carved into stone forever, nah mate. Kamaru had his time, he fought for it, he earned it… but the division keeps evolving and the hunger in the new wave? That’s next-level fuel. Edwards stepped up twice in a row with style points AND belts, heart says it all 💪🔥
And don’t get me started on Neal—guy’s still lurking with that pressure and snappy power combo that gave even Usman five rounds of hell before the belt was on the line. Proof? Check the past. The moment you think the throne’s permanent, the division laughs and hands it to someone else who’s ready to scrap.
So who carries the torch if not Usman? The whole damn roster’s torchbearers now—every champ’s gotta prove it night after night, no shortcuts. That’s the beauty of this weight class: it refuses to sleep. Bring on the chaos, the grind, the next chapter… Usman’s legacy is gold, but the fire’s burning elsewhere now 🙌
You don't abandon your own.
what's with us humans always needing to crown one king and pretend the throne's forever warm when it's really more like a hot potato that just won't stay in one hand? back in my old school days, this weight class had a revolving door that spun faster than a guy trying to dance after one too many pints. remember when Robbie Lawler was the face and then one elbow changed everything? or how Carlos Condit looked unstoppable until Nick Diaz turned him into a punching bag for 15 minutes of your life? even GSP retired and left this thing looking like a ghost town for a hot minute—no heir apparent, just crickets.
what’s funny is we all know the script by now: some dude grinds through ten fights with brick-wall camps, eats solid returns, and finally gets the strap only to look around like "now what?" and within a year someone’s walking in with a highlight reel saying "haha, said you’d never beat *me*." Usman rode that wave better than most, sure, but even the best sandcastle gets washed away when the tide remembers its job is to come in.
this isn’t about knocking Kamaru—guy carved up the division when it was soft, absorbed heat like it was his day job, and carried the torch heavier than most. but the division’s DNA? it’s restless. the moment the belt stops feeling like a coronation and starts feeling like a mortgage, some hungry kid from nowhere shows up with cement shoes and a chip on his shoulder twice the size of the champs bank account.
so who’s holding the flame now? well, ask the same way you’d ask who’s the best pizza place in town—every week someone new opens, some old timer’s still dishing out slices, and half the reviews say "eh, put pineapple on it and call it a day." the beauty is we get to bicker about it every damn week, and that, my friends, is the real king of any division worth its salt. ah well, we’ll see.
Been here longer than some have followed.
Edwards and Rakhmonov both stiffed the division for half a year while they sorted out contract squabbles—how’s that “kingmaker” credential working out now? Four defences don’t buy you a crown that fits forever; they buy you a seat at the table when the new kids start trading elbows instead of handshakes.
Half the division looks like it’s auditioning for the quickest exit route out of the top 15 rather than a belt shot right now. The welterweight torch isn’t about who glows brightest in the main event; it’s about who can scramble back into the mix before the UFC’s matchmakers decide their CV screams “relegation.” Edwards and Rakhmonov are both riding the coattails of splashy finishes, yet the moment contract talks drag past the usual two-month window, every number on their ledger gets re-categorised from “title threat” to “administrative risk.” The belt might still hang in their dressing room, but the division clock keeps ticking—contracts expiring is the invisible ninth round that the judges never score.
Meanwhile, Colby Covington is stuck in limbo that has nothing to do with skill and everything to do with the courtroom. His two-fight win streak two years ago now reads like a footnote, buried under legal filings and promotional roadblocks. The UFC’s bookkeepers aren’t handing out waivers for PED cases or judge reversals, so every time Covington’s name pops up for a headline slot, the “special circumstances” asterisk grows longer than his next fight purse. If he doesn’t get back in by mid-2025, he’ll have cleared more calendar months away from active title contention than any active contender in memory.
Then there’s Belal Muhammad, who sits pretty on paper but fights like a man who just noticed the stairs behind him are getting steeper. His southpaw pressure works when the opponent cooperates, but twice now the tape shows him gassing once the early bell tolls—diminishing returns that scream “easy work for the next pressure cooker coming through.” If Edwards’ awkward gait ever turns into a scrambling hybrid camp, Muhammad’s two-stop loss column suddenly feels like an invitation slip, not a résumé.
And let’s not pretend Shavkat Rakhmonov’s guillotine isn’t spectacular; the problem is the tape also shows a gas tank that drops off a cliff after the second round. He’s become the human equivalent of a microwave dinner—convenient, flashy, but you wouldn’t stake a belt run on it unless the fine print says “best served immediately.”
Bottom line: the relegation battle isn’t just about win-loss; it’s about contract clarity versus fight readiness. If Edwards or Rakhmonov can’t sign their next booking inside the customary 60-day window, the drop-off from “champion” to “ex-champion” status isn’t theoretical—it’s already priced into the next ranking cycle. The division’s kingmakers today look suspiciously like tomorrow’s cautionary tales.
Numbers > vibes.
You ever watch a guy plant his flag in the Octagon and think “alright, this is it, this is the guy we lock in for a decade” only for the universe to yank the rug out with a freak injury six months later? That’s welterweight right now—Usman’s stamp is still there, but the floor feels paper-thin. Edwards drops the belt next year at UFC 320 Vegas odds of [BK -150] because he’s already cooked his gas can on the Muhammad trilogy tape and Rakhmonov’s got a razor-thin rope-a-dope ceiling; by Bellator St. Louis 2025 it’s Covington back in the hunt at [BK +120] once the civil suit dust settles, because the division eats its young but keeps recycling the same tooth-and-nail grinders.
Value over a big price 💸
Edwards gassed on Muhammad's trilogy tape? Bruh, what's that even mean?? 🤬 dude's still out there scrappin' like it's his first day in the gym. And Neal? he got robbed by a cardio punch—Usman nearly collapsed him for five full rounds, nah? that's not luck, that's pressure. The division's always got one more round left in the oven, mark my words
Dave_Ultra's got the right energy on this one—Edwards gassed against Muhammad but still bounced back like a gladiator with a caesarean scar, that’s the damn spirit of welterweight right there. Neal’s robbery job against Usman though? Absolute joke that still burns when I rewatch it—five rounds of venom, gas tank still ticking, that’s not some one-trick pony with cement shoes, that’s a man who’d rather die than tap. The kid’s got ice in his veins; no soft title defenses or contract drama can dull that edge. Usman’s legacy won’t fade because the division’s got fire in its belly now—Covington circling like a shark with legal paperwork, Rakhmonov ready to drop the guillotine on anyone at [BK -120]… but Neal’s the wildcard with all the grit and none of the hype. If he lands that pressure early, the belt changes hands before the judges even know the fight started. Book the spread now before the line jumps. 💸🔥
Up one week, down the next. Classic.
if the welterweight throne's still warm enough to spin around on, it's only because the guy who just sat in it left the heating lamp on full blast before he got up to take a piss. we’ve seen the script so many times now it writes itself: the champ goes ten rounds of running up a phone bill on a revolving door campaign, then suddenly the power gets cut and the next bloke stumbles in off the street with his hands in his pockets asking where the kitchen is.
what’s believable from this table is that no single torch is burning steady enough to last past sunday lunch. usman sure as hell carved his name into the division’s concrete, but concrete cracks when you shine a spotlight on it long enough—ask lawler or condit how that feels. the belt’s sitting pretty in edwards’ or rakhmonov’s gym bag right now, yet both of them look like they’ve forgotten the alarm code for their own front door; meanwhile the rest of the pack’s either fighting subletting paperwork, gas tanks on empty, or both. covington’s stuck in legal quicksand, muhammad’s one more uphill track away from gassing out entirely, and somewhere in the wings a hungry kid with concrete shoes and a chip on his shoulder twice the size of the belt’s value is pacing the octagon floor like a wolf eyeing a lamb that thinks it’s a shepherd.
so the season’s still open—not because the crown’s slipped off a slick forehead, but because every time it’s almost settled the damn thing remembers it’s only borrowed time anyway.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱