MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 453

Chapter 453: Chapter 453: Walking Into the Fire Chapter 453: Chapter 453: Walking Into the Fire It was late at night in England.

The excitement in the arena never dropped, and the crowd cheered as each fight ended.

But now all eyes were on the next fight, which was Damon’s.

He had been warming up for the past few minutes, his body loose, his mind clear.

Each movement felt sharp, each breath steady.

This wasn’t like fighting in the UFA, where he knew his opponents, had seen their footage, and studied their weaknesses.

This was different.

His opponent was from Brazil, from a different promotion.

If Brazil had sent Alex Tereira, that would’ve been something.

A challenge, even.

He could wrestle him, sure, but there would’ve been real danger in the striking department.

But his opponent tonight?

A name he barely recognized, a fighter he hadn’t studied extensively.

That could mean one of two things, either this guy wasn’t on his level, or he was a dark horse, someone just as dangerous but without the same recognition.

Damon wasn’t worried.

He stopped shadowboxing, shaking his arms out before rolling his shoulders.

The backstage area was buzzing, coaches, staff, and fighters moving around, but his focus stayed locked in.

The official stepped in.

“You’re up.” Damon exhaled, nodding.

Victor clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s handle business.” Damon smirked.

That was the plan.

He turned toward the tunnel.

The lights dimmed, the screen above the entrance flashing his name.

The Irish flag waved in the crowd, mixed with cheers and anticipation.

It was time.

His opponent had already entered, pacing inside the cage, bouncing on his feet to stay loose.

The Brazilian crowd was deafening, chanting, singing, waving their flags.

Brazil had always been passionate about their fighters, their support unwavering.

Tonight was no different.

Damon stood at the entrance, waiting.

The Irish national anthem began playing through the speakers, filling the arena.

He walked forward, listening, feeling the weight of the moment.

It was a song of pride, history, and legacy, but it didn’t quite match the energy he wanted.

He made a mental note to talk to Victor later about possibly changing his walkout music.

Something with more impact, something that fit his presence better.

For now, none of that mattered.

The crowd’s roar intensified as he moved through the tunnel, stepping into the bright lights of the arena.

He made his way down, fans reaching out over the barricades, some trying to get a touch, others just screaming his name.

Irish flags mixed within the sea of Brazilian supporters, but they were outnumbered.

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t here to win a crowd, he was here to fight.

At the checkpoint, the officials did their usual routine.

His shirt was off, his mouthguard checked, his cup patted.

Vaseline smeared over his face.

A nod from the official, and then he was cleared to enter.

Damon climbed the steps.

As always, he dropped to his hands and knees, crawling through the entrance in his signature fashion.

The mat was cool beneath his palms, the cage towering above.

He rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he took his first few steps inside.

Across from him, his opponent stood tall, staring back with unwavering focus.

Damon met his gaze.

This was it.

Damon stood still, eyes locked on his opponent.

If he hadn’t been confident in himself, the sheer size of the man in front of him might’ve been intimidating.

His opponent was massive for a middleweight, clearly one of those fighters who cut down aggressively to make weight, only to rehydrate and balloon back up.

By now, he had likely returned to the size of a light heavyweight or close to it.

Damon didn’t flinch.

He had seen this type before.

Size meant nothing if you didn’t know how to use it.

He kept analyzing, his sharp gaze dissecting the man in front of him.

The way he moved, the way he breathed, the way his shoulders flexed as he bounced on his feet.

Other than his size, there was nothing remarkable about him.

He wasn’t giving off that unmistakable aura that truly great fighters had.

Damon had fought big guys before.

Strength wasn’t a concern.

What mattered was skill, speed, and adaptability.

He had all three in spades.

As they continued their silent face-off, the referee stepped in, preparing to start the formal introductions.

Damon kept his expression neutral, relaxed.

The fight hadn’t even started yet, and he already felt like he had figured this guy out.

The announcer, Mark Callahan, stood in the center of the octagon, microphone in hand, as the crowd reached a fever pitch.

The Irish and Brazilian fans roared, their chants battling for dominance in the electrified atmosphere.

Callahan let the moment settle before raising the mic to his lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a middleweight bout in the World MMA Tournament!

Three rounds in the 185-pound division!” The cameras zoomed in on each fighter, both standing with unwavering focus, awaiting their introductions.

“Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner!

Representing Brazil!

Standing six feet four inches tall, weighing in at 185 pounds!

Undefeated with a professional record of fourteen wins, no losses!

THE UNDEFEAEEEEEETEDD Leandro ‘O Gigante’ Silva!” The Brazilian section of the crowd erupted, chanting Silva’s name in unison.

The towering fighter raised his fist, his frame massive for a middleweight.

He stood confidently, soaking in the energy of his supporters.

Callahan turned to the other side of the octagon.

“And his opponent, fighting out of the blue corner!

Representing Ireland!

Standing six feet two inches tall, also weighing in at 185 pounds!

Undefeated with a professional record of 17 wins, no losses!

THE UNDEFEAEEEEEETEDD Damon Cross!” The Irish fans erupted, their cheers echoing through the arena.

Damon remained composed, his eyes locked on Silva, his breathing steady.

The referee stepped between them, raising a hand.

“Alright, gentlemen.

We’ve been over the rules.

Protect yourselves at all times, follow my instructions, and fight clean.

Touch gloves if you want.” Silva extended his glove, a smirk on his face.

Damon hesitated for half a second before giving it a quick tap and stepping back, his focus unwavering.

The referee took his position, scanning both fighters.

“Ready?” Damon nodded.

Silva nodded.

The referee dropped his hand.

“Fight!” The bell rang, and the battle began.