MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 485

Chapter 485: Chapter 485: Eyes Forward
But with the Tournament Finals still in sight, things moved.

Time didn’t slow down just because of one messy interview that never saw daylight. Damon knew better. The machine kept turning, and if you weren’t ready to move with it, you’d get left behind.

Promotions ramped up as the days counted down. Big ads were everywhere, billboards in major cities, commercials running during prime-time sports broadcasts.

Clips of his fights were spliced together with dramatic music, each knockout and submission framed as part of an inevitable rise. His name. His face. His story. All packaged and sold to millions waiting to see the final fight.

There were interviews, too. Press junkets with reporters asking rehearsed questions. None of them dared to go off-script this time. They stuck to the lines they were given, safe, respectful, controlled. Damon kept his answers short but solid. No need to say more than he had to. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

And then there was the conference. The big one. Cameras, reporters, flashes going off the second he stepped onto the stage.

His opponent already sitting there, the same forced calm that everyone wore at these things. They posed for photos. Answered questions. Shook hands they didn’t care about.

The tension was there, humming beneath everything, but Damon kept his focus sharp. He was here for one reason. And none of this noise mattered once the cage door shut.

The fight was coming.

And that’s where he did his real talking.

Damon had to admit, this tournament had boosted his status more than he expected.

When it was over, when he came back home, he knew exactly what was next. He was going to sit down with the UFA brass and argue for the title shot. Not a contender fight. Not a warm-up. The champion. He’d earned that much, and they knew it.

But first, he was taking time for himself.

For Svetlana.

After the finals, they were getting away for a while. Somewhere quiet.

He didn’t believe much would change in that short time. The fight game moved fast, but not that fast. His name wasn’t going anywhere. His rank wasn’t slipping. The world could wait.

And when he came back, he’d be ready to take what was his.

Every weight class involved was deep in preparation. No one was coasting now, every fighter who made it this far knew exactly what was on the line. Glory. Legacy. The chance to etch their name into history as the first-ever World MMA Tournament Champion.

Each division had its finalists, and the world was watching.

Heavyweight: Thomas Spinal vs. Phrancis Mgau.

Two juggernauts. Powerhouses with completely different styles, Spinal with precision and footwork, Mgau with raw aggression and freakish strength. It was a collision waiting to happen.

Middleweight: Damon Cross vs. Enton Malikin.

A chess match in the making. Damon’s sharp, calculated violence against Malikin’s relentless pressure and championship pedigree.

Lightweight: Eslum Nurkachek vs. Eilya Putoria.

Speed versus grind. Nurkachek’s suffocating grappling clashing with Eilya’s explosive striking and movement. Whoever imposed their will first would decide the pace.

Flyweight: Aleks Tanpoja vs. Baron Loreno.

Tanpoja, the reigning UFA flyweight champion, had carved his place at the top of the division. Dangerous everywhere, relentless, and tough as nails. If anyone could stop Loreno’s run, it was him.

And then there was Russia.

Two fighters in the finals: Enton Malikin at Middleweight and Eslum Nurkachek at Lightweight.

If they both won, it wouldn’t just be about titles. It would be about pride.

About honor. For Russia, it would mean dominance. Proof that their system produced champions. Proof that their fighters were a breed apart.

The weight of nations rested on every cage door closing.

And Damon knew, this was bigger than him.

But it was his time.

No distractions.

No mistakes.

The day of the finals had finally arrived.

All the noise from past controversies, interviews, and drama? Forgotten. The only thing on anyone’s mind now was the fights.

The energy outside the arena was electric, crowds packed tight, flags waving, chants echoing through the air. Fans from every corner of the world had shown up, repping their fighters, their countries. Everyone was here for history.

In the middle of it all, a father and son wove through the crowd toward the entrance.

The older man glanced over his shoulder. “Matthew, come on. We don’t want to miss the walkouts.”

His son, maybe sixteen, seventeen, practically buzzed with excitement. His CrossEra shirt, black with bold silver letters, stood out in the crowd. He tugged it down absentmindedly, checking to make sure it sat right as he walked.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m coming!” Matthew said, his eyes darting everywhere, soaking it all in like a kid at his first big concert. His phone was out already, recording short clips of the crowd, the banners, the giant screen looping fighter highlights above the arena. He kept shaking his head in disbelief.

“Man… this is insane,” he muttered, half to himself. “We’re actually here.”

He shoved his phone into his pocket for a second, looking at his dad with a grin he couldn’t hold back.

“I swear, if Damon knocks this guy out, I’m getting that head kick tattoo. I’m serious.”

His dad chuckled, giving him a light shove toward the doors.

“Let’s get inside first, then we’ll talk tattoos.”

Matthew laughed but didn’t argue. He was still glancing around like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

This was it, the biggest night in MMA. And he was here to see Damon Cross fight in the finals. Live.

For him, there wasn’t a better place on earth.

He had been a fan since day one.

Matthew remembered it clearly, years ago, his dad had taken him to a small amateur show, nothing flashy.

Just a bunch of local fighters trying to make a name for themselves in a crowded hall that smelled like sweat and cheap disinfectant.

Damon Cross was on that card. He wasn’t famous back then. He wasn’t anyone. Just another name on a handwritten lineup sheet taped to the wall.

Matthew had been a kid then, wide-eyed, watching Damon walk to the cage with that same cold focus he still had now. Damon won that night.

Quick. Ruthless. And afterward, when the fights were over, when he was leaving standing on the side of the road.

Matthew had gone over with his dad, nervous but excited, and asked for an autograph.

And he had.

Every fight. Every win.

From that community center to this, the finals.

Now, watching the crowds, the banners, and the deafening hype, Matthew couldn’t help but grin like a maniac.

Yeah, he wished he could meet Damon again.