MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 486

Chapter 486: Chapter 486: The First Crowned
The event finally began.

The roar of the crowd shook the arena, the grand stage glowing beneath spotlights as pyrotechnics thundered overhead.

Flags from every country hung high above the cage, rippling with pride. This wasn’t just another fight night, it was the culmination of a global war, where the best from each weight class stood at the edge of history.

Tonight, champions would be crowned.

Legends would be made.

And it all started with the Flyweight Finals.

Aleks Tanpoja vs. Baron Loreno.

Two of the division’s most respected names.

Aleks Tanpoja—, razil’s methodical, relentless machine. The man who left no doubt in anyone’s mind when he stepped into a cage.

A master of control, pace, and ruthlessness.

He had fought his way through this tournament with surgical precision, submitting and outclassing every opponent.

For many, he wasn’t just the favorite, he was the standard.

Across from him stood Baron Loreno. Mexico’s finest.

A fighter known for his heart, speed, and creativity.

A former world champion in his own right, Loreno had clawed his way back to the top after defeats and injuries that would’ve ended most careers.

He was the people’s fighter, smiling on his way to the cage, fist-bumping fans. But behind that charisma was a veteran who could scrap with the best of them.

The first round was tense.

Loreno came out light on his feet, constantly switching stances, peppering Tanpoja with quick jabs and leg kicks.

He worked angles beautifully, slipping in and out of range, making it hard for Tanpoja to set his feet. The crowd came alive each time Loreno landed a clean shot, a snappy body kick here, a sharp right hand there.

But Tanpoja stayed patient. He didn’t chase. He didn’t bite on feints. He stood in front of Loreno, reading him, watching.

Every time Loreno overextended, Tanpoja punished him with a stiff counter. He chipped away at Loreno’s lead leg with low kicks that landed like baseball bats.

By the end of round one, Loreno’s pace had slowed. His footwork wasn’t as loose. Tanpoja was starting to close the distance.

The second round was where Tanpoja took over.

Loreno tried to pick up the aggression, knowing he couldn’t let Tanpoja control the tempo. He launched fast combinations, mixing in head kicks with punches, hoping to overwhelm him.

But Tanpoja’s defense was airtight. He slipped, rolled, and blocked most of the offense, walking Loreno down like a hunter who knew his prey was running out of space.

Halfway through the round, Tanpoja landed a clean right hand that stunned Loreno. He followed with a brutal body shot that folded him momentarily.

From there, Tanpoja stalked him with cold precision. He didn’t rush for the finish, he made Loreno feel every second of it. Every jab snapped his head back. Every kick took more spring out of his legs.

By the third round, Loreno was bleeding from a cut under his eye, breathing heavy, and moving slower. But he was still fighting. He showed why he was loved, he kept throwing, kept trying. But Tanpoja was on another level.

Early in round three, Tanpoja timed a takedown perfectly, dumping Loreno to the mat with authority.

He quickly took the back in the scramble, hooks in deep. Loreno fought the hands, showing grit, but it was only a matter of time.

Tanpoja stayed patient, tightening the choke inch by inch until it was locked under the chin.

Loreno tapped.

It was over.

He had dominated from start to finish.

As Tanpoja’s countrymen celebrated in the crowd, the announcement echoed through the arena.

Aleks Tanpoja released the choke immediately, smoothly transitioning off Loreno’s back as the referee stepped in to wave off the fight.

He rose to his feet without fanfare, walking calmly to his corner while the officials checked on Loreno.

His team surrounded him, clapping him on the shoulders, but Tanpoja barely reacted. His breathing was steady. His expression unreadable.

When they called him to the center of the cage, he walked there with the quiet purpose of a man who had already been here in his mind a thousand times.

This wasn’t shock. This wasn’t disbelief. This was the payoff for years of brutal work in dark gyms far away from flashing cameras.

The referee took his wrist and held it up.

“Aleks Tanpoja… the Flyweight Champion of the World MMA Tournament!”

The crowd erupted. Flags waved in the stands, chants echoing from his Brazilian supporters. But Tanpoja remained still, his eyes scanning the crowd without emotion.

Then came the belt.

One of the officials stepped forward carrying it, sleek, polished, shining under the arena lights. It was bigger than any belt Tanpoja had ever fought for before.

The centerpiece was emblazoned with the tournament’s crest: a globe, circled by steel, flanked by laurel leaves, the words World MMA Tournament Champion carved in bold across the top.

The leather was thick and heavy, dark as midnight, with gold plates on either side listing the tournament year and weight class.

They wrapped it around his waist, fastening it with precision. It sat there, resting heavy on his hips, a symbol of everything he’d earned.

Next, they brought the medal.

A solid medallion, weighty and gleaming, hung from a deep green and gold ribbon, the colors of the tournament. On one side, his name was etched beneath the event’s crest; on the other, the symbol of his division: Flyweight Champion.

They slipped it around his neck, and for a moment, it rested against his chest alongside years of invisible scars.

Tanpoja stood there quietly, running his fingers once over the face of the medal. He exhaled slowly. It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for show.

It was for him.

Finally, he gave a small nod.

Not to the crowd, but to himself.

Acknowledging the weight of it all.

Acknowledging that the work had been worth it.

The first champion of the night had been crowned.

And Aleks Tanpoja stood as the example of what it meant to earn it.