MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 488

Chapter 488: Chapter 488: The Clash of Iron Wills
The next fight was the one many had been waiting for.

The atmosphere inside the arena shifted, something heavier. Chants and cheers grew louder, flags waved, and banners hung proudly in the stands, but beneath it all was a buzz of tension.

Damon Cross vs. Enton Malikin.

Two of the most disciplined, dangerous middleweights to ever set foot in a cage.

And now, they stood on opposite sides of the world’s grandest stage.

Damon’s journey was as much about proving something to himself as it was about titles. From his amateur days, clawing his way up, to The Supreme Fighter tournament where the world first took notice.

His story had resonated with fans everywhere. He fought with purpose, with precision, and with a chip on his shoulder no one could quite define.

And now, he stood on the verge of becoming the World MMA Middleweight Champion.

His first ever championship.

Enton Malikin wasn’t interested in stories.

Russia’s other finalist that night had already proven everything he needed to prove, undefeated, relentless, and brutally efficient.

Malikin was all pressure, all power. Known for his crushing takedowns, ruthless ground-and-pound, and ability to break men before they ever had a chance to fight back.

He wasn’t here to be a part of Damon’s legacy. He was here to end it.

Two different men.

Two different worlds.

But the same goal.

In the back, Damon was fully geared and ready.

He wore a long walkout gown draped over his shoulders, the green, white, and orange of Ireland standing out under the tunnel lights. It wasn’t flashy, but it carried weight.

Across the back, in bold black lettering, was his name, CROSS, and beneath it, stitched clean.

The fabric shifted gently with each movement as he rolled his shoulders, loosening up one last time. His hands were wrapped, gloves tight, mouthguard in place. His breathing was calm. Steady.

He stood near the tunnel, the entrance to the arena ahead of him. The roar of the crowd beyond was distant but rising, pulsing through the concrete walls like a heartbeat.

Victor was there.

Not saying much, he didn’t need to. He stood at Damon’s side, arms folded, his sharp eyes watching everything.

Focused, as always. He gave Damon a nod, calm and measured. The kind of nod that meant: You’re ready. Go do what you came here to do.

It was the same nod Victor had given him before his first amateur fight.

And the same nod before every war since.

No speeches. No last-minute advice.

They both knew none was needed.

The work was already done.

Far above them, in the VIP section, Svetlana was watching.

The official appeared in front of them, headset on, hand raised.

“Let’s go.”

Damon exhaled slowly, his head dipping as he stepped forward.

The light from the tunnel was blinding at first, but he didn’t flinch.

As they walked, Victor kept pace behind him. Silent. Steady.

The chants grew louder.

Cross Era!

Cross Era!

When Damon stepped out into the light, the noise hit him like a wave.

The crowd was deafening.

boos, cheers, chants from every corner of the stadium.

He walked forward slowly, his head held high beneath the glow of the overhead lights. The Irish colors of his walkout gown, green, white, and orange, rippled slightly with his movement, the fabric heavy across his broad shoulders.

The Irish National Anthem played as he walked. Not a modern remix, not something meant for hype.

He didn’t rush. This wasn’t a sprint. This was his time, and he soaked in every second.

Victor walked behind him, silent, hands behind his back like a general overseeing his champion. He didn’t say a word.

The cameras followed them down the walkway. Damon’s face was calm, his eyes focused straight ahead on the cage, unmoving even as fans on both sides of the barrier screamed for his attention.

Some were shouting his name, their faces painted in green and orange.

Cross Era! Cross Era!

The chant rose from a pocket of Cross fans high in the upper decks, carried by hundreds of voices and fists raised in the air.

Damon reached the official standing by the cage.

The man checked his gloves first, tugging them at the wrist wraps, making sure everything was tight and legal.

Damon didn’t move, his arms relaxed at his sides, his gaze forward while the routine checks were made.

After the gloves came the mouthguard inspection, then the swipe of Vaseline across his cheekbones, under his eyes, and finally over his brows.

Just enough to keep the skin slick. Just enough to make sure if something split, it wouldn’t tear deeper than it had to.

“Good to go,” the official said, patting his shoulder.

Damon gave a single nod, his jaw tight.

Then he turned to the cage.

The steps loomed in front of him, bathed in light.

Without hesitation, he dropped low and moved up them on all fours.

One hand, then the other.

One foot, then the next.

Controlled.

Slow.

Almost animal.

The muscles in his shoulders shifted with each deliberate movement as he climbed, his fingertips briefly brushing the cold steel of the cage wall as he went.

At the top, he paused on all fours for just a second longer.

The crowd noise swelled behind him, but it was distant, muted compared to the quiet that settled in his head. And then he stood.

Damon stepped inside the cage fully, his boots gliding smoothly over the mat as he crossed to his corner.

Victor was already there, arms folded. His face unreadable. He gave Damon a look that needed no words.

‘You know what to do.’

Damon rolled his shoulders once, bouncing lightly on his toes as the officials motioned him into place.

Damon moved around the cage, slow at first, feeling out the space beneath his feet. Each step was light, measured.

He dragged his fingers briefly across the cage wall, testing the tension of the mesh, as if reminding himself where the boundaries were, where the fight would take place, and where it would end.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his neck side to side, shoulders loose, his breathing steady.

And then the music changed.

A new pulse through the speakers.

The Russian anthem began to play.

And the crowd’s energy shifted.

Enton Malikin was on his way.

The reigning Russian champion.

The man they all came to see.

And the man Damon Cross was here to break.