MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 489

Chapter 489: Chapter 489: Calm Before the Storm
When both fighters were finally in the cage, the energy inside the arena was almost unbearable.

The crowd was deafening, a chaotic blend of cheers, boos, and national chants. Irish flags waved in one section, Russian banners hung in another.

Some fans stood on their chairs, fists pumping as they screamed, while others simply stood silent, holding their breath. Everyone knew what was about to happen.

Damon Cross stood in his corner, calm but coiled. His chest rose and fell slowly, his eyes locked on the man across from him. Enton Malikin was pacing in his half of the cage, bouncing lightly, his gaze sharp, unblinking. Two different men. Two different styles. But they both carried the same weight now.

From the commentator’s booth, the voices of the broadcast team carried over the noise.

“This is it,” one of them said, his voice steady despite the madness around him. “Two of the best middleweights on the planet, and they are about to go at it.”

“Damon Cross has looked ice cold all week,” another replied. “Focused. You can see it in his eyes right now. But Malikin… this guy doesn’t break. We’ve seen him drag fighters into deep water and drown them there. If anyone can push Damon to his limit, it’s Enton Malikin.”

“You’ve got two incredibly disciplined fighters here,” the third commentator added. “Both are calculated, both are dangerous, and neither one of them gives an inch. This is going to be high-level, violent chess.”

Deuce Baffer stood tall in the center of the cage, microphone in hand, his polished shoes planted firmly on the canvas.

The lights dimmed slightly, focusing on him as the crowd hushed in anticipation. His deep, commanding voice carried across the entire arena with precision and weight.

“Ladies and gentlemen… this match is–

The crowd erupted on cue, the energy rippling through the stands like a shockwave.

“Sanctioned by the World MMA Federation… and brought to you by the World MMA Tournament!”

He paused, letting the moment hang in the air.

“This bout is scheduled for five rounds… for the World MMA Middleweight Championship of the World!”

The spotlight hit both fighters, circling them as Deuce turned to the blue corner.

Introducing first…

“Fighting out of the blue corner…

This man is a mixed martial artist, holding a professional record of 19 wins, no losses.

He stands six feet two inches tall, weighing in officially at 185 pounds even.

Fighting out of Limerick, Ireland…

Presenting the undefeated…

DAMON CROSS!”

The crowd exploded, Irish flags waving high as chants of Cross Era! echoed through the arena. Damon stood still, eyes locked on Malikin, hands loose at his sides, breathing steady. He didn’t react. He didn’t need to. His focus was already locked in.

Deuce turned smoothly to the red corner.

“And his opponent…

Fighting out of the red corner…

This man is a mixed martial artist, holding a professional record of 14 wins, 1 loss.

He stands six feet tall, weighing in at 185 pounds even.

Fighting out of Dagestan, Russia…

He is the reigning UNO Middleweight Champion…

The reigning UNO Light Heavyweight Champion…

Introducing the defending, undefeated… ENTON MALIKIN!”

The Russian side of the arena erupted in response. Flags raised. Chants booming through the stadium. Malikin didn’t move. He stood calm, stone-faced, as if he was waiting for someone to flip a switch so he could go to work.

Deuce took center stage one last time.

“And when the action begins… your referee in charge: Samuel Cortez.”

A final pause.

The lights intensified.

The cameras zoomed in.

Samuel Cortez, the veteran referee, motioned both fighters to the center of the cage. His expression was serious, his tone calm but commanding, the kind of presence that earned respect without needing to raise his voice.

Damon Cross walked forward, loose and relaxed, but his gaze sharp, locked on Enton Malikin.

Malikin stepped out from his corner like he was walking across a battlefield, his jaw clenched, cold focus behind his eyes.

The two men stood inches apart as Cortez glanced between them, making sure they were listening.

He raised his hands slightly, palms open, signaling for calm before the storm.

“Gentlemen,” Cortez began, his voice steady through the noise of the crowd, “we’ve gone over the rules in the back.”

Both men gave a slight nod, their focus unbroken.

“I want a clean fight,” Cortez continued. “Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands at all times. If I tell you to stop, you stop.”

He paused for half a beat, making sure there was no misunderstanding.

“Fight fair. Fight hard.”

Cortez extended both hands between them.

“Touch gloves if you wish.”

There was a moment of hesitation.

Neither man flinched.

Then, with a brief, sharp motion, both fighters extended their gloves and tapped.

No smiles.

No words.

Just respect. The cold, professional kind that came from knowing the person in front of you could end your night in an instant.

Cortez nodded.

“Back to your corners.”

They turned without a glance back, each walking in that measured, controlled way that spoke louder than any posturing.

As they settled into position, the commentators picked up.

“Here we go,” one of them said, excitement threading through his voice. “Two of the best middleweights in the world, seconds away from colliding.”

“This is high-stakes chess with violence,” another added. “Malikin, the double champ, trying to make history here. Damon Cross, undefeated, untested at this level, until now.”

“This is what you show people when they ask about world-class mixed martial arts,” the third said. “And it’s about to get real.”

Cortez stepped back to the center.

He glanced once between them.

And then he pointed to the timekeeper.

“Fight!”

The horn sounded.

The crowd roared.

And they stepped forward.

Damon Cross stepped forward first, his movement smooth and precise, his feet light on the canvas. He kept his stance loose, but there was nothing casual about it.

His hands hovered in that trademark high guard, his elbows tight to his body, his weight balanced just right. His head drifted slightly off-center, making him a difficult target to track.

He was already flowing into his rhythm, calm, technical, and methodical. This was the unique style Damon Cross had crafted.

Rooted in Muay Thai.

Refined through time and training of disciplined study.

But shaped by something entirely his own.

“He’s so composed in these openings,” one of the commentators noted. “Damon doesn’t waste energy. He probes. He reads. And then he strikes when it counts.”

“Yeah, but Malikin’s no slouch in this department,” another chimed in. “Both these guys can strike, and both can wrestle. The difference is in the pressure. Malikin walks guys down, forces them to make mistakes.”

“Don’t forget,” the third added, “Malikin’s the reigning heavyweight and light heavyweight champion. He’s used to bigger, stronger men. He’s been here before. Damon’s got to be careful in these early exchanges.”

Damon stayed disciplined, sliding into range with feints, small shoulder rolls, foot taps, testing reactions. His left hand flickered out a probing jab, just enough to check distance.

Malikin didn’t bite.

He stood firm.

No wasted movement.

No panic.

Damon circled, cutting an angle. His lead leg snapped out suddenly, a sharp calf kick that cracked against Malikin’s lead leg with a thud. The sound echoed through the cage.

Malikin didn’t even blink.

He stepped forward.

And then he exploded.

A sudden, violent burst.

Malikin threw a right hand, short and tight, and Damon barely had time to register it.

The punch landed flush.

A missile straight through Damon’s guard, smashing into his jaw.

His head snapped to the side violently, and for a split second, his legs wobbled.

His feet faltered.

The entire arena gasped.

“Oh! Malikin lands big!”

“Damon Cross is rocked in the very first exchange!”

“That is not how anyone thought this fight was going to start!”

Damon’s vision blurred for half a heartbeat, his body instinctively retreating as Malikin surged forward. Another punch came flying—a heavy left hook—