MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 602

Chapter 602: Chapter 602: ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED??!!!!
The commentary poured through every speaker in the building and every broadcast feed worldwide.

“An absolute master class there,” one of the voices declared, still breathless from the finish. “I mean this honestly, this was one of the best performances I’ve ever seen from Damon Cross.”

Another followed up with just as much awe.

“And you know what? He continuously proves why he’s the best, why he’s holding that championship. There was no luck in there. That was dominance from start to finish.”

The camera swept the cage as Damon stood tall in the center, sweat shining across his shoulders, the white and gold gloves still on, the flag of Ireland draped lightly over one shoulder.

The arena was still shaking from the eruption that followed the tap.

“An unfortunate night for Joren,” the first voice continued. “He put on a spectacular show, he adjusted, he fought hard, and he earned the right to be here. But this night… this night belongs to Damon. He not only retains the title but does so for a second time in the World MMA Tournament, cementing himself as a true two-time world champion.”

Cameras caught Joren sitting on his stool now, his eyes distant but not broken.

His team surrounded him, speaking low, offering support. He didn’t hang his head, but the weight of defeat was there, just behind the eyes.

“Watching this,” the commentator went on, “I can’t help but think about the next two years. The next tournament. The next wave of contenders. Will Damon still be UFA champion then? Will he choose to stay and defend, or will he leave the tournament? And if he does stay, what poor soul ends up facing him next?”

The other voice laughed faintly, overwhelmed. “All I know is, the bar just got raised again. I don’t even think it’s a belt he’s defending anymore, it’s legacy. And that might be the heaviest thing to hold in all of combat sports.”

“I’m absolutely stoked by this young man,” the first one added. “You could study that performance in schools, footwork, timing, composure, finishing instincts. That was textbook Damon Cross.”

In the background, Damon lifted his hands once more, nodding to the sea of Irish flags being waved from the stands.

And the crowd answered, loud, unified, electric.

“CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!”

Damon stood tall under the bright lights, the Irish flag draped loosely over his shoulders.

His team surrounded him, Victor, home coaches, the Irish coaches, each of them grinning, patting his back, keeping their celebration tight but meaningful.

Across the cage, Joren Edlen sat with his team, his chest still heaving, his eyes locked forward.

A cut had opened near his brow, and the swelling along his ribs hinted at the damage he had absorbed over three rounds of precision. Yet again he didn’t look broken. Just… spent. Humbled.

The announcer stepped into the cage with the card in hand, staying near the far side. He waited behind the officials, letting the moment breathe.

The referee raised his hand and called the fighters to center.

Damon approached with steady steps, jaw clenched from the rush still lingering in his veins.

As he reached the middle, he glanced at Joren.

He’d just handed the American his first professional loss. That meant something, to both of them.

Joren stepped forward too. His coach gave him a nudge on the shoulder, and he moved without hesitation.

His lips were tight, jaw set. No words exchanged, just a nod from him and a returned one from Damon.

The referee took both their wrists and looked between them.

The crowd had quieted into an anticipatory hum.

Above them, the lights seemed to shine harder. The tension curled into the moment like it always did right before history was sealed.

And then the announcer raised the card.

The announcer stepped forward, voice booming through the packed arena, every syllable sharp and clear:

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, REFEREE HAS CALLED A STOP TO THIS CONTEST AT FOUR MINUTES, THIRTY-ONE SECONDS OF ROUND NUMBER THREE… DECLARING THE WINNER BY SUBMISSION…

AND STILL!!

UNDEFEATED!!

THE REIGNING…

UNDISPUTED…

MIDDLEWEIGHT WORLD CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…

DAAAMOOON ‘THE RONIN’ CROOOOSSS!!!”

The crowd erupted.

Flags waved. Fans screamed. Commentators yelled over the noise.

Damon didn’t move right away. He exhaled through his nose, clenched his jaw tighter, then raised one fist to the sky as Victor wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

Joey leapt against the cage wall with both arms in the air, shouting, “That’s what the fuck I’m talking about!”

The Irish section in the crowd ignited, chanting his name, singing loud and proud.

Damon’s belt was placed back over his shoulder, but he didn’t even look at it yet.

Confetti shot out in bursts from the edges of the arena, silver and gold streaming into the cage like falling sparks.

Damon stood still for a moment, letting it rain down over him, belt resting heavy over his shoulder.

The announcer stepped back as a representative from the tournament committee entered with medals—thick, polished, and carved with the tournament crest.

One was draped around Damon’s neck, and more were handed to the rest of his team.

The crowd roared again when Damon raised the belt with one hand and tapped the medal with the other.

Outside the cage, fans pressed forward, phones up, lights blinking from every angle as they tried to capture the moment. The flash of cameras lit his skin in bursts.

“Championship level. Tournament level. This is history,” a commentator said.

Damon glanced into the crowd, then at his corner, and nodded once.

The moment belonged to them too.

One of the commentators climbed into the cage, stepping lightly over the ropes with a wide grin.

He held the mic high as he approached Damon, weaving through confetti and medics, his headset still around his neck.

“Damon Cross! You’ve done it again—how are you feeling right now, champ?”

Before the mic even reached his mouth, Damon stepped forward, grabbed it with one hand, and tilted his head back as he shouted.

“EVERYONE—ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!”