MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 440 The Roar of Nations

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The lights went out, and a laser shone on the middle of the octagon's clean, white canvas.

The crowd was already very excited, but when Deuce Baffer, the most renown speaker in MMA history, walked into the cage with his mic, it went off with loud cheers.

Under the spotlight, his tailored suit sparkled, and his presence ruled the field.

He raised the microphone, his voice booming through the speakers with the kind of charisma only he could deliver.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…" he began, drawing out the words to heighten the anticipation. The crowd's cheers grew louder, shaking the entire arena.

"IIIIIIIITTTTTTT'SSSS TIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!" he roared, his signature delivery sending chills down the spines of everyone in attendance. "COUNTLESS COUNTRIES! COUNTLESS WARRIORS! ALL FOR ONE TITLE: THE UNDISPUTED WORLD CHAMPION! WELCOME… TO THE FIRST… WORLD MMA TOURNAMENT!"

The crowd exploded. The roar was deafening, shaking the arena to its core. Flags from all over the world waved in the stands, as fans shouted and cheered for their respective fighters.

It was chaos, but it was beautiful chaos, the kind of moment that defined the spirit of combat sports.

England's crowd was known for its passion, and tonight, they outdid themselves.

With the energy of fans who had come from all over the world, the mood was electric and the atmosphere was rich with excitement and anticipation.

It wasn't just an event; it was a show, a celebration of bravery and national pride around the world.

Deuce stayed behind. He started presenting the fighters, beginning with the ones on the undercard. Each name got either roars of approval or jeers, based on which side the crowd was on.

As fighters from Brazil, Japan, Russia, and South Africa walked into the cage, they looked motivated and focused.

These were the best people in the world, and they were all ready to leave it all in the cage.

As the evening progressed, the matches began, one by one, delivering the action the crowd had come to see.

Blood splattered on the once-pristine canvas, the sounds of strikes and the thud of takedowns echoing through the arena.

The energy never faltered, every fight pushing the atmosphere higher.

Everyone knew the spotlight wasn't just on the fighters, they were waiting for the big names, the marquee matchups, the battles that would define the tournament.

And for Ireland, all eyes were on Damon Cross and Demaien Ncguygan. The pressure, the stakes, and the expectations were at their peak. Tonight wasn't just about fighting, it was about proving themselves on the world stage.

The time had come for Ireland to step into the spotlight for their first fight.

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Demaien Ncguygan stood backstage, pacing back and forth. He looked nervous, but there was something different this time, a spark of confidence in his eyes that hadn't been there in the qualifiers.

Tommy Hughes, Ireland's head coach, stood in front of him, his grizzled face stern and uncompromising. Tommy was never one to sugarcoat things, and tonight was no exception.

"Listen to me, lad," Tommy said, his voice low and direct, cutting through the cacophony of the arena. "This isn't just about you. You're carryin' the flag of Ireland out there. All eyes are on us, and I'll be damned if I let us get embarrassed tonight."

Demaien nodded quickly, his fists clenched. "I know, Coach, I've—"

"Don't tell me you know!" Tommy interrupted, his voice rising slightly. "Show me you know! Show everyone out there what you've got! You think they're expectin' us to win this? They're writin' us off already, especially after that mess with Collin. You need to prove them wrong, Demaien."

The weight of Tommy's words hung on for a while. Demaien swallowed hard, his earlier spark of confidence flickering under the pressure.

"This isn't just another fight," Tommy continued, stepping closer, his voice now a sharp whisper. "This is your moment to show the world what you're made of. You go out there, and you fight like your life depends on it, because, for Ireland, it does. We don't have room for failure, not tonight."

Demaien's jaw tightened, and he nodded again, this time with more conviction. He could feel the pressure mounting, but beneath it, there was a fire igniting, a determination to prove himself.

Tommy placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm. "You've put in the work. Now it's time to show them. Keep your head, stay calm, and fight smart. You've got the skill. Now let's see if you've got the heart."

Damon wasn't in the corner this time. Victor had pulled him aside earlier to drill a few sequences, making sure Damon's preparation for his own fight was airtight.

They both agreed that this was a crucial moment, not just for Demaien, but for Ireland as a whole, and distractions were unacceptable.

Backstage, as the staff called Demaien's name, the energy shifted. The time had come.

The team walked toward the tunnel, the dim lights giving way to the roaring brilliance of the arena. The crowd erupted as the first notes of the Irish national anthem began to echo throughout the venue.

Demaien walked out first, flanked by Tommy Hughes and the corner crew. He looked sharp, his expression hard as stone.

No nerves showed now; this was the face of a man stepping into battle. His shoulders squared, his pace steady, and his eyes laser-focused on the cage ahead.

The Irish crowd, scattered among the sea of fans, cheered wildly, waving their flags and chanting in rhythm with the anthem.

But the rest of the audience?

There were mixed reactions. The tension surrounding Ireland's team wasn't lost on anyone, and the absence of Collin NcGyver loomed like a shadow over the moment.

As the anthem crescendoed, Demaien stepped into the arena's bright lights, the octagon standing tall before him. The chant of his opponent's country mixed with the Irish support, creating an electric atmosphere.

Demaien paused before entering the cage, his hand tapping the banner carried by Tommy. It was the tricolor of Ireland, a reminder of what he was fighting for.

He nodded to Tommy, who patted him on the shoulder with a hard slap, muttering words of encouragement that couldn't be heard over the deafening noise.

Inside the octagon, the referee waited, his presence marking the final threshold between preparation and action.

As the anthem faded, replaced by the raucous cheers of the crowd, Demaien's serious demeanor never faltered. He stepped inside, circling the cage as his opponent entered from the opposite tunnel.

This was it. The pride of Ireland rested heavily on his shoulders tonight.