MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 543: The Crown Awaits

The day had finally come.

The arena was already alive, buzzing with sound and color. Fans filled the seats from every corner of the world, some had attended the ceremonial weigh-in the day before, others had flown in overnight just to be here. It was one of those fights.

The kind that felt bigger than the belt on the line.

The early matches were underway, and the energy in the building only kept growing.

Every knockout, every decision, every roar of the crowd... it was fuel.

But no one pretended to hide the truth.

They were all here for one reason.

For the final walkout.

The undefeated challenger.

The newly crowned champion.

Balim Chemasov versus Damon Cross.

Even as fans watched the featherweight bout happening in the cage, they whispered, they checked the card order, they refreshed social media.

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Everyone wanted to know one thing: how close are we to the storm?

In the locker rooms, both fighters were deep into their warm-ups. Chemasov's team drilled sharp level changes and clinch sequences. Damon's crew worked on striking rhythm, simulating Chemasov's pressure with feints and sprawls.

The cameras hadn't shown them yet, but fans online were already speculating.

This was it.

The calm before two storms collided.

And when they did, only one man would wear the crown.

In the back, Damon stood calm but focused, surrounded only by his team and Victor. The buzz of the arena barely reached the locker room, but the energy was there, thick in the air, pulsing in every breath. Everyone knew what was coming.

He wore a new pair of custom-designed fight tights. Clean, sleek, and bold. The base was a deep forest green, tight to his form, with sharp white accents cutting diagonally across the thighs like brushstrokes, giving the illusion of movement even when he stood still. Along the waistband, stitched in subtle silver thread, was the word "CROSS."

On the left leg, near the hip, a small white Celtic knot symbol rested, homage to his Irish roots. On the opposite side, a faded kanji character in black inked down the thigh, a quiet nod to his other half. It wasn't loud or flashy, just enough detail to say something without speaking.

Victor glanced at him and gave a nod.

"You ready?"

Damon adjusted his gloves once, then rolled his shoulders.

"Born ready."

He sat still, elbows on his knees, gloves loosely hanging between them. The sound of distant crowd noise echoed through the hallway, muffled and rhythmic, like waves crashing against a steel cage.

His heart was calm.

He was here now. Moments from stepping into the biggest fight of his life. But even with everything on the line tonight, his thoughts reached further.

What comes after?

Not if, that word didn't belong to him. When he wins. When he straps that belt around his waist. When he proves everything he's been saying.

The next step would be clear: defend it. A real reign. No flash-in-the-pan titleholder. He wanted to dominate. Leave no question about who owned this division.

But that wouldn't be enough for him.

Not forever.

Middleweight had always been home, but lately, he'd felt it, curiosity in his muscles, in his frame. The way he moved against guys who couldn't match his blend of strength and speed.

Light heavyweight called to him. A new set of names, a new list of doubters. Bigger guys, different pace, different threats.

Even heavyweight… it sounded ridiculous to some. But not to him.

He wasn't there yet.

But Damon wasn't planning on just being a champion. He was planning on being the one. The fighter every era gets once.

He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes briefly, and let the noise roll through him.

One step at a time.

First, the belt.

Then Legacy.

Damon paced back and forth, hands wrapped, shoulders loose but his mind wired. He had already gone through the warm-ups, the shadowboxing, the band work. Pads were hit, gloves were tightened, and nothing more could be done physically.

But the wait was killing him.

He tried watching the matches on the monitor, fights that on any other day would've had his full attention. But tonight, his mind couldn't stay with them for longer than thirty seconds. Every slam, every strike just reminded him of what he was about to do.

Eventually, he gave up trying to distract himself and pulled out his phone. Only one name on his mind.

He called her.

Svetlana answered almost immediately, and even through the speaker, he could hear the low hum of chatter and warmth in the background. His mother, her mother, Ashley, they were all there. Supportive, close. She was safe. She was cared for.

But still, Damon needed to hear her voice.

They didn't talk long. It wasn't a deep conversation. Just her telling him that she missed him already. That she believed in him. That she loved him.

And that was all he needed.

When the call ended, Damon exhaled slowly and sat back down on the bench, resting his head against the locker wall.

Almost time.

As the final echoes of the previous fight rang out, cheers, walkout music fading, a post-fight interview playing on the backstage monitors, Damon stood.

He didn't need to be told. His body moved before anyone spoke.

Victor gave a nod, calm and composed, but focused.

The rest of the team began gathering bags, checking gloves, making sure every little detail was in place.

One guy handed Damon his mouthguard case. Another adjusted his wraps one last time. Water bottle. Vaseline. Tape. They moved like clockwork.

If someone had walked in at that moment, they might have thought he was nervous. Sitting there in silence, staring into space like the weight of the moment was dragging at him.

But it wasn't nerves.

Maybe a little bit of that edge, that tension fighters need. But more than anything, it was energy. Contained. Focused. Waiting for release.

Now it was time to let it loose.

Damon walked toward the hallway tunnel, team in tow. The walls were lined with faint logos and event posters. Staff members gave quick glances and nods as he passed, clearing the path.

The walk had begun.