MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 821

Chapter 821: Chapter 821: Waiting for the Storm

The co-main had started, but the arena buzzed with impatience.

Two veterans circled in the cage, testing range with jabs and low kicks, the action cautious, calculated.

Under different circumstances, the fight would have held more attention. But not tonight.

The anticipation for the main event drowned everything else.

Every lull in the action was met with murmurs in the crowd, fans shifting in their seats, glancing at the big screen countdowns instead of the fighters in front of them.

Online, the sentiment was even louder.

> @FightNight247: Not gonna lie, this fight’s solid but the crowd doesn’t care. Everyone’s just waiting for Damon vs. Ivan.

> @MMAFanatic: Kinda feel bad for these two. Wrong spot, wrong time. Main event got people restless.

> @UFAStreams: Bruh, this is nap time. Wake me when the Irish Ronin walks out.

Clips of fans in the arena chanting “Da-mon! Da-mon!” started popping up on Chirper.

Whole sections were on their feet, waving flags and banners, treating the co-main like intermission before the real storm hit.

Even with the fighters trading cautious strikes inside the cage, the focus had shifted.

The energy wasn’t theirs to hold, it belonged to the main event waiting just behind the curtain.

The co-main dragged on. Three rounds of fainting, circling, and exchanges that never seemed to leave second gear.

The fighters clinched often against the fence, breaking only to reset and paw at each other with jabs and low kicks.

The crowd gave polite applause when clean strikes landed, but the energy never lifted.

After the chaos of the Supreme Fighter finals and the hype for the main event, this bout felt slow, hollow, more like a technical spar than a clash on a pay-per-view card.

By the time the final horn sounded, the arena responded with scattered cheers mixed with groans.

The judges read a unanimous decision, but the result barely registered.

Fans were already on their feet, chanting, cameras raised, waiting for the fight they had come to see.

Backstage, Damon bounced lightly on his toes, sweat starting to glisten across his forehead as he drilled light movements with Victor.

His hands were already wrapped, the tape snug and perfect, the gloves freshly strapped.

The muffled noise of the arena rumbled through the walls, growing louder with every chant of his name. The co-main was ending, and everyone knew who was next.

Joey held the pads steady as Damon snapped a few crisp jabs, ducked, and rolled under a return. “Sharp,” Joey said, nodding. “Stay loose, stay you.”

Svetlana sat just a few feet away with Ava on her lap, whispering softly to her daughter while her eyes never left Damon. She offered a small smile when he glanced her way, steadying him more than words ever could.

A staff member leaned in through the doorway. “Ten minutes, champ.”

Victor clapped Damon on the shoulder. “Alright. Lock in now. This is the moment we’ve been talking about since day one. No distractions. Go out there and remind the world why you’re the best.”

Damon nodded, exhaling slowly. His chest rose and fell steady as his eyes shifted toward the hallway leading out to the tunnel.

He could already hear the crowd chanting, thousands of voices calling his name.

The storm was waiting, and he was ready to walk into it.

The arena lights dimmed, and the first chords of Ivan Novak’s walkout song thundered through the speakers.

The crowd erupted, flags waving, chants echoing across the rafters.

The cameras panned to the tunnel where Ivan emerged, draped in his national flag, the interim belt strapped over his shoulder.

His face was stone, his walk steady, eyes locked on the cage ahead.

Jim Logan’s voice rose over the broadcast. “Here he comes, Ivan Novak. Fourteen wins, no losses. The interim champion, and tonight, the biggest fight of his career.”

Damian Kormier leaned in. “And let’s not forget, he’s been chasing Damon Cross for a long time. He’s been right there, at the champion’s shadow, waiting for this shot. He’s asked for it, he’s demanded it, and now it’s finally here.”

Nix kept his tone even. “Ivan is a great all-rounder. He started out as a pure grappler, but over the last few years we’ve seen his striking evolve to a dangerous level. He’s patient, disciplined, and he knows how to drag fights into his world. If anyone can push Damon, it’s this man.”

Ivan reached the cage steps, pausing to glance at the crowd before walking up.

He ducked under the ropes, handed his flag and belt to his corner, and began pacing the canvas, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching.

The crowd buzzed louder. They knew the storm had only begun, the Irish Ronin was still to come.

The cameras cut from Ivan pacing in the cage to the tunnel shrouded in shadow. The chants grew deafening—”Da-mon! Da-mon!”—as the lights dropped across the arena.

A beat of silence, then the opening bass of Damon’s walkout track rattled the speakers, each thud vibrating through the crowd.

The Irish flag lit up on the big screens, highlights of Damon’s career flashing, knockouts, submissions, his title wins, his arm raised again and again. Then, the tunnel came alive.

Damon stepped out, draped in green, white, and orange.

His head was lowered at first, hoodie over his shoulders, Victor and Joey flanking him.

He pulled the hood back as the crowd roared, revealing calm eyes and a faint smirk.

The middleweight belt and light heavyweight belt glimmered in the hands of his corner, reminders of the stakes he carried.

Jim Logan’s voice nearly had to fight the crowd. “And here comes the Irish Ronin, Damon Cross. Undefeated, double champion, the face of the UFA. This is his house, and he’s walking in with the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

Damian Kormier leaned closer, animated. “This is what it’s all about, man. Damon’s got the resume, thirty straight wins, two divisions ruled, tournament titles stacked up, and tonight he gets the chance to silence the one guy who’s been chasing him nonstop. You couldn’t script this better.”

Nix added with his measured tone. “The pressure is enormous. But Damon’s been here before. Big lights, big moments, and every time he delivers. The question is, can he do it again against an undefeated interim champion?”

Damon walked slow, deliberate, eyes forward as the crowd reached a fever pitch. Fans leaned over the railings, flags waved, chants thundered.

Svetlana and Ava watched from their front-row seats, both standing as Damon pointed briefly toward them before continuing his march.

Every step through the tunnel felt heavier, the storm waiting just beyond the cage door.