MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 447: The Uncrowned vs. The Champ I

The energy in the arena reached a fever pitch as the fighters stood in their corners, awaiting the final instructions. The commentators fed into the anticipation, their voices charged with excitement.

"This is it, folks! The match is about to begin! Damon Cross, the rising star from Ireland, versus Shane Brickland, the reigning UFA middleweight champion. This isn’t just another fight—this is a statement. If Cross wins, he proves he’s ready for that title shot the moment he returns to the UFA!"

"Absolutely. And let’s not forget, Brickland isn’t just here to compete—he’s here to remind the world why he’s the champion. Three rounds, two warriors, and a whole lot of pride on the line. Get ready for fireworks!"

The referee, Marc Tallman, stepped forward, motioning both fighters to meet in the center of the octagon. Deuce Baffer, ever the showman, held the microphone for him, adding an extra touch of spectacle to the moment.

Damon and Shane strode forward, standing inches apart, their expressions locked in unwavering focus. The crowd buzzed, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.

Tallman’s voice was firm, authoritative. "Alright, gentlemen, you know the rules. Protect yourselves at all times, follow my instructions at all times. Clean fight, no nonsense. Touch gloves if you want, step back if you don’t."

Damon and Shane didn’t move at first, eyes locked, the intensity between them undeniable. Then, after a beat, Shane smirked, raising his hand just slightly.

Damon hesitated for only a moment before reaching out, their gloves tapping lightly—no theatrics, no fake friendliness, just acknowledgment.

"And there it is!" One commentator noted. "A respectful touch of gloves, but make no mistake, once that bell rings, respect goes out the window."

The fighters stepped back. The referee gave one last glance before signaling to the officials.

"FIGHTERS READY?"

Damon’s body was loose, coiled, ready. Shane nodded, his signature smirk still lingering.

"FIGHT!"

The bell rang.

And the war began.

The bell rang.

Shane Brickland stomped forward, chin tucked, shoulders high, his hands already pumping out that suffocating jab.

No wasted motion, no hesitation. He fought like a man who didn’t care what was coming back at him. Pressure, volume, control—that was his entire game.

Damon slipped the first, deflected the second, then leaned just out of range of the third. He didn’t move much—just enough. His footwork wasn’t panicked or hurried.

He wasn’t backing up in a straight line. Instead, he stepped slightly to the side, taking small angles, keeping himself just out of Shane’s preferred range.

Shane kept talking, even as he fired off another set of jabs.

"Yeah, you’re real cute, mate. Let’s see you dance for three rounds."

Damon didn’t bother responding. He just kept reading.

Shane’s jab was relentless, but it wasn’t unpredictable. He liked to mix in front kicks between his punches, testing balance, keeping opponents reacting. If they reacted. Damon didn’t.

The first teep came, aimed at the gut.

Damon caught it.

Before Shane could yank his leg back, Damon twisted sharply and dumped him onto his ass.

The crowd roared as Shane hit the mat, but he rolled up instantly, smirking. "Oh, you wanna wrestle now?"

Damon didn’t engage on the ground. He let Shane stand.

Shane marched forward again, not bothered at all. His whole game was about pressure, making guys fight his fight. But Damon wasn’t biting.

Pop! Pop! Another jab. This time, Damon stepped inside it, barely missing Shane’s lead hand, and cracked him with a tight left hook to the ribs.

Shane grunted, but he didn’t stop. He never stopped.

That was his strength. That was also his weakness.

He threw a looping right hand this time, trying to mix it up. Damon ducked it clean and pivoted off to the side, now standing where Shane had just been. No wasted energy, no retreating, just constant, surgical movement.

Shane growled and turned, walking into another sharp kick to the body.

Damon felt the impact reverberate up his shin. Shane took it, but Damon saw the slight exhale, the first tiny crack in the pressure.

The commentators were eating it up.

"Damon isn’t just surviving this pressure, he’s beating it. This is how you dismantle a volume striker!"

"Exactly! He’s not running, he’s not engaging recklessly, he’s dictating when they trade!"

Shane, now visibly frustrated, tried to turn up the volume. He rushed forward, throwing a combination, jab, jab, right hook, jab again.

Damon blocked what needed blocking, slipped what needed slipping, then stepped into the pocket and ripped a left uppercut straight up the middle.

Shane’s head snapped back.

The crowd erupted.

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For the first time, Shane hesitated. Just for a half-second. Just enough.

Damon took full advantage.

He swarmed.

A slicing elbow across the guard.

A brutal calf kick that nearly swept Shane’s leg out from under him.

A second teep to the ribs that folded Shane forward for just a moment. A stiff cross crashed through the opening. Shane stumbled, eyes momentarily unfocused.

Damon reset, cool and composed, as Shane shook his head and wiped at his nose.

The crowd was losing its mind.

Shane took a deep breath and pointed at Damon, grinning like a madman. "Aight, motherfucker. Let’s really fight."

Damon just smirked back.

He was already winning.

Shane came forward again, stubborn as ever, trying to impose his game.

Damon had seen it before, pressure fighters never stopped unless you made them. And he was about to.

This time, he didn’t just counter. He walked Shane down.

A heavy right hand cracked against Shane’s high guard. The impact echoed through the arena. Shane absorbed it but took a step back.

Damon followed.

Another right, this time slamming into Shane’s ribs. Shane winced but kept his hands up.

Damon feinted, then went low.

A vicious calf kick swept through Shane’s leg. He stumbled, barely keeping himself upright.

"Damon’s turning up the heat! He’s not just out-striking Shane, he’s bullying him!"

"Look at this! He’s walking the champion down! This is insane!"

Shane gritted his teeth and fired back, swinging a wild overhand. It never landed. Damon wasn’t there.

He slipped effortlessly and ripped a counter uppercut.

Shane’s head snapped up, his legs buckling for a second.

Damon stepped in again.

A left hook.

A right cross.

Shane staggered. His balance was gone.

The pressure fighter was wilting.

Damon saw it.

He saw the first signs of doubt in Shane’s eyes, the flicker of hesitation that had never been there before.

He wasn’t letting him recover.

Damon snatched a Thai clinch and drove a brutal knee into Shane’s stomach.

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Shane gasped. His body folded slightly, his arms dropping just a little.

And Damon unleashed.

A right hook crashed into Shane’s temple. A left uppercut followed. A final elbow slashed down, slicing open Shane’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed across the canvas.

Shane stumbled back against the cage, his hands barely up