MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 500: Rewards I

"Mmh, let's see..."

The words left Damon's mouth in a low murmur, barely more than a breath.

He sat on the edge of a king-sized bed inside one of the highest-tier suites, still in London.

The kind of place most people only dreamed of staying in.

Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him displayed the city skyline, lights glittering like distant stars. The room smelled of fresh linen and expensive wood polish, but Damon barely noticed any of it.

He was sitting there, elbows on his knees, hands loose, eyes locked on something that wasn't physically there. Just a faint glow hovering in his mind's eye, his system menu.

And to anyone watching, he'd look like he was zoning out.

But this wasn't some mindless daze.

This was focus.

"Alright," he muttered, the faintest edge of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His thumb hovered mid-air, as if scrolling through something, but there was nothing for anyone else to see.

Only him.

It had been over a week since he won the World MMA Tournament.

Over a week since the crowd chanted his name.

Since they strapped the belt around his waist.

And in all that time, he hadn't touched his rewards.

His schedule had been a storm, interviews, press conferences, meetings, sponsors…

But now?

Now it was quiet.

Now he had time.

His eyes flickered as he scanned the list.

The system menu was clean and sharp, categories lined up with military precision. Rewards from the tournament quest glowing faint gold, waiting for his confirmation.

And he could feel it.

The power behind each one.

Ready to be claimed.

He flexed his fingers once, like a fighter getting ready to throw a punch.

"Let's get to work," Damon said quietly.

Then he selected the first reward.

The system had been an amazing tool.

It got him here.

From a hungry, desperate, homeless kid scraping by in Stockton, to a world champion standing at the top of the fight game.

But now, sitting in this high-end hotel room with the entire world recognizing his name, Damon felt something different.

He felt… complete.

At least, as a fighter.

His skills, his conditioning, his instincts, they were all sharpened. Honed to a level where he didn't feel like there was anything missing.

Even money, something he once chased for survival, felt like an afterthought.

He wasn't fighting for survival anymore.

He was fighting because this was who he was.

And yet…

He was here.

Opening the rewards anyway.

There were five in total.

Five glowing tabs.

He tapped the first one without hesitation.

The screen flared to life, a soft golden light illuminating his vision.

Text appeared, smooth and crisp.

[Congratulations on qualifying for the World MMA Tournament.]

[Reward Unlocked: Pain Suppression.]

Damon's eyes narrowed slightly as the full description rolled out beneath it.

[Pain Suppression: A neural override ability that dampens pain signals transmitted from the body to the brain. While the damage sustained remains real and present, the mental perception of pain is reduced significantly, allowing the user to function under circumstances that would normally incapacitate most fighters. This ability does not grant invincibility or physical durability, but increases overall toughness by dulling the impact of pain, granting sharper focus and composure in high-damage scenarios.]

Damon exhaled through his nose, sitting back against the bed.

He read it again.

Pain Suppression.

He wasn't going to lie, he liked it.

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It wasn't flashy.

It wasn't the kind of reward people wrote legends about.

But it was real. Practical.

Useful in a way that mattered.

He already had a high pain tolerance. Years of training and fighting made sure of that.

He didn't get hit often in most fights; his defense and movement were too sharp for that.

But everyone had their nights.

Everyone had moments where they got caught, where they made mistakes.

And he knew, eventually, he'd stand across from someone who would make him pay for a flaw.

This?

This was going to make sure he kept moving forward anyway.

Damon flexed his hands once, feeling the faint hum as the system integrated the ability into his neural pathways.

It was subtle.

Once he was done reviewing the first reward, Damon didn't waste time. His fingers moved steadily, tapping the next glowing icon on the system menu. He wasn't in the mood to drag it out. Efficiency had always been his way.

The second reward opened with the same soft golden shimmer.

[Congratulations on winning the Round of 16.]

Another line scrolled beneath it.

He remembered that fight. A scrap that felt like a statement to the rest of the bracket.

But back then, this reward had been locked until it was all over.

Now?

Now it was his.

[Reward Unlocked: Ironskin Grip.]

Damon's eyes tracked the detailed description as it unfolded.

[Ironskin Grip: Increases grip strength and endurance to an elite, near-unbreakable level. Once the user establishes control with his grip, whether in clinch, hold, submission, or strike, the hold remains locked with unwavering power. This effect lasts unless the user consciously chooses to release. Muscle fatigue is delayed, allowing the grip to maintain maximum force even during prolonged exchanges. This ability directly enhances submission locks, clinch control, and grip strength in striking.]

He leaned back slightly, processing it.

And then he smiled.

A sharp, knowing grin.

This one?

He could feel its value immediately.

His grip was already a weapon.

Time and time of clinch work in Muay Thai, endless rounds of grappling in BJJ, strength conditioning, he'd built his hands into something dangerous.

But there had been moments, especially in the finals against Anatoly, where even his grip faltered.

The Russian had been relentless. Strong as hell. Slippery when it counted.

There were exchanges on the ground where Damon had almost lost a wrist lock, moments when he was clinching and felt Anatoly's raw power start to pull free. He'd kept control through technique and will.

But still…

He remembered.

Now, with this?

That wouldn't be a problem again.

No one was breaking his grip unless he allowed it.

He flexed his hands again, squeezing into fists.

There was a faint pulse in his forearms. A strength he could already sense, waiting to be tested.

You latch on, he thought to himself, and they're not getting away.

Whether it was wrist control, a clinch on the cage, or a submission crank…

Once Damon locked it in, it was his.

And it was staying that way.

He gave a slow nod, satisfied.

Two down.

Three to go.