MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 494: The Third Crowned

Malikin's hand hovered…

For one brutal second longer…

And then he tapped.

Three hard slaps against Damon's thigh.

Samuel Cortez dove in, breaking it up instantly.

Damon released the hold the moment he felt the tap, rolling clear and rising to his feet, breathing heavy but steady.

Malikin lay on the canvas, clutching his shoulder as the medics rushed in. His face was covered in blood, his chest rising and falling in labored breaths, but even in defeat, there was a look of raw defiance in his eyes.

But the fight was over.

And Damon Cross had just submitted one of the best grapplers in the world.

The moment Samuel Cortez pushed Damon away to signal the end, Damon didn't stay composed.

He exploded.

As much as he wanted to act cool, stay stoic, give them that stone-faced killer routine he was known for, he couldn't.

He wasn't going to.

This was his first world championship.

Maybe it wasn't a UFA title yet, but it was everything right now.

And it felt damn good.

Damon dashed toward the other side of the cage, sprinting like a man unchained.

He slammed both hands against the fence, the metal vibrating under the force, and threw his head back in a raw shout.

Then he beat his chest with his right fist, over and over, a primal celebration erupting from him.

All the sacrifice.

All the blood.

Every second had led to this.

The crowd roared in response, the noise deafening.

No boos.

Not a single one.

For once, every fan in the stadium, whether they flew Irish flags, Russian banners, or came from anywhere else in the world, cheered for him.

They stood on their feet, screaming his name.

Chants of Cross Era! thundered from every corner.

Sime Irish fans were crying.

Even the English fans, who had booed him relentlessly all tournament, clapped and shouted his name now.

They couldn't deny what they had witnessed.

Victor was already making his way across the cage, motioning for Damon to come back toward the center for the official decision.

But Damon wasn't done yet.

He climbed halfway up the cage, perching on the second rung, fists raised high, letting the lights hit him like a spotlight.

This was his moment.

And he wasn't going to let it pass quietly.

Damon dropped down from the cage, his chest still rising and falling, his knuckles tight with the leftover charge of the fight. His team was already closing in on him.

Victor was the first to reach him, gripping the back of his neck hard, bringing their foreheads close for a brief second.

"You did it," Victor said. His voice was low, but there was weight behind it. "You did exactly what you said you'd do."

Damon nodded, breathing steady now, the noise of the crowd still rolling like thunder behind them. The rest of the team swarmed around them, hands on his shoulders, fists bumping his back. But it was Victor he stayed locked on for a moment longer. The one who got him here. The one who believed in him before anyone else did.

Then they opened a path.

Svetlana was there.

She was guided in through the cage door by one of the event officials. She wasn't dressed to be on camera, but it didn't matter.

She belonged there. She always had. The second Damon saw her, his face finally cracked into something that looked like a real smile.

Not the cool, controlled version he gave interviews.

The real one.

He moved to her without thinking, stepping through his team, and pulled her into his arms. He lifted her off her feet, just for a second, his arms tight around her waist. When he set her down, their foreheads pressed together. No words. Just that look.

The same one before every fight.

The same one after every war.

Then came the ceremony.

The officials brought in the medal first, hanging it around Damon's neck. It wasn't heavy, but it felt solid. Final. He'd earned it.

They handed a bouquet of white and green flowers to Svetlana. She took them in one hand, glancing at him with something between pride and relief.

And then they brought the belt.

The World MMA Middleweight Championship.

Polished gold and leather.

As the belt was brought forward by the official, the man holding it gave Damon the look—one every fighter knew, from the two fights before him.

Who do you want to crown you?

For Damon, it wasn't a question.

It wasn't even something he thought about.

He turned immediately to Victor.

His mentor. His coach. The man who dragged him out of the gutter and built him from nothing into a world champion.

It was always going to be him.

Victor nodded without a word.

He stepped forward, taking the belt from the official's hands like it belonged to him. His thumbs ran along the edge of the gold for a second, testing its weight, as if to make sure it was real.

And then he stood behind Damon, holding it in place, waiting for the moment.

That's when Deuce Baffer stepped forward, microphone lifted high, his voice already booming over the roaring crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen… referee Samuel Cortez has called a stop to this contest… at four minutes, twenty-seven seconds of round number two!"

The crowd swelled.

Irish flags waving, chants starting to build again, rising with each second.

"Declaring the winner… by submission…"

A pause.

Every camera in the building zoomed in.

Every heart held still.

"And NEWWWWWWWWW World MMA Middleweight Champion of the World!"

The place exploded.

The sound was thunder rolling through a stadium.

Deuce wasn't finished.

"The UNDEFEATED!" he roared, pacing across the cage with purpose.

"The UNDISPUTED!

DAMON! CROSSSSSSSS!"

Victor didn't wait.

As Deuce called Damon's name, he stepped forward, pulling the thick leather strap tight around Damon's waist.

His hands were steady, firm, as he secured the buckle and smacked the center plate once with an open palm, hard enough for Damon to feel it thud into his gut.

"You earned this," Victor muttered low, his voice only for Damon.

"Wear it like you mean it."

Damon stood there for a second, feeling the weight of the belt settle on his hips.

The crowd's chants surged louder.

Cross Era! Cross Era!

The lights hit the gold around his waist, reflecting into the sea of fans, photographers flashing nonstop.

Victor stepped back, arms folded across his chest, watching.

Proud.

Satisfied.

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But ready for more.

Always ready for more.