MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 621: Words with Weight

The conference wrapped up after a few more questions, ending with scattered laughs and a buzz of excitement.

But the real storm came after.

Clips from the face-off and responses began circulating online. Fans who hadn't caught the live broadcast jumped in.

Edits of Damon's final speech and Shane's outbursts spread fast, with subtitles, slow-motion zoom-ins, and reactions stitched on top. MMA channels posted breakdowns.

Fans clipped moments and captioned them with fire emojis and mock arguments.

Some exaggerated saying this was the best trash talk segment since the golden days. Others said it wasn't even personal—but it felt personal.

And that was what mattered.

There were no attacks on family, no dragged-up traumas, no manufactured disrespect.

Even Shane, loud and unfiltered as he was, had kept it to Damon. He called him soft. Mocked his home life.

But never crossed that line. And Damon, in return, never bit back with anything beyond career and reputation.

But still—it felt real.

Because careers were being questioned.

Because legacies were being threatened.

Because they both walked into that conference ready to say one thing: "I'm ending you."

That was more than enough to light the fire.

It was always hard to build buzz around a fight when the winner felt obvious. The public had long crowned Damon Cross the inevitable victor, and that should've killed anticipation.

But this one was different.

The tension between them wasn't driven by theatrics or deeply personal insults—it came from something every fighter, every gym rat, and every hardened veteran understood: pride, superiority, and the urge to prove who belonged at the top.

That raw competition, that refusal to be seen as second best, had turned this seemingly predictable bout into something volatile.

They weren't just selling a fight. They were daring each other to back up every word in front of the world.

And in typical fashion, fans had turned it into gold.

@FightNightEdits

100 men vs 1 gorilla ❌

Hundred Brickheads vs The Ronin ✅

@MMAjunkiez

Mythical Fighter Unlocked: Damon Cross+Collin Ncgyver =The Irish Ronin

@CombatChirp

UFA: "This matchup doesn't make sense."

Damon: "I don't care."

Shane: "I do."

Everyone else: "We just wanna see Brickland get folded like laundry."

@CrossEraDaily

This ain't for the belt anymore.

This is a career funeral with press coverage.

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The ceremonial weigh-in had gone by without incident.

It was routine by now—security at every corner, cameras flashing with predictable rhythm, and fans packed in tightly for a final glimpse of the fighters before the storm.

Damon stepped onto the scale with the calm of a man who had done it more times than he could count. The announcer read his weight. No surprises there.

Then Shane followed, posture loose and arrogant, flashing a grin to the crowd that was met mostly with boos.

They faced off at center stage, no pushing or any more chaos.

Damon didn't flinch, didn't blink. Shane stood a few inches away, arms crossed, lips moving slightly—probably throwing jabs only Damon could hear.

But there was no reaction. Just two fighters staring each other down one final time before the cage locked.

The crowd ate it up. Some fans chanted for Damon. Others jeered for fun. There were even a few voices backing Shane just to stir things. But the split was obvious.

The moment didn't need theatrics. The story had already been told in full.

This wasn't Damon's first title defense—but it was his last in the division. Middleweight had been his kingdom, and now he was about to leave it behind.

One more fight. One more storm to weather. Then he'd move on, carrying a perfect legacy out of the weight class with him.

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The hotel room was as polished as they came—glass balcony doors framed a skyline soaked in soft gold from the sunset, the walls padded in tasteful minimalism, and the bed layered with crisp white sheets Damon hadn't touched since morning.

He sat at the edge, one hand resting loosely on his thigh, the other holding his phone as the rankings flickered across the screen.

Pound-for-pound lists. A constant topic in every combat discussion online. He was still number two. Eslum, the lightweight champion, hadn't moved from the top in months.

Damon didn't mind. That man had earned his spot—but Damon also knew how this worked.

The moment he stepped into light heavyweight and took his first win, things would shift.

People loved new kings, especially when they conquered different thrones. It was inevitable.

He exhaled slowly, not annoyed, not eager. Just patient.

Before the thought could carry further, the hotel door opened with a click and a soft creak.

Svetlana entered holding Ava by the hand—well, more like guiding her.

The baby girl was waddling with toddler-like clumsiness, a small biscuit clutched in her fingers, crumbs trailing in her wake. Damon's eyes softened immediately.

He had asked Svetlana to bring Ava to this event. It would be the first time their daughter saw him walk out under the lights.

It wasn't something he would've considered before. In fact, he used to agree with the old-school belief: kids don't belong near cages, especially young ones. Let them stay home, far from the noise and violence.

But this wasn't just another fight.

Damon was walking toward history now, and he wanted his daughter to be part of it—even if she wouldn't remember the night.

Even if all she took in was the sound, the lights, and the feel of her father's arms afterward.

Greatness didn't always have to be remembered to matter.

Sometimes it just needed to be witnessed.

Svetlana gently closed the door behind her as Ava wandered further into the room, biscuit still in hand, tiny crumbs marking her path like a trail.

"Hey," Damon said, setting his phone down on the nightstand.

"Hi," Svetlana replied with a small smile, brushing her hair behind her ear. "She insisted on walking the last bit herself. Refused to let me carry her once we got off the elevator."

Damon chuckled as Ava made a determined wobble in his direction, pausing halfway to look at a speck on the floor, then continuing her march.

"Future champion," he said, holding out his arms. "You make weight, little monster?"

Ava responded by plopping the biscuit in her mouth and toddling the rest of the way to him.

Damon scooped her up, lifting her easily into his lap. She wiggled, then settled in, content as long as she had her snack.

"I packed the noise-canceling headset," Svetlana added, sitting down beside him. "Just in case it gets too loud."

"Good," Damon nodded. "I don't want her crying right before I walk out."

Svetlana smirked. "You'd still walk out with her on your back if you could."

He smiled, kissing Ava's head. "Damn right."

Ava looked up at him with wide eyes, mouth still busy, then offered him the biscuit she hadn't finished. Damon took it and pretended to nibble.

"Delicious," he said.

Svetlana leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder for a second. "You ready for tomorrow?"

He didn't answer right away, just watched Ava swipe at her headset cord curiously.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."