MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 544: I’m Not Afraid

Jon Goodman leaned forward in his seat as the camera cut to the commentary booth, the crowd in the background roaring with anticipation.

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"And here we are, ladies and gentlemen. The main event. I mean, I've been waiting for this one," he said, practically vibrating with energy.

Jim Logan, seated beside him, rubbed his bald head with a grin and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I've been waiting, man. To have two of today's generational stars meet like this, it's what this sport is all about. You've got Balim Chemasov, the newly crowned champion, undefeated, a monster on the ground with his wrestling. And then Damon Cross, undefeated as well, the World Tournament winner, elite everywhere. Wrestling, striking, cardio, IQ. It's a dream matchup."

Marvin Duke adjusted his headset and added, "What makes it wild is that they're both dangerous in different ways. Chemasov's control and ground pressure is like quicksand. If he gets you down, you don't just lose the round, you lose the fight. But Damon? He doesn't just stop takedowns, he punishes you for trying. And his striking? Slick, powerful, creative."

Jim nodded. "It's going to come down to who sets the pace. If Chemasov can close the distance early, get Damon against the cage, make it ugly, that's his world. But if Damon can control range, use his footwork and feints, he'll break Chemasov down."

Jon smirked, pointing toward the screen as the camera showed the tunnel.

"They're both undefeated. They're both proud. This isn't just a title fight. This is a collision course."

And just like that, the lights in the arena began to dim.

The main event was about to begin.

The lights in the arena dimmed into a cool electric blue, and the crowd immediately began to stir. A slow hum vibrated through the speakers… then the music hit.

A deep, throaty bass rolled in, familiar, unmistakable.

"Ain't scared now… I'll take a step…"

"All of y'all… come take a breath…"

The arena exploded as the crowd instantly recognized the modified version of Ain't Scared by Nemesis, Instrumentals boomed and the lyrics carried that same aggressive clarity and resolve.

"We'll walk this path together, through the flames…

Whatever pressure, we stay the same…"

Fans jumped to their feet, some mouthing along, others recording with their phones. The energy wasn't just loud, it was tangible. Everyone in that building felt it. The lyrics, the rise, the moment, it fit.

This was Damon Cross's walkout.

A fighter who never ran from pain.

Who never let fear stop him.

And now he was walking to the cage… to take what he felt was already his.

Damon stood at the mouth of the tunnel, bathed in pulsing light, the roar of the arena swelling around him like a crashing tide. He didn't move at first. Just stood there, soaking it all in. His chest rose once, breath catching as he muttered under it.

"So much support…"

The crowd was thunder. Deafening. Chanting. Screaming. Cameras flashing. Flags waving. His name, his real name, was being screamed by strangers who'd grown up watching him rise. For a second, it didn't feel real. Like he was standing on the edge of something massive.

He blinked hard, trying to settle it in his chest, but the nerves were real this time. Not the fight nerves. Something bigger. Something that came from knowing that every ounce of blood, trauma, work, and sacrifice had led to this.

It wasn't just a title fight.

It was everything.

Then he stepped forward.

And that first step… was like coming up for air.

Suddenly the sound snapped into clarity. The beat hit harder. The screams sharpened. His senses exploded back to life. He could hear again.

He grinned.

Couldn't help it.

He tried to keep the poker face. Tried to look serious, menacing, like all the greats did in their walkouts. But it cracked through him, the joy. The pride. He was too honest a man to hide it. This was his moment, and he wasn't gonna fake it.

Fans stretched their hands over the rails. Kids. Adults. Older folks waving flags. Young boys yelling his name like it was something sacred. Damon reached out, touching palms, smiling wide.

He looked around once more.

This wasn't a dream.

It was his reality now.

Damon moved toward the commission official near the steps, arms raised as they checked him over, gloves tight, mouthpiece in, cup, vaseline. The standard pre-fight routine. He nodded through it all, still carrying that half-grin.

Then he turned to the steps.

He dropped to all fours, crawling slowly up, like a predator stalking into a new territory, but unlike before, there was no cold fury behind it. No grim mask of intimidation. Just calm joy. He looked like he belonged here, like he was home.

Inside the cage, he stood and walked its edge, palm slapping against the mesh once… twice… three times, walking the full perimeter. The moment the lights steadied and the energy plateaued, the tone shifted again.

That meant only one thing.

The other half of this storm was coming.

Then it hit.

A voice, guttural, forceful, almost primal, pierced through the speaker system, layered over booming drums and a deep warlike chant. The words weren't in English. It was Chechen. Harsh syllables.

Balim Chemasov's walkout.

The crowd rumbled.

His music sounded like a mix between a tribal war cry and a war march, bold, unrelenting, with bass that hit like thunder. The voice, almost certainly his own voice sampled, growled in rhythm with the beat. It wasn't made for hype. It was made to warn.

Chemasov appeared at the mouth of the tunnel, a blur of intensity.

As always, he came sprinting. Just raw forward motion, like a bullet fired with purpose. His team barely kept up as he charged toward the cage, face tight with focus.

He skidded slightly at the check-in point, where the officials stopped him. He bounced on the balls of his feet as they gave him the routine check: gloves, mouthpiece, cup, vaseline.

His chest rose and fell, his nostrils flared, but his eyes never drifted. They were locked straight ahead, at the cage, at Damon.

The moment they cleared him, he was off again.

He hit the steps in two bounds and entered the cage like a man who'd been here a thousand times before.

Chemasov didn't walk the perimeter. He didn't touch the fence. He went straight to the corner, crouched, and waited, coiled, silent, explosive.