MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 550: King Of The Middleweights

Damon finally pulled away from Victor's embrace, still wiping at his face, still breathing uneven like everything inside him hadn't quite settled yet.

He bent forward, hands on his knees, not from exhaustion, not from pain, but from sheer emotion crashing down on him all at once.

Then slowly… he straightened up.

His eyes scanned the roaring crowd, the flashing lights, the sea of people on their feet chanting his name. He raised his hands in the air, not cocky, not arrogant, but grateful.

Grateful for surviving.

Grateful for making it.

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Grateful for winning.

His team quickly slid in beside him. Someone tossed him a towel, another pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. Damon took it quietly, dabbing at the blood, Chemasov's blood, still painted across his chest and arms.

But he never stopped staring out the cage.

The commentators sat in silence for a brief moment before Mike Brewer finally spoke.

"This...this is what it looks like, folks." His voice was softer now. Measured. "This is what it looks like when everything you fought for your whole life, all the pain, all the losses outside the cage, all the scars nobody saw, finally pays off."

Chris Dalton added quietly, "It's a hard night for Chemasov. The man was a monster. Would have made an incredible champion. But tonight... was Damon Cross' night."

Jim Logan nodded slowly, "And there's always something special about the moment a new champion is born. It's never just about the belt... it's about what that belt means."

The cameras cut back to Damon, still standing in the center of the cage.

Still wiping blood off his arms.

Still breathing like he couldn't believe it.

But his eyes…

His eyes looked peaceful.

He looked out at the crowd, all of them still standing, still screaming his name, but for a second... Damon felt that little ache in his chest.

He wished his mother had been here.

He wished Svetlana had been here.

To see this moment with their own eyes.

This wasn't just gold around his waist.

This was the end of a chapter that they had all lived together.

He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at the feeling. Unbelievable. Unreal.

That same kid from nothing… standing here now.

And right on cue, just like in every title fight, a few UFA officials carefully made their way inside the cage. Calm, professional, but with quiet smiles like they knew how much this meant.

One of them tapped Damon gently on the shoulder.

"You good?" The question was always the same, a check to make sure the adrenaline wasn't boiling over anymore.

Damon nodded, still breathing steady now.

Another official gestured towards the center of the cage, toward Deuce Baffer, who was already in position, gold belt in the hands of the president, cameras closing in tight.

The cutman came by, carefully patting down any blood that still lingered on Damon's face and chest, wiping him down as quick and clean as possible for the announcement.

Damon approached slowly, wiping the sweat from his face with the towel still hanging over his neck.

Chemasov was sitting against the cage, doctors around him checking his nose, busted, swollen, leaking slow blood. His eye was puffed. His breathing sharp.

But his pride? Still intact.

That was the thing about real fighters, they didn't need words.

Damon extended his hand down.

Chemasov looked up for a second... then took it.

Firm grip. No ego. No excuses.

Damon helped him up, both men standing eye to eye. Blood on their skin, respect in their posture.

He leaned in, saying just enough for only Chemasov to hear.

"Respect, brother."

Chemasov nodded once, breathing hard.

"You strong... today yours," he said in that rough accent.

Damon gave a small grin, nodding right back. That was that.

Inside this cage?

There was no mercy. No regret. No what-ifs.

You fought, or you didn't.

Feeling bad was natural, but it didn't mean a damn thing when the door shut.

If anything? Damon would fight him again the exact same way.

Maybe even worse.

This was the fight business.

And tonight… the belt changed hands.

He stole the belt from a man who had only just started his reign.

Farc Goddarm stood between them, holding both their wrists. Ronan Black, the UFA President, stood right behind Damon, golden belt in hand, waiting for the moment.

Jim Logan on commentary said what everyone was thinking.

Jim Logan: "Man... it's a hard thing. You work your whole life to touch that gold, then someone like Damon Cross walks in and rips it from you like it was never yours to begin with."

Mike Brewer: "It's brutal, Jim. But it's real. That's fighting. That's the middleweight division now."

Deuce Baffer stepped forward, microphone in hand, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, AFTER FOUR MINUTES, THIRTY-EIGHT SECONDS OF ROUND NUMBER TWO, REFEREE FARC GODDARM HAS CALLED A STOP TO THIS CONTEST, DECLARING THE WINNER BY TKO..."

He paused, letting the anticipation build.

"AND NEEEEEEEEW! UNDISPUTED UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD... DAMON! CROSS!"

The arena erupted as Ronan Black stepped in, wrapping the championship belt around Damon's waist. The crowd's cheers echoed, celebrating the culmination of a hard-fought battle.

Damon stood tall, the weight of the gold symbolic of his journey, his struggles, and his triumph. This was more than a victory; it was a testament to his resilience and determination.

The moment the belt clipped around his waist, click, Damon stepped forward instinctively, slapping the center plate hard with his palm, yelling from deep in his chest. Pure emotion. Pure release.

This was real.

This was his.

He turned immediately, no hesitation, and walked straight to Chemasov, the man he just conquered, extending his hand again. Respect was respect. No matter what.

Chemasov shook it firmly, nodding without bitterness. Fighters knew.

Then Damon turned around, Ronan Black, the UFA President, was already approaching. Ronan was grinning wide, that classic half-smirk of a promoter who knew exactly what this moment meant for business.

As they shook hands, Ronan leaned in, his voice low but clear in that casual, confident tone only men like him had.

"That's how ya do it, kid. That's how ya show up in a main event. Hell of a fight. Hell of a statement. This is what makes superstars, brother."

He gave Damon a small pat on the shoulder, pulling back with a grin.

"You just became a very rich man tonight."