MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 473: Hated And Loved

In the back, tension was high, but it wasn't just because of the upcoming fight.

The producers and security teams were making sure that everything was locked down tight before the next match started.

The incident from Damon's last fight still lingered in their minds. They knew tonight would be no different.

The moment Damon stepped into that arena, the crowd would erupt, whether in support or hatred.

Some of the officials were even concerned about potential crowd reactions after the fight, considering what Damon had agreed to do, or at least what they thought he had agreed to do.

But Damon wasn't thinking about that.

In his locker room, he had just finished warming up with his team.

His strikes were sharp.

His movement was clean.

His focus was unshakable.

There was nothing left to say.

The fight was minutes away.

One of the event staff entered the locker room, a clipboard in hand. "It's time."

No words were wasted. The team got up immediately, following the staff member out of the room and into the long, dimly lit corridor leading to the tunnel.

This was routine for Damon by now. The final moments before stepping into the cage. The deep breath before the chaos.

As they walked, the echoes of the roaring crowd outside seeped into the hallway, a reminder that thousands were waiting for him to step under the lights.

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Up ahead, they could hear Noal Rameiro's entrance music blasting through the speakers.

The Cuban fighter was already making his way to the cage.

Damon rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose. He was ready.

But then, Tommy Hughes, who had been keeping his distance the past few weeks, chose now to speak up.

"Listen, lad," Tommy started, walking beside Damon, his voice a mix of urgency and authority. "This is the semi-finals, this is for Ireland, so don't go in there acting like it's just another fight. We need this win. You hear me?"

Damon didn't react, just kept walking.

But Tommy wasn't done. "And when the fight is over—"

Damon exhaled sharply.

Of course. The apology.

"You need to make sure you do it right," Tommy continued. "None of that smart-mouth shite you pull. Just be respectful, keep it simple, and we can move past this. Ireland needs you to do this, lad."

Damon finally stopped walking. The team halted with him.

The first note of the Irish national anthem hit, reverberating through the massive arena. But instead of the usual respectful cheers or even neutral silence, the boos had already begun.

And they weren't just any boos. They were loud. Relentless. Hostile.

The crowd's energy had shifted the moment Damon's fight was announced, and now, as his team prepared to walk out, the tension was palpable.

Even before they stepped out of the tunnel, insults echoed down the corridor.

Damon stood at the front, bouncing on his feet lightly, rolling his wrists, feeling the vibrations of hatred shake the very ground.

Then, as he finally stepped into the open, the noise exploded.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The sound was deafening. Everywhere he looked, people were shouting, gesturing, cursing his name.

Some had their middle fingers raised. Others were waving Cuban flags aggressively. A few particularly pissed-off English fans still seemed salty from the last fight, screaming from the stands like wild animals.

He grinned.

A big, wide, unapologetic grin.

He walked forward, completely unbothered, even amused by the sheer level of vitriol being thrown his way.

"You're a disgrace, Cross!" someone yelled.

"Fookin' prick, I hope Rameiro sends ya to the hospital!"

"Fraud! Overhyped fraud!"

"You're not even Irish, ya fookin' Yank!"

The crowd spat venom, but Damon just kept walking, his body language completely relaxed.

Then, a water bottle flew past him.

It missed by inches, hitting the floor and rolling harmlessly to the side.

Damon didn't even flinch.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, turned his head toward the stands, and laughed.

A full, hearty, mocking laugh.

The crowd lost their minds.

More objects rained down, but officials and security were already stepping in, trying to keep control.

Victor, walking beside him, sighed. "Really? You just had to, didn't you?"

Damon shrugged, still smirking. "They threw first."

The officials at the cage were already on high alert. One of them, clearly annoyed, gave Damon a look as he patted him down, checked his gloves, and applied Vaseline.

As soon as the check was finished, Damon walked toward the cage.

Normally, he would crawl in like a predator, like a beast marking its territory.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stepped in casually, looking around at the thousands of people hoping he would lose.

He could feel the energy.

He could feel the hatred.

And he thrived in it.

He turned his head slightly, not looking directly at Tommy, but enough for the older coach to feel the weight of his silence.

Then Damon smirked.

"Sure thing, coach."

Without another word, Damon turned back forward, stepping into the tunnel, his entrance music beginning to play.

The fight was about to begin.

For every deafening boo, there was an equally passionate cheer.

Damon's fans, his true supporters, were out in full force.

They weren't as loud as the sea of boos, but their presence was undeniable. Scattered across the arena, pockets of Irish fans, MMA diehards, and those who simply admired greatness were chanting his name.

"CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!"

The energy of the arena was chaotic. Half the crowd wanted to see him destroyed. The other half wanted to see him rise again.

Damon stood in the center of the octagon, soaking it in.

It was surreal, to be both hated and adored in equal measure.

That was the price of being great.

That was the weight of being a star.

He didn't mind.

If anything, he welcomed it.

Damon's eyes locked onto Noal Rameiro, taking in every inch of his opponent.

Up close, the Cuban was even more imposing than expected.

His traps and neck were thick, like they belonged to a heavyweight, not a middleweight. His broad shoulders and dense frame made him look carved from stone, evidence of years of wrestling and war inside the cage.

But size didn't intimidate Damon.

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It wasn't about who looked more dangerous, it was about who was more dangerous.

A soldier in every sense of the word.