MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 619: Conference (Part 1)

Days passed, and anticipation thickened. Now, the press conference was finally here.

The stage was being prepared under the bright lights of the media hall.

Crews adjusted the cameras, laid down cables, and placed the UFA middleweight championship belt at the center of the table—gleaming under the spotlight like a crown awaiting its drama.

Nameplates were aligned.

Damon Cross.

Shane Brickland.

Water bottles stood unopened beside each chair, and two microphones waited—one for whoever spoke first, and the other for whoever got louder.

The crowd had begun to fill in early. Fans, media members, influencers, and fighters found their seats, buzzing with conversation. The clatter of chairs and low hum of voices echoed throughout the room.

Some were joking about what Shane would say this time. Others were whispering about whether Damon would finally let loose on the mic like fans had been craving.

The belt remained untouched at the table.

A symbol between them. A weight of gold that only one of them could carry when it was all said and done.

And backstage, the fighters had yet to arrive. But the room was ready. The tension was planted. And the whole world was waiting to hear what would be said.

The undercards for the event had their own charm.

While none were breakout superstars, the card was filled with rising prospects and seasoned fighters returning from tough losses or strong wins—each just a few steps from title contention.

For hardcore fans, it was more than filler. There were real stakes buried in the matchups.

Young, hungry fighters trying to prove they belonged. Veterans fighting to reclaim momentum. It wasn't a stacked supercard, but it had grit.

Still, it was the main event that had everyone watching.

Damon Cross vs. Shane Brickland II wasn't labeled a "super fight." It wasn't expected to be close. Most fans already predicted the outcome—Damon walking through Shane with technical violence.

But that didn't matter. Fans were tuning in not for the result, but for the experience. For the trash talk. For the fallout. For the chaos.

They wanted to see how far Shane would push it on the mic—and how hard Damon would shut him up in the cage.

And no one was more pleased about that than UFA President Ronan Black. He watched the engagement numbers flood in—clicks, posts, streaming buzz—and felt no shame licking his lips at the drama.

Even before the first punch had been thrown, he was already thinking it.

What if there's a trilogy?

Not because it made sense competitively—but because chaos sells. And nothing sold chaos like Damon Cross and Shane Brickland on the same stage.

The conference room grew louder as each fighter took their seat.

A few prospects entered first, young and wide-eyed, earning a polite wave of cheers from scattered fans.

Mid-card names followed—men and women who had fought on main cards and gained a following. The cheers grew louder.

Then came Shane Brickland.

He stepped onto the stage in worn jeans, a tank top, and a buzzed head. A thick mustache curled over his upper lip, and a look of amusement rested on his face. The crowd reacted instantly.

Booes rained from every direction. Some fans tried to cheer, but the noise swallowed them, making even the few who supported him sound like they hated him too.

Shane walked casually across the stage unbothered by the noise, stopping beside Damon's empty seat. His eyes dropped to the belt resting on the table—polished, center stage.

He stared at it for a second, then snorted and kept walking.

He sat, slouched back in his chair like he owned it, resting one boot on the edge of the table as if he were settling in at home.

And then came the main event.

The door opened again and the energy in the room shifted like someone had flipped a switch.

Damon Cross stepped out in a fitted black shirt, sleeves tight over his forearms, his face relaxed. The moment he appeared, the entire venue lit up.

"CROSS! CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!"

The chant echoed loud, steady, growing by the second. He gave a small nod to the crowd.

He walked down the aisle, didn't look left or right, and didn't even glance at Shane. His eyes were fixed on the belt at the table, the same belt he had taken into battle again and again.

As he sat down, he rested both elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly, just enough to make it known he was present. He stared at the championship for a few seconds.

Fifth one on the shelf. Or was it sixth?

He chuckled quietly at the thought, barely audible, just a breath of amusement to himself.

Shane kept his eyes on Damon, waiting for something.

But Damon didn't offer a thing.

The press conference was officially underway, with Ronan Black at the center mic, sleeves rolled up and grinning like a man watching his bank account grow in real time.

He went down the list, introducing fighters and matchups, giving each name a short moment in the spotlight.

The energy built steadily, but everyone knew what they came for.

Finally, it was time.

He gestured toward the table. "Let's bring our attention to the top of the card. The Middleweight Champion of the World… Damon Cross. And across from him, you know who it is, Shane Brickland."

The crowd cheered, booed, clapped, and jeered in equal volume. The tension between the fighters hung thick in the air, but no one had thrown the first verbal jab yet.

That changed when one of the fans in the audience stood up to ask a question. Young guy, backwards cap, college energy, definitely looked like he played beer pong competitively.

He raised the mic and smirked. "Hey Damon, I got a question for you."

Damon leaned into his own mic, voice calm. "Sure."

The kid nodded, still grinning. "A hundred men… or a silverback gorilla? Who wins?"

The entire room paused.

A few confused chuckles scattered across the crowd. Reporters blinked. One cameraman turned to his colleague with the same look everyone had: what the hell?

It was the kind of question that felt like it was meant for a stoned group chat, not a fight press conference.

Ronan stepped forward, visibly annoyed, ready to shut it down. "Alright, let's keep the questions rel—" freёnovelkiss.com

But Damon laughed, cutting him off.

He shook his head slightly, grabbed the mic again and leaned in.

"Forget a hundred men or a gorilla," he said, smirking. "I'll take me versus a hundred Brickheads."

The crowd exploded.

Laughter, whistles, cheers—it all hit at once. The fan who asked the question just raised his hands like he didn't even care anymore. The answer was golden.

Even Ronan cracked a smile, shaking his head as the energy in the room shifted.

The first shot had been fired.