MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 577: I would obliterate him

The crowd roared again as the mic lowered.

Message delivered.

The interviewer gave Damon one last nod and turned back to the camera.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your winner, and still, Damon Cross!"

The arena lit up with cheers one more time before the broadcast cut away.

Damon lowered the mic from his face as the commentator stepped out of the cage. He glanced around once more, then turned to his team.

Read lat𝙚st chapters at fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓ Only.

The fight was done. The message was sent.

Still champion.

He walked toward the cage door as it opened, his team falling in beside him—Victor, Joey, and the others. Hands on his shoulders.

The belt stayed over his shoulder.

Damon didn't look back.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Hours later, the press conference was underway. The stage was simple, black backdrop, sponsor logos, long table with microphones and nameplates lined across.

Damon sat near the center, the championship belt placed neatly in front of him. His forearms rested on the table. Sweat was long gone. He wore a clean hoodie now, calm and composed.

A reporter stood and spoke into the mic.

"Damon… we've gotten confirmation that PDD suffered a broken nose, orbital swelling, and a possible cheekbone fracture. Given that kind of damage, do you think that was a late stoppage?"

Damon went quiet for a second. His gaze dropped to the mic, then back up.

"Yes and no," he said, voice even. "It was late… but I get why the ref waited. PDD was still moving, still trying. It wasn't clean-cut. So, yeah, I understand."

The reporter pressed a little.

"And about the injuries—anything you want to say to him?"

Damon shrugged. "Hope he gets better, I guess."

A few chuckles rippled through the room.

"That's it?" the reporter asked, raising a brow.

Damon leaned back slightly and grinned.

"What else do you want?" he said. "I can send him some flowers. Maybe a box of chocolates and a love letter if that helps. You want me to visit him in the hospital too? Come on, man."

The room laughed—media, fans, even a few fighters seated off to the side. Cameras flashed as Damon shook his head.

He'd heard this kind of talk before. People always had something to say after a finish like that. Late stoppage, early stoppage, too violent, not violent enough.

They moved on quickly from the last question. Another reporter stood, a younger man with a calm voice and better posture.

"Damon, we've heard you recently became a father—congratulations. How do you think this new role will affect your career moving forward?"

Damon's face shifted, the tension dropping slightly. He smiled.

"Thank you," he said, nodding once. "I don't know exactly, but I think so far I've done well. There's no major change in how things work. I still show up, hand out some beatings, then go back home. If it did change anything, it's just giving me something worth fighting for."

The reporter nodded, satisfied.

But before another could speak, a hand shot up from the side of the room. A different journalist leaned into the mic, hesitating for a second.

"Uhm… I don't know if you've heard yet, but a fighter has already responded to your post-fight comments. I'd say it's pretty disrespectful."

He paused.

"It's Shane Brickland."

The room stirred.

Damon raised an eyebrow, suddenly more alert. The grin was now with interest.

"Really?" he said, sitting up a bit straighter. "What'd he say?"

The reporter checked his phone.

"He called your post-fight speech corny. Said you were 'babied by the system,' and he's ready to 'humble the Irish poster boy.' His words."

Damon exhaled lightly, smirking again.

Now the press conference had his full attention.

Another reporter jumped in, picking up the thread while the tension was still high.

"What do you think about Shane Brickland as a potential matchup? Is that something you're interested in, or not really on your radar?"

Damon leaned forward slightly, then waved a hand dismissively.

"I do have respect for Shane," he said. "Mainly because we share a similar past."

He paused.

"But as far as how that fight would go now? I'd completely obliterate him. I mean that. It wouldn't be close. So… I don't really care about him that much."

The room reacted immediately. Some reporters grinned. A few smirked knowingly as they typed into their phones.

Ronan Black, seated off to the side behind the press line, had the biggest smile of them all. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly enjoying every second of it.

With Damon, this was becoming routine. He didn't have to manufacture headlines—they followed him.

And every time he opened his mouth, Ronan could already see the numbers climbing.