The press began with the finalists of The Supre Fighter. A reporter in the front row stood, his notepad in hand, and leaned toward the mic.
"Question for Max Taylor. You’ve had a tough road to get here, close fights, a few cobacks along the way. What makes you confident that tomorrow you’ll beat Ronny McGregor?"
Max adjusted the mic in front of him, his expression calm. "Every fight I’ve had prepared for this one. I’ve been tested, I’ve been pushed, and I’ve co out on top. Ronny’s tough, but tomorrow, I show why I belong here."
The crowd clapped lightly, and the reporter turned quickly toward Ronny. "Your response?"
Ronny leaned forward, his grin confident. "Max is good, but he’s not on my level. I didn’t just co here to be part of the tournant, I ca here to win it all. Tomorrow, I finish this inside the distance."
The fans reacted with cheers and a few boos, the first sparks of rivalry catching in the air.
The reporter turned toward the middleweight finalists. "José Alvarez, Chase Dunham, what makes you confident about tomorrow’s fight?"
José barely leaned into his mic. "I trained. I’m ready. I win." His words were short, steady, no need for more.
The crowd clapped politely, then shifted as Chase smirked and dragged the mic closer. He leaned back in his chair, eyes sliding first toward José, then down the table toward Damon.
"José’s a good fighter. But let’s be real, he’s only here because he trains under Damon Cross’s shadow. Everyone at that camp acts like being around him automatically makes you great. But Damon can’t fight your battles for you. And if we’re honest..." Chase paused, grinning as the crowd stirred, "he’s not untouchable either. That ’Ronin aura’ everyone loves? I don’t buy it. Tomorrow, I’ll prove it by smashing José, and one day soon, maybe I’ll be the one to hand Damon his first loss too."
The room erupted, half boos, half cheers, the perfect storm for headlines. Reporters scrambled to write, caras zood in, and the buzz grew so loud it drowned out the rest of the undercard chatter.
Damon chuckled lowly, shaking his head at the jab, his calm never fully breaking.
Before he could even think about answering, Max leaned into his mic.
The lightweight finalist, smaller in stature but never shy about speaking up, cut in sharply. "Better survive getting knocked out first," he said, his voice steady, eyes fixed on Chase.
The crowd popped, surprised by the interruption.
Chase scoffed, his grin turning sharper as he looked down the table toward Max. "Pipe down, kid. The adults are talking."
The ballroom stirred, so fans laughing, others booing, while caras scrambled to capture the exchange. Damon’s faint smirk lingered as he watched the back-and-forth play out, but he didn’t take the bait.
At the podium, Ronan chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, alright," he said into the mic, his tone playful but decisive. "Save it for tomorrow night. Every fighter up here has earned this stage, and they’ll all get their shine."
He redirected the floor quickly, pointing to another reporter in the crowd.
The questions shifted to other fighters further down the card, welterweights, light heavyweights, prospects, all getting their monts under the lights.
Ronan was deliberate in keeping the spotlight balanced, making sure the undercard and tournant finalists had their say before circling back to the inevitable.
The main event.
He saved those questions for last. Damon and Ivan sat at opposite ends of the table, patient, letting the storm build around them. Their ti was coming, and everyone in the room knew it.
The conference rolled through the remaining matchups, each fighter giving their answers, so sharp, so routine.
But the energy in the room shifted as Ronan finally leaned toward the mic at the podium.
"Alright," he said, his grin widening, "let’s get to why everyone’s really here, the main event."
The crowd erupted, chants and cheers rolling through the ballroom. Ronan let it swell for a few seconds before continuing.
He looked toward Damon first. "Damon Cross. Double champion. Longest active win streak in UFA history. Two-ti World Tournant winner. You’ve beaten nas from every corner of the world, defended your titles, and tomorrow you step in against another undefeated champion. People call you the pound-for-pound best fighter on the planet. The face of this era."
The fans roared louder, so chanting "Ronin!" while others booed, the split only adding to the energy. Ronan gave a nod toward Damon’s end of the table.
"How do you feel going into this fight? With all the pressure, the history, the eyes of the world, what’s going through your mind right now?"
Every cara in the room swung toward Damon, the mont building as the Irish Ronin prepared to answer.
Damon leaned into the mic, his posture relaxed, his voice carrying easily through the ballroom.
"I feel great," he began, drawing a wave of cheers from the crowd. "I an, look around. This is the biggest card of the year, and let’s be honest, the fans are here because of . I’m the double champ. I’ve carried two divisions on my back. I’ve fought everybody they’ve put in front of , and I’m still undefeated. There’s nobody in this sport right now doing what I’m doing."
The crowd popped, a chant of "Ronin! Ronin!" breaking out in one section while boos echoed from another. Damon smirked, letting it ride a mont before continuing.
"But don’t get wrong," he added, his tone dropping into sothing steadier, almost humble. "I respect anyone who steps in that cage. It takes a lot to get here. Ivan’s tough. He earned his spot. But when you sit at this table, there’s levels to it. And with all due respect, he’s never been where I’ve been, and he never will."
The room erupted again, split right down the middle, reporters scribbling furiously as Ivan’s stare sharpened at the other end of the table. Damon leaned back in his chair, calm, the faintest smirk still on his lips.
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