If It Hits, You Die
May arrived out of nowhere. The National Youth Boxing Tournament was drawing unprecedented attention, far beyond the norm. A event that usually saw maybe three sports reporters at most was now swarmed by at least twenty, all staked out and waiting.
"Haha, this kind of spotlight is a bit overwhelming."
Choi Seokchan, president of the Korean Boxing Association, looked flustered as he eyed the reporters milling about.
"Tell me about it. This isn't the kind of event that normally gets this much buzz..."
The executives echoed him, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of facing the cameras.
"Kim Donghu really is something else."
"But we never leaked the roster. How did they even find out?"
"Some people are just selfish like that, chasing their own livelihoods."
More attention meant more awareness, more fans, and ultimately good for everyone involved. But...
"Selling out kids for fame and fortune? Tsk."
Choi Seokchan couldn't hide his disgust at the method. Adults in pro tournaments had experience and could handle the press, but blasting shutters at a kids' event felt wrong.
Did I make a mistake letting them in?
If he'd known, he'd have booted them all out, spotlight be damned. But truthfully, Choi Seokchan had no choice. With "Prince of the Nation" Kim Donghu competing, denying filming permits wouldn't stop the reporters.
Only the most ruthless ones would find a way in anyway. That could've disrupted the tournament entirely. This was the best compromise he could manage.
It's right at our limit.
At least the news of Kim Donghu's participation hadn't gone fully public yet. Reporters were tough enough; add in fans, and manpower shortages would cripple them.
After all the hassle, the National Youth Boxing Tournament finally kicked off. A brief opening ceremony led straight into the matches.
Rules were simple: 2 minutes per round, 1-minute breaks. Three rounds total to determine the winner from the round of 32. Competitors divided by age and weight class, with middle school and high school divisions strictly separated—except in special cases.
And this time, there's a special case.
Choi Seokchan watched Kim Donghu stroll casually into the high school division. First off, the kid was insanely handsome. Handsomer than his own late-blooming youngest son, even. Maybe the most perfect face anyone had ever seen in person. Boxing with looks like that? Unbelievable.
What's even more unbelievable is that he chose high school division.
Physically, he fit—but experience and developmental gaps between middle and high schoolers were huge. Middle schoolers rarely entered high school brackets, no matter how skilled.
Maybe because cases like this were so rare? Choi Seokchan had forgotten the rule existed until Kim Donghu applied.
I'm looking forward to this. What would he show?
But he couldn't focus solely on Kim Donghu. Once the kid was in the ring, Choi Seokchan glanced away. The start signal blared.
Exactly four seconds later.
BOOM!
A cannon-like blast rocked the air.
"...What the—?!"
Stunned, he traced the sound. There: the opponent sprawled on the mat in shock, the coach hurling in a towel, and Kim Donghu standing calmly after slamming the post.
Skills don't stand out. You can't tell a go master or black belt just by looking. Internalized techniques don't show on the surface.
All the skills I'd mastered before were like that.
Piano, swordsmanship.
Neither changed my body visibly—they were pure technique. Boxing changed things.
Floater like a butterfly, sting like a bee. That demanded more than skill. It was physical prowess.
That's why, after unlocking my second boxing talent, I felt a twinge of fear. Half-joking, but I truly had no gauge on my strength.
I drilled on the coach's mitts right up to the tournament and reached one conclusion.
—"Donghu, that's not a fist—it's a cannon. Hit kids with that, and they'll die."
Perfect destructive power from any angle. Precision guiding it optimally. Their synergy exceeded imagination.
Coach and I devised a new plan.
—"Make 'em forfeit."
—"Forfeit?"
—"Yeah. Pressure with jabs, corner 'em, threaten the post."
I doubted it'd work at first. No real options, though. Sandbag sounded like explosions—how do you hit people with that?
So at the bell, I executed: jab pressure, corner, post slam.
Even doubting it'd force a forfeit.
But.
WHAM!
"Hic!"
Opponent flinched and toppled. White towel flew into the ring's center.
"F-forfeit!"
It worked?
After that, matches felt trivial. I got why Sims - The Real Life added the app.
With this power, no variables.
No traces left from a cannon blast. No openings for counters.
Saves stamina, too.
One match a day, but fatigue builds. Without worry, I cruised to finals.
And by some twist of fate—or Easy Mode influence?—my opponent was Kim Sansu, a brief acquaintance from before.
What am I even watching?
Boxing specialist reporter Kim Jindae concluded it was an illusion. Otherwise, too many unexplainable moments.
'Post slam forces forfeit'? No magazine would run that—editor would chew me out.
That fantastical.
Kim Donghu, what are you?
National Prince, Golden Bell genius from single to double digits, ultimate golden child. But now, something else.
Boxing prodigy?
Unease from round of 32. Why forfeit from one hard post hit? Only close-up viewers got it.
Density's different.
Like bringing a real gun to a toy gun fight. Not just "strong post hit, so forfeit!"
Opponents saw the fist and foresaw the future.
'If it hits, you die.'
Kim Donghu's intent clear: no intentional hits. Intimidate to forfeit.
But it transmitted perfectly. How? Terrifying.
No one charges a gun barrel thinking "maybe blanks?"
The post even warped slightly—optical illusion? Coach asked if it was plaster-wrapped bandage. Absurd for kids' match, yet punch power instilled "what if?" dread.
Thus, opponents forfeited fast. No point in pointless fights.
Finals pitted fresh-faced Kim Donghu against sweat-drenched, battle-hardened prospect Kim Sansu. Stark contrast built tension.
Records favored Kim Donghu landslide. Yet some rooted for gritty Kim Sansu.
As anticipation peaked...
"...Donghu, I'm really sorry about back then. That's why I climbed here—to say it. I'll forfeit."
Kim Sansu bowed deeply in apology.
What?
Joke? Hidden camera? High schooler easing up for middle schooler?
Questions swirled. But Kim Sansu meant it—descended the ring.
"...National Youth Boxing Tournament, high school division winner: Kim Donghu."
Referee's baffled voice sealed the most anticlimactic victory ever.
News spread online quietly. Boxing's niche status kept it under radar—known only to insiders.
But witnesses all said the same.
"Actor—no, fighter Kim Donghu. If he took boxing seriously..."
One more Korean gold medal incoming.
When did things go wrong?
"Donghu, so you'll check out my naked body, right?"
"What? Are you nuts?"
Why was Yerim saying this to me?
"Why not? I'm fine showing you."
How'd we end up here? I was baffled. What went wrong? Where?
"Models need perfect bodies—even nude shoots, you said."
"Yeah."
"If I'm showing anyone, I want you first."
No. No. Absolutely not.
I scowled, rewinding to June. When I'd seriously counseled Yerim on modeling.
"I believe you'll be an amazing model."
That was the spark.