The Bear Tears the Boxer
Jang Tae-seok lightly tapped his gloved fists together.
Thuk. Thuk.
A familiar sensation. The sound of leather meeting leather.
That sound always settled his mind.
He had lived with it for ten years. In the gym. In the arena. And even… in a sewer like this.
Just get through today.
He muttered the words to himself as he loosened up on the ring floor, already running the numbers on how much his debt would shrink if he won tonight.
How much per fight. How many fights this made. …Damn it. Still a long way to go. No end in sight.
But so what.
Everyone down here was a street brawler. Not a single one of them had ever learned real boxing. Just neighborhood thugs throwing punches at the level of alley scrapes.
Among them, Jang Tae-seok was different.
Once, he had been a prospect chasing an East Asian title. Record of twenty-three fights, twenty-one wins—seventeen of them by KO. Rookie of the Year at twenty. Ranked third in Asia by twenty-two.
…That was the story, at least, until the gambling took hold.
Drop it.
He shook his head. Nothing good came from dredging up the past. Thinking about it only made his fists feel heavy.
Right now, all that mattered was putting the guy in front of him on the canvas as fast as possible and chipping away at what he owed.
"Heard today's opponent is a rookie?"
His second said from the corner. Calling him a second was generous—he was basically just the guy who threw in the towel—but still.
"Yeah. First time in the ring, they say."
"Apparently he's got some size on him."
"Size."
Jang Tae-seok snorted.
Size. Sure. This place was full of that.
Guys built like mountains whose fists still hit like neighborhood punks.
Those types ate a few jabs in the first round, lost all sense of distance, flailed around, and went down to a single counter. A big frame just meant a bigger target. To a boxer, that made them easier, not harder.
"The bigger they are, the easier they fall. They're slow."
He rolled his shoulders as he spoke.
"Measure him with the jab, slip out on the feet, and counter. I'll finish it inside three rounds and walk out."
The second nodded.
Jang Tae-seok was confident. He had every reason to be.
Since dropping into this underground circuit, he had fought seven times and won all seven—most of them clean. Street fighters couldn't track his footwork. They couldn't read the timing on his jab. They never saw the angle of the counter coming.
Boxing was technique.
Not raw power.
No matter how big a man was, no matter how hard he hit, it meant nothing in front of skill. That was the truth Jang Tae-seok had spent ten years learning with his body.
The announcer roared into the mic.
The crowd answered with a cheer. Winning seven straight clean fights had earned him a few fans, at least. Skill like his was rare in a place like this.
Jang Tae-seok lifted a hand in an easy reply. He felt loose. Unbothered.
Jang Tae-seok turned his head toward the tunnel.
Might as well get a look at this newcomer.
At the far end of the tunnel, something began to walk out of the dark.
…Nothing special—
He never finished the thought.
It walked forward.
It drew closer.
And the closer it came… the bigger it got.
Jang Tae-seok blinked.
An optical illusion, maybe. The tunnel was dark—maybe the depth perception was off. Maybe it only looked huge because of the distance.
No.
It kept getting larger the nearer it came.
Its head nearly scraped the tunnel ceiling. Its shoulders almost filled the width of the corridor. With every step, the floor seemed to tremble—no, it was trembling. The footfalls were nothing like other fighters'. Heavy. Dense. Like a bear was walking toward him.
…What the hell is that.
His mouth fell slightly open.
As it neared the ring, the outline sharpened.
Height easily cleared two meters. Two-twenty? More? He couldn't even estimate. The shoulders were as wide as two ordinary heavyweights standing side by side. The neck—could you even call it a neck? There was no border between head and shoulders. Just one solid mass. The forearms were thicker than Jang Tae-seok's thighs. Closer to his waist, honestly.
And then… the fists.
His eyes locked on them.
Those fists were the size of his own head.
No—bigger.
No gloves. Bare knuckles. Gloves were optional down here.
But those bare fists were larger than most gloved hands.
…Those are human fists?
Jang Tae-seok had spent a decade in the boxing world. He had seen every kind of monster. Heavyweight champions' fists. Bodies inflated by chemicals. Punchers who ended careers with a single shot.
But this was different.
This did not belong in the human category.
The moment the man climbed into the ring, the whole structure listed. The square mat sagged under that weight. The ropes pulled taut. The announcer took an unconscious half-step back, mic still in hand.
The crowd stirred.
"…What is that thing."
"Is that even a person?"
"They said he was a rookie. That is a rookie?"
"The betting… how's the betting looking?"
"Can Jang Tae-seok even handle a body like that?"
"Yeah, but Tae-seok's a technician. Size doesn't matter if you can't land a punch."
Right.
Jang Tae-seok clung to that last remark and pulled himself together.
…Yeah. If he can't hit me, it's over.
That size. That weight. Those fists. All of it was threatening—he would give it that much.
But boxing was a game of landing clean.
The hardest punch in the world was a zero if it never connected.
A man that big had to be slow. Had to be. Physics demanded it. Moving that much mass took time. Extending those arms took time. In that window, Jang Tae-seok could throw three punches of his own.
Hold the distance. Jab to keep him honest. Slip out on the feet and counter. When that bulk swung once, drive a precise shot into the opening it left behind.
That was how a boxer took down a bear.
The way David took down Goliath.
…I can do this.
He drew a breath.
His heart was hammering. Fine—admit it. For a second there, he had flinched. Anyone who looked at a monster like that and didn't flinch would be the weird one.
But flinching wasn't losing.
Every fighter who climbed into a ring was scared. They just pretended otherwise. What mattered was what you did with the fear.
Jang Tae-seok knew that. Ten years had taught him.
I'm a pro.
He repeated it to himself.
Don't freeze. I'm a professional boxer. That guy is a street-level rookie. Never trained properly. No technique. I have the technique. I just have to not eat one clean shot. Dodge that one punch, and the rest of the fight is mine.
He tapped his gloves together again.
Thuk.
The leather sound settled his mind.
At center ring, the referee called them in.
Jang Tae-seok walked out.
The bear walked out too.
Up close… it was even bigger.
He had to tip his head back just to find the eyes—and keep tipping. It felt like looking up at a building.
Then their gazes met.
…Huh?
Something was off.
Jang Tae-seok had looked into the eyes of countless fighters. Across a ring, you always saw something in the other man's stare—bloodlust, fighting spirit, fear, madness, confidence. Something.
But in this giant rookie's eyes… there was none of that.
No fighting spirit. No killing intent. No madness.
Just mildness.
A strangely gentle look. Like the eyes of a bear at the zoo. The kind that ambled over when you tossed it food—harmless, dull eyes.
…A bear. Yeah. A bear.
Jang Tae-seok almost laughed under his breath.
That was what this was. A bear. Mountain-sized, sure—but slow, dull, with no idea how to hurt a person. The kind that sat in a zoo enclosure and ate the snacks the visitors threw.
He liked the comparison. The tension slid off him.
This guy had the size and nothing else. One look at the eyes told you that. Not a fighter's eyes. No will to put the other man down. You couldn't fight with eyes like that.
Boxing was a contest of will, too.
…This might be easier than I thought.
His confidence came flooding back.
The body was intimidating, but the eyes were soft. No technique, either—just a bear swinging on pure strength. Keep the distance and it was over.
A bear couldn't beat a boxer.
The way a hunter dropped a bear with a single rifle, he would drop this bulk with a single craft.
Jab to keep him honest. Slip when he comes in. When he swings, duck under and dig the body. Three rounds is plenty. Hell, two rounds and—
The referee raised his hand.
"Fight!"
Ding—!
The bell rang.
Jang Tae-seok's body moved on its own. Ten years of training had built that body—his feet started before his head finished thinking.
Step. Lightly measuring the range. Left foot forward, right foot back. Base stance. Guard up. Chin tucked. And then the jab.
Tak!
The left hand snapped out. A ranging jab. Not meant to hurt—meant to watch the reaction. How he moved. How he blocked. How he slipped.
Read the pattern, and the rest was easy.
Jang Tae-seok's jab flew—and the bear… did not move.
Didn't slip. Didn't block.
…Huh?
The jab landed on the bear's chest.
Puk.
It felt like hitting a wall.
The impact bounced straight back up Jang Tae-seok's arm. Hard. Too hard. Not the feel of striking a human body. More like driving a fist into a concrete pillar.
…Doesn't land?
Didn't matter. A jab was never a damage punch. It was a measuring stick.
Now that he'd seen the pattern—
In that same instant, the bear moved.
Jang Tae-seok's eyes tried to track it.
Tried.
But.
…Where did it go?
The bear's fist was gone.
The one that had been down by its hip a heartbeat ago.
Vanished.
No—not vanished.
It was so fast that Jang Tae-seok's eyes… simply could not keep up with the speed.
The bulk he had written off as slow.
Moved faster than any punch he had ever seen in his life.
The last thing he registered was a fist the size of a human head, flying straight at his face.
That was all.
KWAANG—!!