Frozen Air in the Gym
The air inside the gym froze solid. The man sprawled across the wooden floor still couldn't draw a single breath. His diaphragm convulsed, mouth opening and closing in desperate gasps, but his lungs refused to expand. The impact of his back slamming against the floor had temporarily paralyzed his diaphragm—a phenomenon fighters called winding.
He'll be like that for a while. Ian observed the scene with cold detachment. He knew exactly what the fallen bully was experiencing. He'd gone through it himself once during sparring. It was closer to confusion than fear. The mind-filling question: Why can't I breathe?
Ian turned his head, his gaze locking onto the three remaining figures ahead. Two in front, one behind them. The blond giant on the left seemed to be the leader—broad shoulders, thick neck. The curly-haired one in the center had an average build, while the acne-scarred brown-haired kid on the right, who had taken a half-step back, was visibly shaking in his legs.
"You... you son of a bitch, what the hell are you?" the central punk spat out the same question again, his voice pitching higher than before. Ian didn't answer. Instead, he slowly tucked his chin, raised both fists to shoulder height, stepped his right foot back half a pace, and turned his left shoulder slightly forward. A classic orthodox stance. But any trained eye would have immediately recognized it for what it was: That's not the stance of an ordinary high school student.
His elbows hugged his ribs perfectly, fists guarding his cheekbones, knees flexed like coiled springs. His weight was balanced evenly between both feet. The posture of a flawless fighter. From that position, Ian flicked his palm in a casual beckoning motion. The light provocation worked instantly.
"This bastard's actually insane...?! You really want to take this all the way?!" The blond giant roared and charged, throwing a right straight. Ian tilted his head slightly to the right. Whoosh. The fist whistled past his left ear in a textbook slip. In that instant, Ian was already inside the punch's range. With his head still angled from the dodge, his right shoulder aligned naturally with the opponent's chest. Jab. His left hand snapped out.
Ian's new body was small. Weight somewhere around one hundred and fifty pounds. Small hands, narrow fist surface, and not a single callus. But the rotation of his pelvis, the precise timing of his shoulder drive, and the wrist-snapping crack that transferred force on impact—it all perfectly replicated the striking god known as Ji Kanghyuk.
Crack! The sound of the opponent's nasal bone collapsing echoed through the gym. A dull yet razor-sharp noise, like dry wood splitting. "Aaaargh!" The blond giant clutched his face with both hands. Dark blood sprayed between his fingers. Complete septal fracture. He wouldn't breathe properly for the next two months.
Just hearing the name Ian will probably make his nose throb for a while. Ian watched without emotion. The lingering sensation in his wrist had already told him the outcome. Dropping a nose with one jab was routine in the pros, but at the high school level, it bordered on urban legend.
"You crazy son of a bitch!!!" The curly-haired punk screamed and rushed in. This time it was more of a tackle—head down, shoulders lowered, aiming for Ian's waist. Looks like he's done some wrestling. But it was amateur at best. The head position was completely wrong. A proper wrestling takedown pressed your shoulder into the opponent's pelvis while tucking your head to their side. This idiot was driving his head straight forward. That wasn't a tackle—it was offering your skull on a platter.
Ian whipped his right foot back. He didn't need to sprawl. There was no point. Just before the opponent's head reached waist height, Ian's right leg traced a smooth arc. Low kick. More precisely, a calf kick. The exact spot on the outside of the opponent's right thigh, just below the quadriceps, where the tibial nerve ran close to the surface.
Thwack!! Ian's shin smashed into the nerve cluster with surgical precision. "Huuuagh!!" The curly-haired kid's right leg folded against his will. The forward momentum of his tackle died instantly, leaving him half-collapsed on his knees right in front of Ian. His right thigh had gone rock-hard, completely numb. Temporary tibial nerve shock. He wouldn't stand on that leg for at least five minutes.
Ian stared down impassively at the bowed head. He could have hammered it with a punch. He chose not to. Once an opponent was no longer a threat, striking them wasn't fighting. It was just violence.
The last one... Ian's eyes had already shifted to the third bully. The acne-covered brown-haired kid. After watching both his friends dismantled in seconds, he stood there slack-jawed, stumbling backward before finally spinning around and bolting for the door.
Ian's left foot slammed into the floor. Rising from behind the fleeing punk, he shot his right leg forward. The runner's right foot caught on Ian's ankle. Physics did the rest—upper body flung forward while the lower half stopped dead. Bang. Crash! The bully face-planted into the gym floor. One of his front teeth popped out like a broken tile and skittered across the gray surface.
Ian mounted the prone opponent. Both knees pinned the bully's sides. Once the knees locked in, rolling away became impossible. The position was called mount—specifically, a modified mount on a facedown opponent. One of the most dangerous positions in mixed martial arts.
Ground and pound. Ian's right fist cocked in the air. Punches thrown from this posture carried more than double the power of standing strikes. Leverage. Gravity worked for him, and the opponent had nowhere to dissipate the force.
The brown-haired kid finally twisted his head. Their eyes met. His pupils quivered like they were in the middle of an earthquake. Tears and snot coated his face. Blood from the broken tooth stained his lips. His pants were soaked in urine—he didn't even seem to know when it had happened.
Ian's fist began its descent toward that terrified face.
"S-spare me, please spare me...!!!!"
The falling fist stopped dead. An inch from the bully's temple. The kid had his eyes squeezed shut. Complete silence swallowed the gym.
Ian slowly lowered his hand. Instead, he extended his index finger and gave the bully's forehead a light, admonishing tap. The way an adult might scold a child. Then he spoke, calm and cold.
"Next time, I won't hold back."
All color drained from the brown-haired kid's face. He couldn't utter a word. Ian rose smoothly from the mount and brushed the dust from his knees with a couple of casual pats.
He opened his left hand and examined it. The pinky finger was trembling faintly. Not from excitement or fear. This body simply wasn't accustomed to such explosive output yet. I'll need to polish up the striking. Muscle power was lacking, ligaments too thin. Proper training would raise its ceiling, but for now the vessel was barely adequate. Still, that was only a matter of time.
But then again... Ian twisted at the waist experimentally. It rotated. It rotated far too well. Ji Kanghyuk's original body had been diamond-hard—a striker's frame. A coiled spring that exploded within a narrow range of motion. This body was different. The shoulder joints opened a full span wider. The hips were supple. The angle his spine had bent during that recent hip toss would have been impossible in his old body. The depth at which his pelvis had slid under the opponent's, the whip-like elasticity of his spine during rotation.
I placed the opponent's entire weight on my fulcrum. In grappling, flexibility wasn't optional. It was fundamental. Escaping submissions, executing hip escapes, locking in triangles—everything came down to how far the joints could open. One reason Ji Kanghyuk had avoided grappling was that instinctive alienation. The feeling that every advantage he possessed vanished the moment he stepped on the mat.
But this body...
This is natural genius. A strange heat lingered in the center of Ian's palm. Not the heat of clenching a fist. The heat of having seized an opponent's body.
This body is something else entirely. The corner of Ian's mouth curved upward faintly. This could be fun. Climbing to the pinnacle of grappling, I mean.
Right then—
Bang! The gym door burst open.
"Ian?! You with those guys again...!"
A clear, high-pitched girl's voice rang out. Her English pronunciation was smooth and natural. Ian turned his head slowly. A girl stood in the doorway. About five-foot-five, blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore a white crop top with a small embroidered logo on the chest and a light denim mini-skirt. The thin cotton shirt ended right above her waist, revealing a slender midriff. White ankle socks and canvas sneakers completed the look. Her chest rose and fell rapidly from running, straining against the thin fabric, the hem riding up along those curves. The contrast with her narrow waist was almost unreal. Below the short skirt, toned thighs flashed pale skin, the hem swaying dangerously with each step. The white socks only accentuated the smooth line from calf to thigh.
But what truly captured attention was her face. Long lashes framed eyes of deep, transparent blue—slightly darker and clearer than the California sky. Her cheeks were flushed from the run. Plump lips parted as she panted for breath.
She looked at Ian, then her gaze dropped to the floor.
"Wha...?" Her blue eyes widened in shock. One bully sprawled flat. One clutching his face, blood pouring from his nose. One kneeling, clutching his thigh and gasping. And farthest away, one lying prone, soaked in urine and trembling. The school's four worst delinquents were arranged across the gym floor like some grotesque art installation.
In the middle of it all, a skinny Asian boy in a gray hoodie stood completely unfazed.
"...Ian?" She called his name again, more cautiously this time.
Ian looked at her. And in that instant, something exploded inside his mind. It was a shard of memory. The original owner's recollections—the real Ian Lee's memories—began flooding through his consciousness.