Welcome to Las Vegas
Incheon International Airport, departure hall.
It was early morning, but the terminal was already packed. Beyond the vast glass windows, aircraft stood in rows along the runway, morning sunlight flashing off their silver fuselages until it hurt to look.
Geum Hyuk, Hwang Jinsu, and Baek Gangho walked side by side.
Geum Hyuk's gold hair caught the airport lights and held them. Passersby turned, one after another. Tanned skin, broad shoulders, a narrow waist — a boxer's compact, densely built frame announced itself even through casual clothes.
Camera flashes erupted in front of the departure gate. Dozens of lenses swung toward him at once.
"Geum Hyuk! A word, please!"
"The first round against Volkov — give us something on how you're approaching it!"
"This is your first shot at the world stage. Aren't you nervous?!"
Microphones and recorders shoved in toward his face. The reporters' heat was thick enough to feel.
Geum Hyuk tipped his sunglasses down and looked straight into the cameras.
Gold hair blazed under the terminal lights. Tanned skin, a predator's eyes. Even ordinary travelers in the hall had their attention stolen; here and there, people pulled out their phones and snuck photos.
"Kyakya."
Geum Hyuk let out that laugh of his, and the air itself changed. For a beat, the reporters froze.
"The Tank? I'm going over there to retire him. Tell him to get ready for the scrapyard."
The flashes went berserk. Reporters scribbled in a frenzy, pens scraping paper, laptop keys clattering over one another.
Hwang Jinsu sighed and put a hand to his forehead.
"Hey. You planning to blow up the headlines before we even leave the country?"
"It's the truth."
Geum Hyuk shrugged, utterly unbothered.
Baek Gangho snorted, the corners of his eyes creasing.
"Not being nervous is fine. But Volkov's no pushover. You know that, right?"
"I know."
Geum Hyuk slid his sunglasses back up and started walking, slipping through the pack of reporters as if they weren't there.
"That's what makes it more fun."
Fourteen hours in the air.
It was a cramped economy seat, but Geum Hyuk fell asleep without a complaint. Banking stamina before a fight was Boxing 101. Hwang Jinsu, wound tight with nerves, didn't sleep a wink; he just stared at the ocean of clouds beyond the window.
By the time they landed at Las Vegas McCarran International Airport, the local press was already waiting.
A neon-bright airport lobby. Dry desert air pushed into the lungs. It was a completely different atmosphere from Korea — almost no humidity, a stiff, parched feeling that settled on the skin.
"Geum Hyuk! Look this way!"
"How's your condition?!"
Questions poured in in English. Camera flashes popped in a chain.
Geum Hyuk answered in English.
"I'm ready. That's all."
Short. Sharp. It was enough.
The reporters stirred. An Asian fighter answering in fluent English, brief and hard — it was fresh to them. A few exchanged loaded looks.
Lee Woojin's thirty thousand hours in the game had included overseas community work. He'd voice-chatted with foreigners countless times and written strategy guides on international forums. English wasn't a problem. An unexpected gift from the game.
They boarded the hotel shuttle. Air-conditioning washed over them, cool and clean, and the landscape of Las Vegas unrolled beyond the windows.
A glittering city risen out of the middle of the desert. Casinos and hotels flaunted their neon as if competing. Even in daylight, the lights never stopped blinking.
Hwang Jinsu let out a breath of wonder.
"I come here and I still can't get used to it. It's a whole other world."
"First time for me."
Geum Hyuk said it looking out the window.
It was a first for Lee Woojin, too. He'd never gone abroad for a tournament. Those thirty thousand hours had all been spent in a room.
Strange. It doesn't feel unfamiliar at all.
Maybe because he'd seen this city a thousand times as a stage in the game. One of the arenas in Fighter of Legend was set, exactly, here.
They arrived at the hotel. The five-star property the PBA had booked exclusively for the fighters was lavish from the lobby on in.
They checked in, stepped into the room, and the Las Vegas Strip spilled out beyond a wall of glass, the whole glittering length of it at a glance.
"Whoa..."
Hwang Jinsu stared. Two king-size beds, a marble bathroom, a minibar. In more than a decade as a trainer, he'd never been put up like this.
"Treatment like this tells you how much the PBA is pouring into this tournament."
Baek Gangho set his bags down.
"Of course. This is the tournament that picks Leon Cardenas's next opponent. The whole world's watching."
Geum Hyuk stood at the window.
Far below, the lights glittered. The greatest boxing stage on earth was spread out in front of him. When night came, those lights would burn even brighter.
His heart was pounding.
Five years ago, a single sentence from a doctor had ended every dream Lee Woojin had.
That one line, and he'd taken the gloves off. He'd left the ring. He'd put the dream down.
And now that same man was standing over the Las Vegas night, the world stage waiting for him.
In a body that wouldn't break.
With a beast's heart.
I made it this far.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
But this isn't even the beginning.
In Fighter of Legend, Geum Hyuk's story started with boxing. It did not end there.
Beyond the world championship title, a far larger stage was waiting.
The realm of absolute combat.
Geum Hyuk's real story had only just turned its first page.
The next day.
PBA official media day.
The quarterfinalists had all assembled in the convention hall at the Golden Palace Arena. Hundreds of reporters packed the seats. Camera lights bleached the stage white.
Eight chairs sat in a row on the platform. Eight monsters, each representing a continent. Behind the chairs, each fighter's profile filled a massive screen.
When Geum Hyuk walked in, the flashes poured down.
The gold-haired beast out of the East. He was already a topic on social media. Yesterday's airport line had racked up hundreds of thousands of views.
He sat and looked around.
The man on his right: Yamamoto Kenji. Japanese champion, 24-2.
Eyes sharp as a drawn blade, black hair combed neat. The classic Japanese boxer, down to the atmosphere.
A style close to the Ken character in Fighter of Legend. A precise counter-puncher, a master at drawing an opponent's attack and punishing it the other way.
The man on his left: Tyron Jackson. America's undefeated champion, 22-0.
A densely muscled Black fighter whose forearms were as thick as Geum Hyuk's thighs. Confidence ran out of his eyes in a steady current.
The nickname TNT. One-punch power rated the strongest in middleweight history; in the game, he was modeled on the Tyson character. If it landed, it was over.
And directly across.
Alexei Volkov.
A bear's frame and close-cropped blond hair. Expressionless blue eyes. A wide jaw, a thick neck, shoulders like a mountain range.
He was far larger in person than he'd looked on a screen. Even sitting down, the pressure he gave off was no joke. The fighters beside him looked almost shrunken.
So that's the Russian Tank.
Thirty-one wins, twenty-eight KOs. A single loss — and that one by decision.
A pressure infighter. The kind that walked through punches to get inside. His guard was a fortress; a frontal assault was nearly impossible. Try to outbox him and he chased, relentless, until he had you on the ropes.
Game data unspooled through Lee Woojin's head.
Ivan, from Fighter of Legend. Almost the same style as Volkov. In thirty thousand hours, he'd fought that matchup thousands of times.
There's a weakness. There always is.
His eyes met Volkov's.
A blank stare. But underneath it ran the same fighting hunger as a tank rolling across a battlefield.
The eyes of a predator that had put dozens of men on the floor.
Geum Hyuk didn't look away. He stared straight back.
Something unseen moved between them. The air drew taut.
The reporters around them caught it. Cameras swung from one man to the other. Shutters cracked in a chain.
Volkov stood up.
A frame closing in on two meters came slowly toward Geum Hyuk. Each step was heavy. It looked like a tank advancing.
The press stirred. Flashes went wild. Hundreds of lenses locked on the two of them at once.
Hwang Jinsu tensed, half rising from his chair.
"Hyuk..."
Volkov stopped in front of Geum Hyuk.
His shadow swallowed him whole. The man was a mountain. Up close he was even bigger. The width of his shoulders alone looked like one and a half of Geum Hyuk.
Volkov spoke in English thick with a Russian accent.
"So you are Geum Hyuk."
"That's right."
"Seems you have been running your mouth about me."
Geum Hyuk tipped his head up and looked at him. He didn't look away.
"I have."
Volkov's eyes narrowed.
"Tanks do not break. You understand?"
Geum Hyuk stood up, slow.
The height gap was real. Volkov had a good half a head on him. Geum Hyuk didn't shrink an inch.
Instead, he let out that cheap, careless laugh of his.
"Kyakya."
"...?"
Geum Hyuk answered in English.
"The Tank? Don't worry. My fists are armor-piercing rounds. I'll turn you into scrap metal in that ring."
Volkov's brow moved, just barely. Interest and offense, mixed.
"Interesting."
"See you in the ring. I'll prove it there."
Geum Hyuk tapped Volkov on the shoulder.
A small motion. The meaning was not. A provocation — he'd put a hand on him, straight on.
The convention hall froze. You couldn't even hear anyone breathe.
An Asian fighter walking up to the Russian Tank and needling him to his face. No one had seen it before. Reporters' mouths fell open.
Volkov took Geum Hyuk's hand.
The grip landed. Enormous strength. Pressure spread through the back of Geum Hyuk's hand as if the bone would creak. An ordinary man would have screamed.
Geum Hyuk's face didn't change at all.
He smiled instead. The corner of his mouth climbed higher.
For the first time, something in Volkov's eyes wavered, a fraction.
This kid has no fear. It isn't a bluff. He genuinely isn't afraid.
Volkov let go.
"See you in the ring."
"Kyakya. I'll be waiting."
Volkov turned. Those heavy footsteps receded. It looked like a tank rolling back.
The flashes poured down. Reporters surged, questions tumbling over each other.
"Geum Hyuk! What did you just say to Volkov?!"
"Was that a provocation?!"
"Aren't you afraid?!"
Geum Hyuk looked straight into the cameras.
A predator's eyes fired through the lenses. It was going out live, worldwide.
"The Tank?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. A beast's smile hooked at the edge of it.
"Breaking things like that is a hobby of mine. I'm sending him to the scrapyard."
The convention hall detonated. Reporters' shouts and camera shutters crashed together. It was a riot.
Hwang Jinsu put a hand to his forehead.
"Ah, for crying out loud... here we go again."
Baek Gangho snorted.
"Gotta say. I don't hate that confidence."
That evening, Geum Hyuk owned every boxing headline on the planet.
Asia's Beast Issues a Direct Challenge to the Russian Tank
Geum Hyuk: "The Tank? Breaking Those Is a Hobby"
Volkov vs. Geum Hyuk: Sparks Fly Before the Bell
Media Day Moment for the Ages... The Russian Tank Falters for the First Time
The fight galleries exploded.
The overseas reaction was just as hot. Posts about Geum Hyuk were going up in real time on the biggest fighting forums in the world.
Geum Hyuk set his phone down in the hotel room.
Outside the window, the Las Vegas night glittered. Neon painted the desert sky in every color. A city like a mirage.
Tomorrow, the first round.
The Russian Tank.
His heart was hammering like it wanted out of his chest.
The beast's instinct, wound tight with excitement, was stirring.
"Kyakyakya."
Geum Hyuk laughed.
A predator's eyes looked down over Las Vegas in the dark.