Don't Blame Me If You Get Hurt
Jo Cheolgyu came forward. It was the crushing pressure unique to a heavyweight — a style that simply walked you down with size and raw power.
East Asian Champion? Fine. I'll give him that. But he's still just a middleweight.
Jo Cheolgyu sneered inwardly. In combat sports, weight class was a thug. Technique, ring IQ — none of it meant a damn thing in the face of an absolute difference in mass. He'd teach that cold reality with his fists, film the whole thing, and the views would go insane. A rookie champion crumbling under a heavyweight punch. He already had the thumbnail caption written in his head.
Outside the ring, the younger fighter who'd come with Jo Cheolgyu had his smartphone out, lining up the angle, a finger hovering over the record button and a grin spreading across his face.
Whether Geum Hyuk knew any of that or not, he was thinking the exact opposite as he took a leisurely backstep.
Get bigger and all you do is give me more places to hit.
A bigger body was a bigger target. Liver, chin, solar plexus. A giant bullseye was lumbering around right in front of him. The corner of Lee Woojin's mouth curled.
Start with outboxing. Soften him up.
Jab. Jab. Backstep.
Geum Hyuk's jabs tapped Jo Cheolgyu's face. Not to deal damage — range-finding jabs, nothing more.
Jo Cheolgyu came in, frustrated.
A heavyweight left hook came screaming through the air, loud enough to whistle.
Geum Hyuk's upper body dropped.
A duck.
The hook skimmed over his head. He felt the glove graze the tips of his hair. Razor-close — but a perfect evade.
In the same motion, Geum Hyuk stepped inside. The instant Jo Cheolgyu's arm finished its arc, he slipped into the gap like a blade.
Body hook.
Rotational force from the hips traveled through the shoulder and into the arm. The fist found the exact pocket of ribs where the liver sat.
A dull, heavy thud rolled through the entire gym.
"Ghk—!"
Jo Cheolgyu's body jerked. The punch had drilled into his liver. His knees folded a fraction and his torso pitched forward, the pain of a direct hit to the organs written all over his face.
The gym erupted in murmurs.
"Yo, did you see that?"
"He just went through a heavyweight's body..."
"Since when does Hyuk punch like that?"
Geum Hyuk didn't back off.
Jab. Straight. Body.
A continuous combination hammered Jo Cheolgyu. Rhythmic punching — a jab to lift the eyes, a straight to shake the guard, then back down to the body. A three-hit combination straight out of the textbook.
Jo Cheolgyu lunged into a clinch.
Geum Hyuk slipped it easily and stepped away.
If I get tied up in a clinch, the weight gap puts me at a disadvantage.
Round two.
The look in Jo Cheolgyu's eyes had changed. Whatever notion he'd had of taking it easy was already gone. The pride of a former Korean number two had been touched.
"...Alright. Let's do this properly."
Jo Cheolgyu lowered his stance.
The pressure changed. A presence incomparable to before. The instincts of his prime, from before retirement, were waking up, and the killing intent pouring from his eyes weighed the air down.
A jab came.
Geum Hyuk slipped it.
As expected, a right straight followed.
He has a habit of throwing a straight after the jab.
Geum Hyuk's body twisted left.
The straight grazed his shoulder. The wind off the glove tickled his cheek.
And in the same instant — a counter.
Power started at the ball of his foot and climbed through the calf, the thigh, the hip. His waist detonated into a rotation, every ounce of that force condensing into the tip of his right fist.
Geum Hyuk's right hand caught Jo Cheolgyu on the chin.
A clean hit. The perfect angle, driving straight through the point of the jaw.
Jo Cheolgyu's pupils wavered. Focus went slack, the telltale flicker of a brain briefly rebooting — the warning sign of a concussion.
His legs buckled. Strength drained out of him as if the bones themselves had melted.
And just like that—
He went down on the canvas.
The gym fell into dead silence.
No one could speak.
A middleweight had dropped a heavyweight. A former Korean number two, no less. Two weight classes apart.
Hwang Jinsu vaulted onto the ring.
"Cheolgyu! You okay?!"
"Ugh... yeah. I'm fine..."
Jo Cheolgyu staggered to his feet. He was conscious, but he was still swaying.
"...Hey."
He looked at Geum Hyuk. The expression in his eyes was complicated — a mix of bewilderment and something close to awe.
"What the hell are you, really?"
Geum Hyuk didn't answer.
Instead, he thought, I need to find out just how far this body can go.
Outside the ring, the junior who'd been filming in secret locked eyes with Geum Hyuk. Those beast-like eyes stopped the breath in his throat. He swallowed a yelp, hid the phone behind his back, and dropped into a crouch.
Geum Hyuk was cooling down when Hwang Jinsu came over.
"Hyuk."
"Yeah?"
"I've been getting calls from all over lately."
Hwang Jinsu waggled his phone.
"Variety shows, commercial gigs, YouTube collabs... it's been a circus since the fight blew up."
"...That so?"
Geum Hyuk wiped the sweat off with a towel, his voice indifferent.
Honestly, he'd seen it coming. He already knew the fight footage had turned into a meme online.
The beast on the ring who evolves in real time: Geum Hyuk.
The KO, cut down into a short clip. A single Short had blown past two million views, and overseas boxing channels were lining up to break down his fights.
His looks, in particular, had become a topic of their own. Gold hair, tanned skin, a densely muscled frame. Among female fans, a meme of him as "beast-mode boyfriend material" started making the rounds, and his social media following exploded.
"But there's one that actually looks decent."
Hwang Jinsu turned the phone screen toward him.
Proposal: Appearance request — combat sports analysis channel Fight Lab
Details: Geum Hyuk to host a fight-analysis segment, breaking down his own matches in person.
Subscribers: 1.2 million
"Fight Lab?"
"Yeah. Combat sports analysis channel, pretty well known. They're more of an MMA shop than a boxing one, though..."
Hwang Jinsu let the sentence trail off.
"Something about it bugs me. This channel has this subtle habit of dunking on boxing."
"They dunk on boxing?"
"Like... 'boxing doesn't work in a real fight against MMA anyway' — that kind of vibe. It's run by combat sports junkies, so they've got this little inferiority complex about boxing."
Hwang Jinsu frowned.
"But they've got a ton of subscribers, so the promo value is real. Your call."
Lee Woojin's eyes lit up.
A combat sports analysis channel.
That was what he'd done in his original world. Fighting-game analysis. Frame-data breakdowns. Combo-route explanations. He'd gathered a hundred thousand subscribers on a channel called Meori's Fighting Game Lab.
He had the know-how.
"I'll do it."
"Huh?"
"That channel. I'll go on it."
Hwang Jinsu's eyebrows shot up.
"For real? It's a channel that dunks on boxing."
"Doesn't matter. Sounds like fun, actually."
Geum Hyuk smiled.
A studio in Gangnam, Seoul.
It was the set of the YouTube channel Fight Lab.
The space was wide and brightly lit, a bank of large monitors and cameras already in place. The moment Geum Hyuk walked in, every staff member turned.
"Oh, Geum Hyuk's here!"
"Hello!"
"Looking forward to working with you today!"
Geum Hyuk raised a hand in a casual greeting.
"Hey."
He was shown to the waiting room.
A little later, someone opened the door and stepped in.
"Geum Hyuk. It's a pleasure."
A woman. Long straight hair, sharp and well-defined features — a face that was keen and intelligent at once. She held out her hand.
"I'm Yoon Chaerin. I'll be hosting with you today."
Yoon Chaerin.
Lee Woojin knew the name. The main MC of Fight Lab, a former sports announcer famous for her combat-sports commentary.
"Geum Hyuk. Likewise."
He took the handshake.
Yoon Chaerin looked him up and down. It was the gaze of someone who'd come up as a reporter, the kind that studied people.
"I've watched the fight footage at least ten times. That Round 4 adaptability was genuinely impressive."
"Thanks."
"Today's concept is you analyzing your own fight. That work for you?"
"Yeah. I heard."
Yoon Chaerin smiled.
But Lee Woojin caught something else sitting behind that smile.
There's something going on here.
Filming started.
The Geum Hyuk vs. Seo Minjae fight went up on the big monitor. Yoon Chaerin turned to the camera.
"Hello, this is Yoon Chaerin of Fight Lab. Today we have a very special guest."
The camera swung to Geum Hyuk.
"Recently he TKO'd East Asian Champion Seo Minjae — the Lynx — and became the new champion. Geum Hyuk!"
"Hey."
Geum Hyuk raised a hand.
"Today Geum Hyuk is going to break down his own fight for us. Shall we start with Round 3?"
Round 3 rolled on the monitor. Geum Hyuk, getting worked over one-sidedly by Seo Minjae.
"Honestly, you were getting outclassed through Round 3. What was going through your head at the time?"
"Hmm..."
Geum Hyuk looked at the screen.
"I was waiting."
"Waiting? For what?"
"The timing. The timing where I could finish it for sure. I held out until I could see it."
The studio went quiet for a beat.
Geum Hyuk went on, unhurried.
"Seo Minjae's an outboxer. A master of distance, and his jab timing is fast. If you come out swinging to win from the opening bell against a guy like that, you just get sucked into his pace."
"So for three rounds..."
"I took the shots and watched. What rhythm he punches in. What punch he throws in what situation."
"You figured all that out during the actual fight?"
"Yeah."
Yoon Chaerin was briefly at a loss for words.
"Put Round 4 on, please."
The footage played. Early Round 4. Seo Minjae's jab cutting empty air.
"Watch here. My upper body moves before the punch does."
It really did. In slow motion it was unmistakable. The instant before Seo Minjae's punch even left, Geum Hyuk's torso was already tilting.
"I read the pattern. Three rounds was enough data."
Yoon Chaerin let out a breath of genuine admiration.
"That's incredible. Inside a single fight..."
Geum Hyuk smiled.
Filming went smoothly from there. Fight highlights on the monitor, Geum Hyuk adding commentary — less a stiff technical breakdown than a fighter's-eye account, vivid and immediate.
Then, as they were winding toward the end of the shoot, Yoon Chaerin suddenly asked a question that wasn't in the script.
"Geum Hyuk, mind if I throw a sudden question at you?"
"Sure. What is it?"
A peculiar light flickered in Yoon Chaerin's eyes.
"What do you think of other combat sports besides boxing?"
"...Other combat sports?"
"Yes. Kickboxing, MMA, that sort of thing."
For a moment, the air in the studio shifted.
Yoon Chaerin glanced at the producer. The producer nodded.
The studio door opened.
Someone walked in.
He was tall. Clearly taller than Geum Hyuk — a full 190 centimeters, easy. Lower body more developed than the upper, the classic kickboxer's build. The muscles in his thighs and calves were especially thick, legs carved by thousands upon thousands of kicks.
A buzz cut. Sharp eyes. Even his walk carried the pressure unique to a fighter. Every step was heavy and springy, like he was still on a canvas.
"Let me introduce you."
Yoon Chaerin smiled.
"The current Global Kickboxing League welterweight number one in Korea — 'Crasher' Myeong Insu."
Myeong Insu.
GKL welterweight Korean number one. Record of 23 fights, 21 wins, 2 losses, 17 KOs. Low kicks and middle kicks as his primary weapons, with a left high kick as his finisher. Runner-up in last year's GKL Asia Tournament.
A kickboxer with a respectable résumé.
Fighter of Legend had a character with a similar style. A kickboxing-based striker. The type that controlled opponents with leg techniques.
Myeong Insu looked at Geum Hyuk. The angle of a gaze coming down from more than ten centimeters of height difference — looking down on him, and making no secret of the provocation in it.
The studio stirred.
"You're both top-tier in your own fields. I'm sure the viewers are curious... how about a light sparring match?"
The staff exchanged glances. This was definitely not in the script.
Myeong Insu folded his arms and looked down at Geum Hyuk.
"Fine by me. If the Champion's feeling shy, we don't have to."
It had the feel of a surprise Yoon Chaerin and the producer had cooked up on the side.
Ah.
Lee Woojin understood.
So that's what this was for.
Fight Lab's intent was easy to read. Bring on a boxing champion and put him across from a kickboxer. If he refused, they scored the point anyway — boxers really are weak in a real fight. If he accepted, they had content. A structure where they couldn't lose.
Yoon Chaerin smiled, sly.
"Of course it's not mandatory. If you're not comfortable..."
"I'll do it."
"...Sorry?"
Yoon Chaerin's smile froze.
"What did you say?"
"A spar. Let's go."
Geum Hyuk stood up from his chair.
Myeong Insu's eyes widened. He'd clearly expected a refusal. For a moment, that 190-centimeter frame actually hesitated.
"...For real?"
"Yeah. But."
Geum Hyuk looked up at him. Even with roughly ten centimeters of height between them, he didn't yield an inch of presence.
A beast-like smile hooked the corner of his mouth.
The studio froze solid.
Myeong Insu's eyes sharpened. Pride in the reach advantage that came with his height, and in the leg techniques unique to a kickboxer, sat naked in that look.
"...Alright."
He smiled too — a smile with his particular brand of confidence in it.
"I'll come at you properly, then."
Cross-discipline combat.
A new stage was about to open.