A Second Chance in a Fictional Cage

For the past five years, the number I've seen more than any other is 1,900. What does that mean? Beep. "That'll be 3,800 won, please." A bottle of convenience store soju costs exactly 1,900 won. I just bought two, so it came to 3,800 won.

"Ahhh..." The moment I stepped out of the convenience store, I tipped the bottle back and poured the soju straight down my throat. A cheap buzz quickly radiated through my entire body. I've been chugging this stuff for five years, yet my tolerance hasn't gone up a single bit.

"Back in the day, I didn't even like the taste of expensive alcohol." Blue Label? Black Label? I used to get them all the time as gifts. But since I didn't know any better, I just gave them all to my younger brother.

"Maybe I should give him a call." Ring... ring...

"...He must be busy." Ever since I ended up like this, keeping in touch with people had become nearly impossible. It started when my sober hours became vastly outnumbered by my drunken ones, and I began dragging my leg behind me.

"Ugh... tastes like absolute shit." I finished the first bottle before I even made it back to my apartment. Stumbling through the door of my cramped studio, I cracked open the second bottle and flicked on the TV.

"You should've shot for a single-leg there, you bald bastard!" The show on the screen was none other than the UFC, and I was already shouting backseat advice at it. Watching the very stage I had once dreamed of standing on—living vicariously through the screen—was the only hobby I had left.

"...I should've been up there." Before the accident, I was a highly touted prospect. As soon as I entered the KFC, I went on a seven-fight winning streak, captured the lightweight championship, and even signed a contract with the UFC... Oh, and to clarify, KFC isn't the fried chicken chain; it stands for the Korean Fighting Championship, the largest professional MMA organization in South Korea. Anyway, I thought I was on the fast track to success. Right up until I crossed paths with a mugger on my way home and got stabbed.

Back then, I was young and arrogant enough to think I could disarm anyone, knife or not. If I could go back to that moment, I would turn around and run without a second thought. But the reality was... I got stabbed, suffered severe nerve damage, and my left leg was permanently paralyzed. The mugger took a punch to the jaw, fell backward, cracked his skull on a brick, and died. Some might say I was lucky to survive, but I don't know. I can barely call this a life.

MMA isn't exactly a sport where you make enough to retire for life unless you're at the very top, and I wasn't around long enough to be remembered by the public. A shooting star that burned out too quickly—that was me. At thirty years old, my only talent was fighting, my body was half-crippled, and my savings were practically nonexistent. I had dedicated over a decade of my life to martial arts, and all I had to show for it was this pathetic existence.

"Hic. If I had made it to the UFC, I would've cleared the whole division... Sigh..." I focused on the TV screen to drown out the depressing reality. The featherweight champion on display was putting on a decent performance. But there was one glaring flaw.

"That's not how you strike. You have to throw it lighter, snap it more..." Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but I found myself pushing up from my seat, raising my guard, and taking a stance. Whoosh. I threw a light jab into the empty air. It didn't feel half bad. For a fleeting second, it felt like I was back in my prime five years ago, ready to step into the cage this very instant. But then...

Whoosh—crash! "..." The moment I tried to follow up with a straight, reality slapped me right back down. With a leg that couldn't support my weight, there was no power, no speed, and I ended up sprawling miserably across the floor. I couldn't even muster the energy to curse my fate. I just felt incredibly pathetic and bitter.

"Maybe I should just end it." Everything was just so fucking exhausting. It wasn't the first time the thought of suicide had crossed my mind. Before I lost my nerve, I picked up my phone to search for painless ways to die.

"Huh? What's this?" A massive banner ad on the screen caught my eye, featuring a character and a bold headline.

"What kind of absolute garbage is this?" The ad even featured an illustration of a high school girl locking a boxer in a triangle choke while pummeling him. It was the ultimate clickbait, impossible to ignore. I clicked the banner, which redirected me to a web novel titled The Striking Genius High School Girl is Also Good at Ju-jitsu.

A stupid title to match the stupid clickbait. Curious to see what kind of nonsense it was, I started reading. Before I knew it, six hours had flown by, and my plans of suicide were completely forgotten. The story followed the protagonist, Seo Yeonha, who regains her memories of being a Ju-jitsu Black Belt in her past life. During a boxing match, she chokes her opponent unconscious using Ju-jitsu, gets disqualified, and subsequently transitions to MMA.

Surprisingly, the technical details were quite accurate, making it an easy read. But what was this "GL" tag? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I didn't know what it meant at first, but it turned out to be girls' love. The story featured the protagonist and a supporting character sharing moments so sweet they could melt the Arctic. While the plot was highly predictable, it was genuinely entertaining, and I ended up binge-reading the entire thing.

However, one thing kept nagging at me. "Is this author out of their mind? How the hell does a grappler beat a striker that easily?" It was absurd. A lot of people make this mistake: sure, if a grappler manages to grab you, they have the advantage. But a top-tier striker won't even let a grappler close the distance in the first place! And do they think strikers don't train in grappling defense? It was incredibly frustrating. Sure, the current UFC champions are elite grapplers, but if I had made it to the UFC with my body intact, I would have ushered in a new era of striking.

"Five years ago, I would've flatlined anyone trying to shoot a takedown on me with a simple one-two." Unable to hold back, I opened the comment section and began typing furiously. I questioned the author's actual knowledge of martial arts, accused them of being a biased Ju-jitsu Dog, and even wrote a biological analysis on whether it was physically possible for Seo Yeonha to fight so well with a D-cup chest... Since I couldn't fit everything into a single comment, I ended up posting about ten of them. When I tallied it all up, it was a massive 5,700-character essay.

"Ah, that feels much better." At the time, I had no idea. I didn't know the unwritten rule of web novels: you should never send a 5,700-character hate comment or email to an author. Ding! "A notification? Did the author realize their mistake and write an apology?" The reply was indeed from the author, just as I expected. Unfortunately, the content was far from an apology.

"?" In my entire life, I could count on one hand the number of times someone had cursed at me. In the real world, people were too afraid of getting beaten to a pulp to insult me, and since I rarely used the internet, I had never experienced online toxicity. Thus, being called a "piece of shit" was enough to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠leave me utterly dumbfounded.

"Oh, look at this guy." Preparing for my very first keyboard war, I drafted a 1,000-character rebuttal. But the moment I hit submit...

The author had blocked my account, wiping out all my comments. Even if I tried to post more, they would only be visible to me.

"This absolute lunatic!" I quickly created a new account to demand an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠explanation, but the bastard just left a mocking reply and blocked me again.

"You're dead meat." You've finally given me a reason to live in this miserable gutter of a life. Tomorrow, the moment I wake up, I'm starting physical therapy. I will track down your address, and I will beat you like a dog with my bare hands. You'll pay dearly for underestimating someone with nothing but time on their hands. To prepare for my new mission, I chugged the rest of the soju and collapsed onto my bed.

That was the first time I had ever read a web novel. My only other reading experience was browsing webtoons at a comic book cafe. A guy like me was as far removed from literature as one could get.

"What in the world..." Which was why I found the current situation so impossible to comprehend. "I'm... standing on both feet?" Something had felt off the moment I opened my eyes. Usually, the morning after drinking left me with a splitting headache, but today, there was nothing. In fact, my head felt so clear I wondered if I had even drunk anything at all. It was a sensation I hadn't felt in five years. Thinking my alcohol tolerance had finally improved, I pushed myself up from the bed—and that was when I finally noticed the anomalies.

It was a completely unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar apartment. In the corner, a full-length mirror caught my reflection. The person standing there wasn't the alcohol-soaked, broken-down piece of trash who had given up on life. Instead, a fresh-faced, youthful version of Jung Hyunwoo from his high school days—before he had ever stepped foot into an MMA gym—was staring back at me.

"Ah... Ah..." They say a man only cries three times in his life: when he is born, when his parents pass away, and when his country falls. Since I was an orphan with no parents, I decided to use one of my remaining crying passes right now. I practically crawled toward the mirror and pressed my palm against the glass, meeting my own reflection. The cold sensation of the glass seemed to reassure me that this was not a dream.

"Ugh... sob..." I wiped away the tears streaming down my cheeks as a single, raw thought naturally surfaced in my mind. I wanted to live, too. The truth was, I didn't want to die. I was terrified of suicide. I wanted to achieve my dreams. I had just been so overwhelmed by the sheer hopelessness of navigating the world with a paralyzed leg. Only after crying silently for a long time did I finally manage to calm down and assess the situation.

But what exactly happened? If I traveled back in time, I never lived in a place like this. By my standards, this apartment was luxurious. It had windows, no bugs, and no foul smell. It even had a bed for a high schooler. I seriously wondered if the owner of this body was some kind of trust-fund kid. Rummaging through the room, a school uniform hanging on a rack caught my eye. It was a uniform I had never seen before, and a name tag was pinned to the chest.

"What is going on? It's definitely my name, but..." As I stood there, tracing the name tag with my fingers, a flood of foreign memories suddenly forced their way into my mind. This is... It was the memory of an extra from the web novel I had read right before falling asleep.