Not Just a Predator, But a Monster
After arriving in America, I pretty much monopolized the love from Grandma and the aunts at Grandpa's house. It wasn't hard at all. All I had to do was keep stuffing my face with their delicious food while chatting casually. Big Aunt was really into Korea, so whenever I talked about it, Grandma, Big Aunt, and Little Aunt lit up. And that wasn't all—I played with my siblings too. I showed off a bit of my paper-folding skills, honed on Harin and Hayun.
When I told them I was doing MMA instead of joining the military, Grandpa and Big Uncle weren't thrilled. Dad's PTSD from leaving the military seemed to flare up a little. But when I said I'd prove I was the strongest guy in the world, they came around somewhat. Plus, my hobby was tidying the yard, so I flexed my skills there, and Grandpa was thrilled. Big Uncle hasn't handed me the grill yet, but once he sees what I can do, even that massive thing will be mine. Gotta show I'm solid all around.
Big Aunt drove me to Whittaker's gym. Thanks to her, I started training under Whittaker's guidance. Colin, who helped with my sessions, had just been scouted by the WBC for welterweight. He's nearly 180cm tall, but the height gap with me is widening, so he's no good for sparring anymore. Once there's a two-weight-class difference, it loses meaning.
Whittaker kept bringing in sparring partners suited to me. After pounding punch mitts for five rounds, I took a quick yoga break.
"What the hell, taking a break already!?"
"Who said I'm resting? Wanna try?"
No one but Whittaker would call my yoga poses "resting." They're brutal once you get into them, but I'm used to it now.
"You gotta loosen up when strain hits."
"What you're doing now ties straight to stamina! Switching after just five rounds?"
"That's just chewing up your durability in training."
"....."
I always think about the aftermath and avoid overdoing it. I'm not crashing right after grabbing a title. Whittaker eyed me disapprovingly, but once he saw I was serious about durability, he stopped nagging. Not that I'm lazy—I'm grinding workouts to the point of boredom. Always train with your body in mind. Too many idiots burn out durability with brute-force methods before proving anything. I never got chronic issues pre-regression, but if I train like that now, even I'd break fast.
Time passed, and my first big step—the IBA Youth World Boxing Championships—was right around the corner. The biggest stage a kid like me could hit. A total of 590 entrants. I got in purely as Whittaker's student, no credentials otherwise.
Whittaker, Colin, and I headed to the San Francisco venue. We measured weight, did urine tests, then warmed up lightly in the public gym. Colin was bored watching the other kids train.
"These guys gonna be any match for him?"
"Nah."
"Then why bother?"
"Leon's opponents... even in the four majors, they wouldn't crack the top ranks."
"Tch... obviously. Who the hell has he beaten?"
Not acknowledging me means downplaying his own loss to me. Colin clicked his tongue at Whittaker's words, sizing up the kids' level.
The youth schedule's brutal for kids. Even us juniors do three two-minute rounds, but prelims lead straight into next-day matches. String wins together, and it's games every three days—a killer pace. Wraps up in two weeks to the finals.
After loosening up at the gym, Colin and I bounced back and forth. Kinda grateful and cute that he insisted on watching my fights.
On fight day, Whittaker drove me and brought it up.
"MMA? Don't sweat it now. Just crush 'em first. Prove your worth to the world."
"Yes, sir."
"Show 'em genius is right here. This is your first step."
I smiled at Whittaker skirting around "just dominate with skill."
Car stopped, and we headed to the waiting room. "Debuts are for masters," he said, wrapping my hands. Brought back pre-regression memories—he'd done it then too. Heart raced just for boxing. Perfect wrap, but my weak grip made it a bit awkward. Muscles still soft; feeling the power gap every time.
"Too tight?"
"Nah, perfect."
Colin glanced from his phone, met my eyes, and spat it out.
"Make me believe it. Losing to an elementary kid..."
"Believe what? You strutted against a kid and got smoked. If it were me, I'd bite my tongue and die."
"You little shit..."
We left the locker room. Three rings in the center since matches ran three at a time. Boxing folks everywhere watching. Split by gender and weight, still packed crowds.
A Mexican guy approached me in the wait area. Spanish shaky, but he spoke English, thank God.
"You Whittaker's student?"
"Who're you?"
"Whoa... Colin, right? He was impressive, but you? High hopes."
Talks just to talk. Annoying types. But he knew Whittaker, so I tilted my head.
Whittaker returned from the bathroom.
"Oh, Diego. Caught your last fight."
"Long time no see."
Diego bowed politely to Whittaker, who explained he was the current WBC Light Heavyweight Champion. Random champ drop-in. Stirred some fire in me; I nodded.
Ref came over.
"Ready when you are."
"Yes, sir."
Whittaker vaselined my face under ref watch. Gloved up, up to the ring.
White kid opposite glared like he wanted to kill me. What'd I do?
"You gonna lose to that big dumb yellow monkey kid?"
"No, sir!"
"I'm watching."
Coach-induced fire in those eyes. Pump up confidence and venom. Use every dirty trick—racism included—to build "us vs. them" bonds. If belittling foes boosts ego, perfect matchup for me.
Smiled at his artificial glare. Short but thick kid. Saw himself as predator, plotting how to devour me. Coach brainwash worked; confidence like Mike Tyson possessed. That pitiful gaze's raw conviction fueled me up.
"Hah..."
Liked his stare. Eased my octagon thirst a bit.
We met center per ref, got quick rules, touched gloves.
"Box!"
Ding! He rushed with wild punches. No defense, pure offense will. Simple. Swayed upper body back, dodged, fired a pure speed-precision check hook.
Paang!
Perfectly landed fist; his eyes rolled. Legs buckled like slow-mo, pitched forward.
Instinctively went for head grab and knee—stopped myself.
"Leon!!!"
Good thing I snapped to before Whittaker. Ref rushed, protected his head on fall.
Thud!
Crowd clutched foreheads at the instant KO. Colin and Diego's eyes sparkled.
"Whoa..."
Almost went full octagon—huge mistake. Nearly messed up bad on a kid.
Looked down at KO'd boy, then shocked coach. Shrugged with a smirk.
"Dude sucks hard."
"You...!"
Ref called it with kid out. Whittaker's glare at coach made him avert eyes.
"So that's it... what Colin meant."
Whittaker muttered, approached me.
"Eyes rolled why? Scared me."
"Dunno. Liked his vibe?"
"Crazy bastard... yeah, show your breed's different."
"Yes, sir."
Saw my violence, got more hyped. Reminded me of pre-regression Whittaker dying to teach me boxing. Overkill joy? But his hype felt good.
Meantime, rival coach gestured glove check to ref. Delayed victory call; ref felt my gloves.
Serious eyes on ref.
"Mind taking 'em off?"
"Sure."
Bit velcro, pulled hands. He startled at my huge fists. Big even to me; obvious to others.
Ref squeezed wraps, signaled safe somewhere.
"Red wins!"
Tucked gloves under arm, down I went.
"Who sees you as 15! Hahaha!"
Korean age 16, high school freshman—but same diff.
"That kid's from a known gym. Two years training, just debut."
"Ah~"
"You're debuting too."
Whittaker's extra glee baffled me. Diego approached seriously.
"That check hook? Pinnacle of clean art."
"Yeah?"
"Spar light after tourney?"
"Don't do 'light' well."
"Hahaha."
Wrapped chat, back to gym. Expected cheers, but all "of course." Colin, Whittaker—no big praise. Made me feel needy for approval.
"Light train, rest deep."
"Yes, sir."
Burned excess energy, home.