Monster, Not a Mere Predator
I wasn't some petty predator—I was a monster. I arrived at Grandfather's mansion, opened the gate, and stepped inside. He was watching TV and greeted me warmly.
"Did you do well?"
"The match?"
"What else would I be talking about if not the match?"
"Yeah? Well, while you're alive, you'll never hear me say I fell short."
"Kuhh... Hahaha!"
Big Uncle sat down beside him with a cup of coffee, smiling.
"Blood can't lie, right? He's just like Daniel was as a kid."
"Yeah... He's the spitting image."
Grandfather's eyes sparkled as he looked at me. Sure, we were a military family, but no one cheered louder for me during my WFC days than my relatives. After all, I'd proven the Becker bloodline beyond doubt.
I spent the days at home resting, then heading to the gym for light workouts. Colin was prepping for his pro debut too. Two days passed like that, and the round of 32 began. I headed to the gym, got ready, and waited my turn. There was Diego—the kid I'd seen before—signing autographs for a crowd. He spotted me, stopped what he was doing, and came over.
"Want me to sign one for you?"
"You wanna take mine?"
"Hahaha!?"
"One day, you won't even get the chance."
I loved that look in Diego's eyes—like he was staring down some punk kid who wasn't even a real opponent. It stirred the urge to drag him into the Octagon. Champion or not, if he was just a boxer, I could snap his neck in 30 seconds with my current body.
"Whoa, check out that glare."
I snapped out of it at Diego's words, shrugged, and watched the match ahead. The scrubs had been weeded out; these kids had solid fundamentals. Unlike my first opponent, they moved with real feel—fitting for a tournament gathering the world's top young talents.
Time passed, and it was my turn. I eyed the Southeast Asian guy already in the ring. Hit him with everything you've got. You can do that. The thought filled my head. Once you're up here on this ring, within the rules, you can be endlessly cruel. I'd come prepared to break too.
"Looking sharp."
"Yep."
My body was heating up. I shook out my muscles per routine, climbed into the ring, and loosened my shoulders. The ref waited patiently, even though it was taking a bit. Once he saw I was done warming up, he called us to the center for the quick rules rundown.
"Box!"
The Southeast Asian kid threw a jab after the glove touch. I slipped back easily, then ducked the follow-up straight. I sidestepped his hook, and slammed a vicious liver shot into the open side.
Thwack!
"Guh."
The feel in my hand told me I'd nailed it. He swung back at me, desperate to endure, but his face flushed red as he crumpled to the canvas.
"Huff... huff..."
The ref checked on him briefly. I'd steeled myself at the start, but honestly, it was boring. I didn't get off on bullying kids. My first match had been more fun—the grit of someone gunning for me had felt good. This guy? I wasn't sure he even deserved my full effort.
In the end, the Southeast Asian kid gave up.
"Tch."
He was already slumped, gasping for air. That's why boxing felt so lacking. Step into the Octagon, and you brace for paralysis or shattered facial bones... I could still vividly recall the memory and sensation of my own face getting smashed. It wasn't fear. It was more like, He's someone who could do that to me anytime, so I'll smash him first. I craved that resolve again—the one that said you don't stop until the ref pulls you or you're broken.
The ref called it a TKO. Staring down at my gloves on the ring, a pang of regret hit me. I climbed down after the victory announcement.
"Why didn't you go all out like yesterday? You were a real gentleman."
"His eyes didn't do it for me."
"Hm... I see."
Whittaker got it right away—what fired me up.
"Once you're up there, it's a lawless zone outside the rules."
"..."
"A battlefield. Or the Colosseum. You enter ready to die, so your opponent better match that resolve."
"Hm... That's a solid mindset, but you need consideration for your fellow competitors too."
I nodded at Whittaker's words. Consideration for competitors... The guys who worried about that got broken first and treated like trash. In reality, the one who fouls gets less hate than the one who taps. I only realized it after my face got wrecked. If fighting like a pit bull is your trade and you've embraced death, you battle till one drops dead. I didn't resent the Korean who did that to me.
Whittaker looked at me with a complicated expression.
"Thought you were a gentleman, but you're a beast through and through."
"I get what you're saying."
"Yeah, be a monster in the Octagon, considerate on the ring—boxing's a sport, after all."
I smiled faintly at Whittaker, who subtly dismissed MMA as something less than a sport. Boxing shakes your brain to mush too, but as a former champ, he had his pride. I kept my mouth shut.
We headed back to the gym, did basic training, and I went home. When I told Grandfather I'd won, he grumbled about how I looked too pristine. Seemed he wanted a rival-level slugfest. Still, I told him I'd proven the Becker seed was unbreakable.
My next opponent was Korean—the first one I'd faced besides his coach.
"You're... East Asian?"
"Yeah, mixed, but Korean citizen."
"Ah~! Nice to meet you."
I bowed back in greeting. The ref signaled, and the match began. This time, I threw a light jab. He countered automatically. No need to amp up my killer instinct—handling a kid my age was effortless anyway. I swayed back, upper body only, feet planted, then fired a casual left straight.
Spang!
He ate it without fully slipping and raised his guard late. I targeted his right hand with another straight.
Thud.
The opening from resetting his stance—I didn't miss, ripping an uppercut with my lead hand.
Paang!
He glanced it but stumbled back. I stepped in, stabbed a body shot. He dropped his arms instinctively to defend. Crack! I slipped his immediate counter jab, fired one back, then drove in a straight. He blocked again, so I looped a liver shot. He ducked low fast, elbow-guarding—setup complete. As he punched out, I weaved and ducked. He kept swinging relentlessly; I managed distance with footwork, shouldered rolls for the threats, then jabbed and straightened. Feinted a body shot to drop his guard, twisted the path, and hooked clean to the jaw.
Thud!
He couldn't react—dropped stone cold from the clean chin shot. I shrugged, my body not even warmed up yet.
"Yeah! That's it!"
Whittaker's cheers would keep coming. He couldn't explain much, just repeating "That's it!" or "Yeah!" But his read on flow was legit. He'd call me out on bad judgments or off vibes. And no one matched his mental coaching.
My matches drew more eyes than expected. Crushing peers with adult-level technique and power, plus my massive frame—it stood out anywhere. Not taking a clean shot, outboxing them relentlessly? Even the families watching cheered.
Time flew, and finals day arrived. My opponent was already up, tapping his gloves to his forehead, mind-controlling. I'd heard plenty about him—that's why champ Diego showed up, they said. In-fighting style, last year's winner. All KOs to get here. That unshakeable confidence in his eyes? Promising.
"Hoo..."
I smeared Vaseline, entered the ring, shook out my arms. The trembling muscles screamed peak condition. Leaned on the ropes, squatted, loosened shoulders. Unlike pre-regression, they moved smooth and sturdy, like oiled machinery. For durability, I held back my weapons like the Russian hook. Not that I'd ever felt fragile. But I wasn't aiming for 1-2 years as WFC champ. No plans to step off the top ever—so caution now.
Still, eyeing this guy... maybe loosen the reins today.
"Leon."
"Yeah?"
"Show 'em what talent really is."
"You got it."
Whittaker's steady voice pumped my blood. The ring around the Mexican kid morphed to fence, surroundings blacked out. Just us on the firm mat...
"Ssss..."
I could almost feel this hunter's breath and pulse. Like surfacing from water, air blasting straight to my brain.
"Heh."
Yeah... I'd craved this madness like nothing else.