A Shame It's Not the Octagon
A shame it wasn't the octagon. Winter arrived, and my height hit 193cm. My thick bones finally proportioned out with my frame, giving me a more human look at last. My muscles everywhere but the torso still weren't filling in enough, so I looked kinda creepy naked, but I'd already bulked up to 94kg. Time to kick off preparations for entering the WFC. Promotion was key to getting in fast. My ticket power was about to come knocking on WFC's door.
To hit my goal, I started a YouTube channel first. I'd been mulling over a nickname for a while. But Whittaker's "monster" comment from last year kept echoing in my head. I needed to ditch the Human Press I'd earned before regressing. These fans were all about stand-up, so no playing my jiu-jitsu card. In a world of hierarchy scraps, I wanted to be a monster from a whole different breed... that "monster" became my aspiration—and my ring name. I set my handle to "K-monster." Rolled off the tongue nice too.
Next, I grabbed highlights from my world boxing tournament fights, mixed in some music, edited 'em up, and uploaded. Holed up editing at Grandpa's place, he watched me with a serious face.
"Leon."
"Yeah?"
"A special kid like you needs a special tattoo. Something real flashy."
Grandpa was calling me special because of my Asian features. I'd thought about it too. Debuting young, Americans back then had a hard time telling East Asian faces apart. Korean culture wouldn't blow up till later. But would Mom ever okay a tattoo? No clue.
"This old man's got a pro buddy for that."
"Mom's permission..."
"Kid, forgiveness is easier than permission. You think parents block their eldest son's path?"
Thinking back, I didn't remember Mom ever allowing it pre-regression. I'd lived tattoo-free, and yeah, people praised that, but if I was gonna live like a product, I had to package it right. Grandpa's rec turned out solid—a shop that handled military tats. Fuck up a soldier's ink and you're done, so it was legit pro. Guy was retired, but folks snapped to salute anyway.
"No need for that with this old retiree."
"No sir!"
Grandpa grinned at their tight discipline, patting each one down. We headed to the tattooist.
"Tat up my grandson here."
"Uh, how..."
"Make it fuckin' flashy and wild."
Stepping behind Grandpa, I whispered to the artist the exact tat I'd been craving. Dude's face screamed, "You really want that?"
It hurt more than I figured, even with my thick skin—the needle punching through was brutal. But for the aggro? Worth it. After three days, I checked the lower-abdomen pistol first. A Desert Eagle, positioned like it was guarding my junk. Peak trashy alpha-male vibes, but unbeatable for drawing heat. Perfect for ceremonies.
Clean Viking compass tattoo across my left forearm and the back of my hand. Zombie tiger on my right pec—and damn, it turned out fire, better than I'd imagined. Artist poured his soul into it.
Post-tat, I hit the gym to flex for the guys I'd gotten tight with. No sweating, obviously.
"Damn, Leon's a man now!"
"What's that chest ink? Sick as fuck—where'd you get it?"
"Military-exclusive tat shop."
"Oh..."
After bragging a bit, I headed back to Grandpa's mansion and checked my fresh YouTube vids. I'd narrated my fight clips future-style, Korean audio with English subs. Needed some national pride hype for my WFC push. I'd be active in Korea this life too, so time to pay it back. Even if Korean fans ragged on me later, sucking up that support got folks hyped—I remembered.
Grandpa's place had my room decked out clean. Dropped cash on camera gear. First vid was just fight highlights. Now, time to yap and build subs. Broke down next week's WFC main event—Judson and Kawin's styles. Rubbed my chin like a pro, ignoring the lens for expert breakdowns. Then stared dead at the camera, oozing confidence in my win picks.
"WFC's my goal. I see right through these guys' weaknesses... man, can't wait to get in there."
Wrapped it, quick edit, upload, crash. Tats settling in. Back at AKT, grinding with Dominic, filmed all my wrestling drills.
"What're you up to, runt?"
"Gotta get Brown to call me up."
Brown, WFC's big boss. His say was key for a fast debut.
"What's that got to do with this?"
"Camera's not on me, so SNS it is. Get eyes on me."
"Hmm?"
"Pump the ticket power—guys'll wanna fight me, Brown'll notice."
Post-workout, hit my booked photoshoot. Body profile for YouTube banner and SNS. Dropped real-fight tips from AKT clips. Pre-fight pro breakdowns, nailing winners thanks to future knowledge—subs skyrocketed. Posted Dominic training pics, shots together too.
Brown swung by AKT while they were building that division. Caught him watching.
"Hey, runt. Shoot some promo?"
"What for?"
"AKT intro pics—you gotta be one of us, right?"
I held back my real weapons here. No extreme taekwondo or jiu-jitsu from pre-regression—they'd never seen it. Stuck to wrestling and kickboxing spars. Dominic was hooked on my boxing, always calling spars.
"Sure."
Slipped into sweats, bulked a touch—pics had to pop. There I was on AKT's trainee list, claiming my spot.
AKT joined the MMA fed proper, Brown showed in person. Faced him head-on.
"Leon Becker."
"American?"
"Korean, technically."
"English is solid."
"Mixed blood."
Brown eyed my bold ass with interest. Businessman through and through—not the hot-blooded fighter type. Head coach Roberto chimed in, spilling who I was. Youth boxing, all first-round KOs. Longer he talked, brighter Brown's eyes got.
"Not just wrestling...?"
"Wrestling's for WFC."
Roberto hyped me nonstop. Not sure if that's his vibe normally, but Brown locked in. Mission: eye-stamp accomplished.
"Why WFC?"
"Best league for crowning the strongest bare-knuckle fighter."
"Hahaha."
"I'll show my skills at IMMAF next year. You'll be drooling—get hyped."
"Haha! Will do."
He'd chalk it up to kid bravado, but soon enough.
Time flew. IMMAF officialized, AKT affiliate via head coach—application in. February fight date dropped. Up early, flight to Vegas. WFC's mega MMA fest introducing the amateur league.
Two weeks early, global kids packed the cam-filled auditorium. Adults and teens split—I was teen league. Kickboxing coach Tahar'd meet day-of, so solo for now. Place crawling with thuggy types like me. Rocked dress shoes, full suit, borrowed Big Uncle's Vacheron Constantin watch. Gold rings too—Brown was here, needed eyes. Product value gets you real stages. Bluntly, I out-thugged everyone.
First youth MMA, TV cameras rolling everywhere. One caught me—crossed legs, hands on knee, cool pose. Wished some punk'd start shit, but kids were tame. My size? Flashy fit? No backtalk.
Hated starting it, but desperate times.
"This the pigpen? Noise aside, you assholes shower...? Smells like puke."
"....."
Pulled a handkerchief, pinched my nose—testosterone age hit instant. Light heavy entry, but heavies galore. Some "heavies" way smaller than me.
"What'd you say, yellow monkey bitch?"
Pocketed the hanky, hands in pockets, stood slow. Loomed over the slightly shorter black kid.
"Look at that gut. Real pig in the pen."
"Mutt? Mom get raped by your dad?"
Trash-talk prodigy here. Kid had spice—nearly swung first. My adult restraint shone.
WFC talk hits family, country, religion, friends—everything goes.
"A shame it's not the octagon. Coulda smashed that potato face."
Pad diss landed, he swung wild in rage. Recant prodigy. Ducked easy, slammed a deep kick-push. BAM! Rolled like a ball, bowling other kids.
"Hey! Break it up!!!"
Staff rushed—I pulled hands out, palms up, arms high.
"Who the hell are you!? Wanna get DQ'd!?"
"Whoa... I started it, sure, but he swung first? Or should I just eat it?"
"....."
"And how we fixing their stink? Brutal."
Brown smirked at me from afar. Nailed it. First impression seared. Hotel training next. Draw set my opponent, weigh-ins, piss test cleared. Days blurred, heart pounding. One step from the octagon.
And fight day dawned.