Blitz Debut in the Octagon
That was a mistake you could afford. In the locker room were Whittaker and Tahar, the AKT kickboxing specialist coach who'd come to see me. Whittaker wrapped my hands while muttering,
"How you feeling? Ready?"
"You bet."
"That dream you've been shouting about? It's right in front of you."
I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the octagon I'd dreamed of. It wasn't exactly what I wanted, but I was itching to dive in right then and there.
"My record's 34 wins, 2 losses."
"...?"
"The last one led to my retirement. Guess when the other was?"
He'd never told me this before. But Whittaker was once called a middleweight legend, the undisputed champion. His words were always gold, so I listened closely.
"Right before my debut."
Don't get tense. Don't get hyped. He must've seen how antsy I was. But this was probably just standard pre-fight talk, like the ref's rules rundown. Even with my eyes shut, my craving for the octagon leaked out raw. Every knuckle screamed to smash the opponent. I yearned for that bone-crushing pain where your hands shatter on impact.
But Whittaker's next words snapped my eyes open.
"You're different from me. Different from anyone I've seen. This place isn't your dream either."
"...Yeah."
"Can't blow your first impression, right?"
"Nope."
"Let's show 'em exactly what you're made of."
My pre-regression debut flashed in my mind. I'd been just as antsy back then. If Whittaker had been there... No wonder I couldn't let him go. His words instantly cooled my fire. This wasn't it. The octagon wasn't my dream stage. I had to dominate overwhelmingly. No losing control.
Confirming I'd settled, Whittaker left the locker room with the coach. Alone, I strapped on my groin protector and slipped into my custom tiger-print compression shorts. The design reminded me of that YouTuber who'd blow up in Korea as the "Demon King" for teens. With my head clear, I hit the bathroom for a quick photo and headed out.
Whittaker and Tahar waited with the coaching staff in the distance. Then my eyes locked on the octagon... My heart raced, but I crushed the boiling urge. Not yet. Like Whittaker said, getting hyped this early was a no-go.
IMMAF was backed by WFC, so pro-level refs were on deck. Staring at the octagon, I shook out my shoulders on instinct—a routine to check muscle twitch for peak condition via rebound.
The inspector ref spotted me, explained the basics, then flinched at my hand size before checking my wraps. Once done, Whittaker fitted my gloves. After Vaseline on my face, I stepped slowly into the octagon.
"Huuuuh..."
Blinding white lights... This eight-sided beast was the modern Colosseum. The stench of blood, sweat, and antiseptic stabbed my nose. I loved every inch—the rough, hard mat too. I crouched in the corner, gripping the chainlink, loosening my shoulders.
"Haa... this is it."
"".....""
My opponent flinched at my grin... That look was no fun in a ring, but inside the octagon? Pure thrill. He was my prey now, and my mission was to smash him spectacularly.
The ref explained rules between us. No need to listen—I knew 'em cold. Fresh IMMAF had no kid gloves; straight WFC rules.
Lights out, leaving just me and him. At the fence, the ref barked,
"Fight!"
I bounced forward for a glove touch, but he dodged, backing off. So I extended my lead hand, fist clenched, to obscure his view. Hiding my face under the lights, I spotted his thigh muscles twitching. He leaned for a takedown. As his body tilted, I exploded forward with a flying knee.
Thwack!
Damn lead hand threw it off a bit. Full hit would've pulverized his face. He crumpled slowly backward from the impact. I pounced, mounted, and smashed down twice before the ref intervened.
"Stop!"
Color flooded the dark world as the crowd hit me. Even pre-regression, I was a heel fighter. Went in ready to get fucked up and fucked someone else without mercy. That's why they laughed when I rolled my ankle. Pushed by the ref, I rolled forward lightly, stood, spat out my mouthpiece, and tossed it back.
Fuck all y'all...
WFC wasn't a sport—it was legal warfare. Turn it sporty, and it's "boring" city. Mercy? That's the ref's job as the absolute authority.
"Yeeeah~"
I shoulder-danced for Tahar and Whittaker trailing me. Brown stood behind them, eyes sparkling as he jumped up. I gripped air over my shorts, flashing my half-hidden Desert Eagle tat. Whittaker below lit up.
"That fucker... was goddamn beautiful just now."
"Obviously~"
"Pick up your mouthpiece, though. Bad manners."
"Got it."
I scampered back, grabbed it. Got dozens at home—might as well start seeding 'em at pro level. Before changing, I begged the coach for another pic.
Tournament tomorrow, so we headed to the hotel for rest. Whittaker and Tahar crashed in the rooms I'd booked. Tahar called Roberto right away, hyped about the fight. I munched nuts in my room and hammered SNS.
"SNS again?"
"Gotta build ticket power. Won't clown for attention after this."
"Heard you caused a scene two weeks back."
"Brown was curious if I had marketability."
"Smart and fucking nuts. Perfect."
Grandpa called after seeing the fight. Korea wasn't airing IMMAF, so doubtful Dad watched.
Next day, back to the locker room. American pit stink is hellish, but here? Like smelling salts. Fuels the rage.
The coaches noted my calmer vibe. Tahar held pads for kicks and punches, checking me.
"How's it feel?"
"Same as always."
"Watched your fight last night. Realized something."
"What?"
"This guy's gonna shake up WFC."
Tahar's eyes sparkled in agreement.
"You need to decide quick too. AKT or trail this Monster?"
"C'mon, that's jumping the gun."
"Your call. Trailing him won't cramp your style. I'm busier with that Colin kid anyway."
Sparred Colin days ago, but he's prepping and missed my debut. We're tight, but Vegas is far from SF. Cousin Might skipped too—travel costs.
Inspector ref said wait. Coaches left first; I hit the john. Vaseline on, into the octagon. Antiseptic invaded my nose. Routine done, shoulders loose—ref eyed me. Nodded, stepped up for quick rules.
Opponent looked off—rough breathing, yesterday's war not fully recovered. Octagon entry floods adrenaline. I'd felt minor calf ache from mine.
Fence apart, dark swallowed the ref. Just us.
"Fight!"
Bounced for glove touch. He boxed up—weird angle for leg kicks. I circled with footwork, then snapped a light lead low kick.
Crack!
One touch spooked him. Coach must've warned him. He dropped for takedown. No lead hand this time. He lunged; as he dipped, I slipped back, pressed his head, and drilled a precise knee to the face.
Splaaat!
Out cold. Went for ground-and-pound, but ref charged—I spun away bullfighter-style. Grapplers weak to strikes right now. Same setup as yesterday, same KO.
Prime time to hell-ride grapplers.
"That's AKT!!!"
Quick interview, back to locker, snapped body pic, posted "12-second KO."
Started with just comments from Kang-chan and Min-hyuk, but more poured in fast.