Knee Kicks Banned, Monster Unleashed
At that level, even a mistake would've been forgivable, right? A flying knee followed by a face knee—two instant KOs. The crowd went wild, but there was apparently a lot of backlash too. They must've figured knee kicks had no place in youth matches. In the end, they belatedly informed me that knees were now fully banned.
I could understand IMMAF being a brand-new organization, but I never expected them to slap on rules in such a slapdash way.
I uploaded a photo of myself rocking what would become a trendy Korean boyfriend look in the future—sipping espresso at a café while checking my laptop. My build was killer, so the clothes fit way better than expected. That's why the shots turned out so good.
Look at that porcelain skin... no matter how I stare, it doesn't even feel like me. I couldn't judge objectively, but staring at my flawless face was gonna feed my narcissism big time. Damn, that guy's handsome. Back when I was holed up in Seattle, I never had skin like this.
Watching the likes rack up, it was clear I'd nailed the timing. Especially since I was posting under the Korean Monster handle—Koreans were flooding in with attention too. I was getting way more likes on my looks than the fight results. Felt a bit like a pretty boy, but hey, gotta milk everything I could.
I handed Tahar my espresso, sipped a caramel macchiato, and we drove to the arena. Slipping on sunglasses for my entrance drew more stares than I'd anticipated. Just two fights in, and I was already famous? Well, IMMAF changing rules because of me probably had something to do with it.
I soaked up their gazes, changed into my gear, and waited for my match while filming more on my phone in the bathroom.
Time passed, and the inspector ref showed up in the locker room to escort me. Whittaker took the chance to check my hand wraps too.
"Making rules for youth matches..."
"Am I getting famous?"
"Everyone's paying attention. What else you got for us?"
"No info on the opponent, so I'll show you in the fight."
Analyzing foes was my specialty, but there was no scouting data on IMMAF youth fighters. Tahar, who'd been watching my previous opponents, chimed in.
"Boxing base who picked up wrestling."
"Grappling's essential for MMA, sure."
No footage meant relying on eyewitness accounts—kinda frustrating and funny at the same time.
No entrance music for youth matches, which sucked. After hitting the bathroom, I warmed up and approached the inspector ref. Being round of 8, more eyes locked on me right from the entrance than before. The murmurs meant plenty had come just to see me.
No matter how amateur the event, the octagon always gave me butterflies. The ref, who'd seen my last two fights, shook his head at me staring laser-focused at the cage.
"Don't cause trouble."
"Me showing up here's already trouble."
"..."
No entrance tune was a bummer. It was basically volunteer work with no prize money, but with all those cameras on me, I had to make it worth it.
I grabbed the lens with both hands, tilted my head like a maniac, and flashed a creepy grin up close. Shaking out as I entered the octagon, I checked my muscle tension. The ref knew my routine, so while I squatted and rolled my shoulders, I worked my jaw joint.
Condition was perfect, but my jaw felt a tiny bit stiff—like craving a good chew on some meat I hadn't had lately. The familiar octagon scent revved me up. Even if my body felt off, that smell always dialed me to peak.
"That kid's famous for hand speed..."
"Boxing against Leon? Good luck."
"Yeah, no advice needed, huh?"
I just nodded and smiled at their chat. Hearing the opponent was boxing-based, they skipped advice entirely. Unless you were as octagon-obsessed as me, talent meant sticking to boxing anyway.
Prep done, the ref called us to center.
"What a clown."
"Huh?"
"Hated your ass from the gym. You little punk. Warming up changes shit?"
I grinned at the provocation. I'd have wrecked him anyway, but why open your mouth? Making me excited. Maybe my spotlight burned his gut. The ref warning me about the new knee ban mid-that just made me laugh. In WFC, knees weren't the only danger.
We backed to the fence, and the ref bellowed,
"Fight!"
I stepped forward; he offered a glove touch but swung right after. I slipped a few light ones, stepped to control distance. In-fighting style mixed with grappling—he wasn't scared of the clinch.
Grapplers who thrived infighting became MMA's most complete, aggressive, dangerous beasts. He jabbed straight and dropped low. I ducked with him, then smashed a lead smash uppercut into the risk of his follow-up.
Thwack!
Even unripe muscles—taking it wide open like that would've dropped a current champ. The feel in my hand confirmed he was out. Lights off, head-planting to the mat. I pressed his skull for ground pounds.
Ref charged in panic; I spun away.
Crash!
Ignoring the sprawled ref, I looked down at the KO'd foe and playfully mimed pistol-whipping.
"Bang!"
"Waaaaah!!!"
Thought about elbows, but that empty jaw angle was too tempting. The roar meant even new fans would remember me now. Yesterday's show must've shocked 'em. US forums were blowing up, demanding WFC sign me.
I uploaded the fresh pics to my SNS—mid-smash uppercut, muscles rippling vividly.
Next day, semis kicked off. In the locker room, Tahar held pads.
"Opponent's Muay Thai specialist, I think?"
"Yeah? Was gonna get elbows banned this time..."
"..."
Muay Thai base meant less suckered by elbows. He threw light speed-focused punches, shadowing the opponent's moves. Clunky, but he tried hard. If I went pro, I'd need dedicated wrestling and Muay Thai coaches.
Inspector ref entered; I did my bathroom routine. More crowd, more cameras on me. They all wanted proof I was real—not another flash-in-the-pan.
Stroking my mouthpiece's sharp black teeth with my index finger for the cameras, I flexed my stiff shoulders like swinging arms. Over to the ref for inspection.
No interest in youth orgs. Just showing Brown, who'd watch the footage.
To avoid repeats, prove I was legit now. Octagon routine done, ref called me.
His rote warnings? Skipped. Just added knee fouls. The opponent—a cocky near-190cm dude—glared up at me.
Strong or weak didn't matter. Once in my octagon, they were prey.
To the fence—ref roared,
"Fight!"
Glove out, no touch—instead, a right high kick flew. Everyone gunning for me? Meant I was killing it.
Guard down, I stomped hard on his left thigh pinning the mat.
Thud!
His balance shoved back, left leg whiffing past my face. He landed awkward from the spin. I bounced up like a mistimed jump key, playfully slamming a high kick.
Crack!
He blocked with his arm mid-that. Yeah, striking power on another level here.
Landed, ducked his right hook Dutch-style, punched his exposed side.
Smack!
Body shot lacked power to crumple him yet. Still, pain froze him; he desperately grabbed my neck to stop my stance.
Then the knee rising. Knee ban just announced, but he swung bold—hilarious. Before ref intervened, I drove in, shoved my head into his chest pocket.
Grabbed the knee leg, yanked my head up to wreck his base, perfect single-leg takedown.
Bam!
Mount to pin? He instinctively bridged. I kept back control, yanked for armbar—but he spun defense. Arm stayed, naturally sliding over his head. Hooked right foot behind his skull, pulled. Locked left knee with left foot, transitioned triangle choke.
Squeeze. Quick tap; ref shoved me off fast.
"Whoa."
"Instinctively buried his head expecting the knee? Some MMA wrestling there."
"AKT affiliate."
"Makes sense. But that's the real deal... flowing seamless into jiu-jitsu."
"Striking like that, and handles grappling tech?"
Ignoring the insiders, I eyed Whittaker. First time seeing my grappling, he and Tahar sparkled. Figured I'd eat that knee, huh?
Shocked fans thrilled me too. One reason I craved the Colosseum: those unbelieving faces. Victory cheers intoxicated.
Cameras rolling, I shuffled shoulders like a dimwit, goofy-walked forward.
"Heh."
Spotted Kevin Brown leaping up in the stands, clapping. Grinning openly now—heart eyes visible. This sub proved my MMA talent; now show ticket-selling power.