Peaceful Training Days and Rising Fame
That much is forgivable as a mistake, right? I was living a peaceful daily life in America. Grandfather's mansion was so serene that I almost forgot it was my own home.
I worked out and did some part-time gigs with Might.
"Leon. You heading to the WFC next year?"
"Nah? WFC has an 18-year-old minimum."
Contender Series might be different, but right now, 18 is the hard limit.
"Oh yeah? Different from boxing, huh."
We were meticulously washing the car when he asked again.
"So, you planning to hit IMMAF again next year?"
"Doesn't feel like it'll help anymore?"
Brown wanted that. Showing more would just lower my value, he'd said. That's why he'd quickly buttered me up and told me not to compete in amateur fights next year.
A guy like Brown, who wanted me this badly—he just needed to build some patience. All this bullshit was just to get his attention anyway.
Next year, boxing would count as adult-level too... but I had no intention of doing it. Still, I wasn't planning to waste a whole year. I knew a reporter named Bruce Newman had set up his own studio in San Francisco. I was lined up for a spot there.
The next day, I headed to AKT and drilled wrestling with Dominic. These days, nobody batted an eye if I only did wrestling. I was the only one who could satisfy him.
Unlike me, bouncing around youth tournaments, Dominic was AKT's cash cow right now. Sure, he pinned me every time, but that was just muscle difference—nothing I could do about it. If I'd had heavyweight size, I'd have shown him what Human Press really meant.
Even with protective gear to avoid cauliflower ears, my ears throbbed badly.
"Quit whining about your ears like a little bitch."
"What? I'm just trying not to end up with ears like yours."
I pulled out a sterilized knife and jabbed deep. Everyone freaked out. I drained the pooled blood and packed it neatly with medicated cotton.
"......"
They went dead silent watching me slice into fresh flesh to drain the blood. No more "man up" bullshit.
"T-Tetanus, you psycho!"
"Already got the shot, and everything's sterilized. Slice like this, and it'll heal by tomorrow."
"Heal by tomorrow after cutting your flesh?"
I just shrugged at Dominic's question and glanced at him in the mirror.
"I heal fast. Dad said he did the same thing."
Dad had cauliflower ears now. But back when he was courting Mom, he'd drain blood from his ears every time, or so he said. My recovery was so insane, it spawned conspiracy theories about U.S. military human experiments. Plus, my skin was thick—didn't tear easy.
"Still, I'll skip wrestling tomorrow. Can't have weird-shaped ears."
"Why's this dude so obsessed with looks?"
"Mom might ban me from fighting."
"......"
They shut up the second I finished speaking. Guess I gave off too much young master vibes.
Later, I moved gyms for boxing, and Whittaker came over to me.
"Just join AKT already."
"Huh? Why?"
"Feels like I'm blocking your path. Honestly, you got anything left to learn from me?"
Even before regression, I'd trained under Whittaker steadily. He'd seen my style plenty.
"You've got the talent to be a four-belt undisputed champ, but you say no."
"Nah, not that much."
"Bullshit, it's overflowing. If I'd fought you at 20 like you are now, I wouldn't last a round—I'm sure of it."
No words for that.
"Go on, to AKT."
"Not going."
"Why?"
"I've got secret weapons. Skills I've honed solo. Don't wanna tip them off to those guys."
"Huh?"
I flashed Whittaker a grin.
"They'll all be rivals eventually. Gotta keep my weaknesses hidden."
"You psycho... stabbing teammates in the back?"
"Not stabbing—just avoid if we're tight."
"Sigh."
"Soon I'll hire you as my pro coach, Master."
Colin showed up, soaked in sweat from all-day training. He was in the corner watching my fight footage.
"...What're you watching."
"Wanna be my fan? Why watch my fights so much?"
"Fuck off."
"What's your beef now?"
I'd gotten real close with Colin, seven years my senior. His physicals matched anyone, and he trained like a maniac—I had to respect it. His punches would turn anything to mush, like Doraemon's fist. Hard puncher forged in the fire.
"I wanted to be the strongest too."
"Outta nowhere?"
"But seeing you? Nah, not happening."
He stood, fired up again.
"Couldn't sleep after losing to an elementary kid. Beat by a brat like you."
"..."
"And it wouldn't change now. Fucking sucks."
He was genuinely pissed at himself, fists clenched like he'd swing any second.
"Still... gotta be better than brats like you at boxing, right?"
Colin spat solid gold. First impression: total thug. Now? Pure athlete. Boxing suited guys like him.
"That's why they say beatings make you better?"
"...What? The random Korean threw him off."
"Next fight's in August, yeah? When?"
"August."
"I'll watch. Show me then."
After training, I got home and checked my YouTube views. Popularity was surging. I'd hooked Koreans on WFC. Hell, I was famous in the Becker family now—fighting prodigy grandson or nephew. Amateur talk was inevitable at my age. Body not fully grown yet.
I turned in early, obediently. Stamina overflowed, but I never pushed durability. Stimulated muscles? Yoga to release, on repeat. Future me trained more scientifically—custom routine for my style and body. AKT's brute methods didn't fit my young frame yet. They eased up on me 'cause of age. Basement sandbag sessions solo.
Time passed, and I headed to Bruce's studio. Height hit 195cm, still growing slow. Probably no big difference from pre-regression.
Suited up, sitting in the studio. Bruce grinned at me.
"Honored to have you on."
"Nah, honor's mine for making it."
YouTube blew him up lately. Guess that's how he became WFC specialist.
"No way. You don't know how big you are in fighting circles?"
"Me?"
"Amateur KOs inside 30 seconds. Face-changing shots? They're calling you an extreme hard puncher. Where's that power from?"
Why they called me Human Press: bone thickness. Pre-regression, 5XL gloves; now tight, eyeing 6XL.
"Hand size?"
"Everyone thought your arms were skinny. Show us?"
We extended arms to camera. Looked thin, low muscle, but next to normal-guy Bruce? 1.5x thicker.
"People who've seen your frame in person? 'Insane' is the word. Even on tape, your build screams different from opponents."
Age gap showed: them pudgy, me skinny.
"Aiming light heavy, but this frame? Maybe heavyweight."
"Your frame fits heavy better. Why stick to light heavy?"
"Double champ."
"...Wow."
Casual slip, but hit hard. A 16-year-old talking double champs? Absurd.
Bruce played my fight clips short.
"This okay to air?"
"WFC approved it."
"I'm not WFC yet?"
"IMMAF gets WFC backing—open org."
We watched. Paused on flying knee.
"Knee to a grappler? You prepped, right?"
"Confident in accuracy. Even if down, I got this. Low risk, high reward."
"Perfect. Explains the hype—WFC's grappler-eaten."
"Strikes? Instinct counters. Elites defend on experience alone. Grappling? No instinct."
He leaned in.
Podcast newbie, but pro vibes. Knew his future—makes sense he succeeds.
"No grappling knowledge? MMA ceiling."
"Plenty strikers."
"Hard grapplers eat 'em."
"Ooh, striker kid hyping grappling?"
"Facts. Grappling's kinda gay too, and boring to watch—wastes money. No wonder grapplers suck in popularity."
"...Wow."
Raw talk, Bruce glanced around. Vet reporter, figured it's fine. I'd heard it all as Human Press. Knew grapplers' sore spots—and itches.
"Only thing worth learning despite the shit: grappling..."
"O-okay, topic change?"
Spicier than expected—he cut me off. Showed smash uppercut.
"This smash uppercut... from your master, right?"
Smash uppercut. Whittaker's go-to knockdown move.
"My mentor too."
"Heard you sought him out."
Knew too much. Pre-regression memory. But Whittaker's my mentor, unchanged.
"His boxing lets me get perfect."
"Cocky as hell."
Nothing proven yet. Beating kids? Embarrassing to brag. Still, shrugged at camera.
"Watch and see. What I got from the undisputed champ. How Whittaker's student became the 'Monster'."