From Ringside Wisdom to First-Class Fate
That kind of mistake was forgivable. Since Colin's fight came first, I stood in the coaches' corner alongside Whittaker. Colin, the ultimate infighter, faced off against another brawler. From the very first round, he struggled hard. Maybe it was his first time against someone with the same style—despite having the edge, Colin's face looked grim.
"Woooaaah!"
I'd never seen anyone exchange punches like maniacs right from round one in a boxing match. The crowd roared with cheers at the explosive start. I worried their durability might wear down like that.
"What the hell are you doing? Stay calm!!!"
Whittaker's shouts fell on deaf ears. When the round ended, he hustled a chair into the ring and sat Colin down.
"You idiot! Feels like I'm watching a circus tightrope act."
"Huff... huff."
"Your breathing's all fucked—why are you rushing like this?"
Whittaker was better at critique than straight MMA coaches, but he skipped too much detail. No time mid-fight to piece it together solo. That's why he was a failed coach. I'd reflected on his words myself, but Colin, unfamiliar with it, couldn't.
Only the head coach could enter the ring, so I leaned on the ropes, ducking low to lock eyes with him. Colin glanced my way too—must've needed translation for Whittaker's advice.
"Dumbass. If you're gonna fight like that, why drag your sorry ass here? Go brawl in some alley."
"......"
"You said you'd never eat shots like that again. Was that just empty talk?"
Whittaker's words probably went in one ear and out the other, but he bit his lip at mine.
"Counter overhand's solid when you're kinging it, but why are your feet parked? Trying to shoot a takedown from boxing range?"
"......"
"Keep eating counters like that, and your jaw shatters. Whittaker means don't ditch the hook—your feet and head look like they're in casts. Opponent's moving simple? Don't go full retard on it. Work your footwork, keep the head moving."
Colin nodded, eyes locked on me.
"He's not saying slow down—he means set it up. Even trading fire, don't be a brainless moron."
"Okay..."
"Smart up, and this guy's unbeatable for you. Look at him."
I stepped aside, pointing to his opponent gasping in the opposite corner.
"Gonna lose to a guy gassing after one round?"
"Hoo... Hell no."
They'd thrown way too many punches in just round one—like they were auditioning for a show.
Before the next round, Whittaker chimed in again.
"Heard his coach tell him to pace for round two."
"Hoo..."
"Like Leon said, think setups. You can finish him in two, but no heroics."
"Yep."
He glanced at me, maybe checking for hidden meaning—I shrugged.
"Wanna relearn English?"
"Fuck off."
"Means even if no finish, rack round two points for the win. Don't force it if unsure."
He must've craved my translation bad. Nodded right away at my words.
Next round, Colin executed perfectly—retaining it all showed his sneaky smarts. Whittaker eyed me.
"Why twist my words?"
"I know you meant his hook sucked today..."
He shut up, knowing I got his point crystal clear.
"But it's 'cause he's not focusing on his own hook."
I'd pushed overhand, but Colin's hook form had shifted entirely. Legs alive now too.
"Master's advice hits intuitive—ditch bad-condition hook, cuts variables."
"......"
"But telling a guy who throws hooks like art to drop it after one round? Kinda sad, personally."
Right then, Colin jabbed body, slipped, and fired a check hook. Beautiful arc slicing toward the opponent's face—my go-to combo.
Crack!
"Woooaaah!"
Nose exploded, legs buckled—crowd erupted as he crumpled. Whittaker bolted to the corner mid-chat, still scanning the foe.
"Head down!"
"Huff... huff."
"He doesn't even know what hit him. Go again."
"Yep..."
"Feed him the same one more time."
Whittaker kept it dead simple in-fight—stuck in memory. Right way, but Colin and I differed. We'd crashed from god-complex highs to rock-bottom egos. We'd take any advice to win.
Colin advanced as the ref signaled. Whittaker's fight-reading instinct? Unmatched.
Body jab, slip, uppercut—opponent blocked proper this time. Colin dove again, body shot. Opponent swung straight on habit, but Colin slipped identical timing, check hook slamming same speed.
Snap!
Jaw hit dead-on—froze like a bullet-riddled stiff, crashed out. KO win for Colin.
"Woooaaah!"
Unlike typical boxing, round one's fireworks etched in minds—the cheers said it.
Arms wide, glove pointing my way—Colin grinned. I smiled back.
"Fucking jealous."
Whittaker perked at my Korean, curious.
Congratulated Colin quick, but Diego's fight would help him too—we watched. Diego ran my guard crash tactic. Question was execution.
Andrew swayed habitually like I'd mimicked, dodging punches. Diego's left slammed full power into his guard. Straight followed—Andrew clinched on reflex. Guard crash redux.
Crunch!
Hard puncher—sound was nasty. Power dwarfed mine. Lead hand slowed sharp. Crab guard maxes guard and jab, but two head shots slowed that left clear.
No need to watch more. Momentum swung Diego hard.
"That's your guard crash?"
"Think you could pull it?"
"It helps?"
"Ask Whittaker—I never used it."
Whittaker eyed Colin while watching.
"You don't need it."
Figured as much in his eyes—useless technique.
"Needs low muscle mass first."
"Hm~"
"You made it, so asked my take?"
"Right? Or 8oz leather-gloved big mitts."
Showed Colin my 1.5x hands. He bit his lip.
Average guys half mine—Colin's solid-sized.
Diego mirrored my demo: liver shot, then straight to pained Andrew. Cheers as announcer interviewed.
Diego ignored questions, grabbed mic, pointed glove at me like Colin.
"Why not just box?"
Camera swung sudden—I shrugged. Better than part-time pay already.
Time passed; Diego spread my tales—guard crash debut, copying Andrew's step/jab in a day. My IMMAF fights resurfaced too.
Training grind flew; New Year neared. Mom ghosted over tattoo—chatted Dad, Harin, Beom-jun only. Grandpa said parents top kids, but... spine chilled.
Harin gamed eternally—plan to play with her/Beom-jun back home. Promo mine too.
Opened new YouTube: k-monster G. Goals kept me gym-focused, games sidelined. Mom wanted normal kid but dug my gaming secretly—PC bang son. Gaming inseparable.
YouTube blue ocean. Peak fame timing.
Korean Air first class—laptop out mid-flight. Pre-regression luxury ignored. No booze age, but recliner lured investment.
Edited US-recorded games first. Headset on, tunes blasting, awaited takeoff.
Sipped ordered coffee, checked phone—perfume pierced aroma, head turned. Stunning young Korean woman.
She eyed me too—mouthed, pulled my headset.
"Something wrong?"
English question, Korean reply.
"Korean here?"
Normally English-spit. Just pretty? Fake ignorance. Beauty traps flop on me. But her vibe screamed class—outfit, beauty tipping "gorgeous." Champs brought hotties, but... my age shamed, Mom birthed this?