The Korean Monster's Debut
I'm the type who offers solutions rather than sympathy. With three months until my debut, I kicked off serious training to hit my weight class. That was the essence of the WFC—and its most grueling part. To deliver those twenty-five minutes or less to the crowd, you burn through endless hours.
I'd been tense, remembering my pre-regression workouts. But this time, I truly felt what a teenage body was like. Even when it should've been wrecked, a thirty-minute nap left me refreshed like I'd slept a full day. And those underdeveloped muscles? They shed weight like nothing—dropped it fast. Starting at a walking weight of 104kg, I aimed for 98kg, but nailed it in just two weeks. No need to push too hard after that; I focused on adapting to 98kg while grinding.
Another edge my body had came during water cuts. Even draining over 14kg of water, I'd never rebounded or suffered side effects. Sure, that was dropping from 134kg to 120kg. But overdoing it on this young frame could mean trouble later, so while competing in light heavyweight, I planned to cap water cuts at under 5kg.
Two weeks before the fight. We landed in Japan, and my head coach Whittaker and kickboxing coach Tahar showed up. Colin was lurking in the corner with a sulky look.
"Yo~"
They'd come all the way to Japan for my fight—pretty damn impressive. My crew greeted my dad, who'd flown with me.
"Nice to meet you all."
"You don't look much like Leon."
"My boy's got his mom's looks, yeah."
Dad had come to help with training. No grappling planned for this one, but I aimed for perfection, so we drilled it anyway. Watching him smother me with jiu-jitsu, everyone muttered, "Yeah, that's his real dad."
Time passed, and we handled the WFC schedule. Not that there was much—staff didn't bother with me. In the future, even no-names got interviews, but not now. Barely any media exposure; it was just the bare minimum to announce a debutant like me was fighting.
The day before weigh-ins, I started my water cut. 3.5kg was a breeze for me, so I took it easy. On the day, I slipped into my custom tiger compression shorts and stepped on the scale.
Debutants like me usually had zero cameras. Unknowns got rushed through. But my efforts weren't wasted—already, a bunch of Koreans and Japanese cheered my entrance.
We hadn't even hyped me yet...
"Monster! Monster! Korean Monster!"
My first real fans, tracking me down here. I memorized their faces and pulled air up from my danjeon.
"Let's gooooo!!!!!"
My roar caught everyone off guard—bigger than I thought. Then the cheers kicked in late.
"Waaaaaaah!"
I stuck out my tongue playfully, flexing my dry muscle. That's when the flashes from the press exploded.
Rehydrated, and by evening, my body was plump and firm again. Youth really was broken—recovery was on another level from pre-regression.
—I ain't never gone past one minute in a real fight. I'm ending this in the first round's opening bell. Bet it all on me.
I hadn't proven much. But Thierry had stacked hard-punch knockouts in the French circuit. No wonder I was the underdog. My last fight was a year ago—an amateur bout.
Buzzing with excitement, I crashed hard. Stuffed belly for once; sleep came easy.
Next day, fueled up and loosened up proper.
"Kid must've slept like a rock."
"I pulled all-nighters before my debut, but this guy's mental game's insane."
Just for sleeping well? Nothing to say to that. Dad chuckled, slapping my back.
"Nervous?"
"Nah~"
"You ain't coming back beat to hell, right?"
"What d'you think? I look like the type to eat punches?"
"Your mom's boycotting the fight—won't even glance. But watch your SNS. Blocked you on her phone, but not Harin."
"Got it."
Lucky Mom hadn't caught on, but Dad must've been shocked by my filthy trash talk. Shame she skipped Japan, though. Pre-regression, I'd shown her nothing but failure...
In the locker room, light spar with Tahar. His kickboxing specialty shone—mimicking Thierry's moves perfectly. Hard punchers aren't born; they build it in the muscle twitch. Thierry swung risky haymakers for that one-shot kill. Tahar aped the habit, firing an overhand.
I slipped easy, countering. Mixed in body mid kicks too.
Time up, the inspector ref came in, asking if I was ready. Fifteen minutes till go-time.
WFC... my dream stage, right there. Heart pounding like I was finally tensing up.
Routine pit stop—emptied everything—then out light as air. My requested walkout, "Kon West – POWER," bumped outside. Nodding to the beat, Taekwooki draped, I stretched walking in.
Arena packed, roaring hot. Spotted the massive entrance cam mid-stride. Threw a light jab, halted an overhand right inches from the lens. Flashed a cocky grin, nodded, kept moving. The showmanship amped the cheers thicker.
Undercard no-name, unrelated to main event—yet folks chanted my ring name.
"Monster! Monster!"
The octagon wasn't flashy like amateurs—nope, totally different. My dream, dead ahead. Just climb those stairs.
I'd waited forever for this. Dry patience, not one drop to quench my thirst. Regressed, rolled like a maniac to summit that cage.
"This bastard... worse than before."
Ref's voice snapped me straight. Faced front—the same inspector from IMMAF, sighing.
"I'm a fan, kid. Go show 'em."
"Refs allowed to say that?"
"Who gives a shit? I'm inspector only—no scoring."
Refs vary: 'referee' inside, 'judges' outside scoring. This guy's pure inspector—no points touched.
He eyed my 6XL open-finger gloves, grinning.
"Damn... still vicious."
"Obviously."
Barserolined my face, then fist-bumped Dad, Whittaker, Tahar, Colin. Into the arena.
"Fuckin' hell..."
"What!?"
Whittaker and Dad startled at my curse.
"Heart's jackhammering. Kinda gotta piss. We'll wrap in one."
"Crazy fuck... don't get cocky."
Cocky? After waiting this long? No dumbass slip-ups. That was certainty.
Colin stared, eyes sparkling—like witnessing my dreamed stage firsthand.
His gaze calmed my pulse. Shook out my arms habitually, checked the muscle. Into the octagon, squatted, gripped fence, rolled shoulders. Cam caught it; I worked my jaw, smirked.
Then Thierry entered to his walkout, face hardening. Glaring murder as he stepped in. His kill-lust blackened the edges.
Nothing like amateurs. Felt every breath... yeah, that kiddie stuff never satisfied.
Everything but Thierry and the cage vanished. Crowd noise cut. Saw myself mirrored in his pupils.
"Haa..."
Peak focus sharpened senses raw. Air hit lungs straight to brain. Finally, breath sank deep.
Ref called center. Thierry glared up, stone-faced.
"Little bitch. You're dying here."
Heart pumped at his words. Dying... if you pick the spot, make it the octagon. If you've got the skill... kill me.
"Heh."
My hyped-up grin spooked him—flinched. Crushed to smash that victory-sure face.
Quick rules rundown. Back to corners as lights dimmed, ref lit up again.
"Fight!"
Advanced center, glove-touch out—nope, he backed off silent. Grinned. Fine, you play villain? No manners from me.