Front Kick Annihilation
I prefer offering solutions over sympathy. I like entering the WFC Octagon first. My routine's pretty long anyway, and it feels weird having a stranger invade my territory. But sometimes, barging in like this isn't half bad. Bruno was looking down at me with pure arrogance.
I wanted to turn those eyes—the gaze of prey about to be devoured from the tail up—starting from the farthest point from his head. That desire burned in my mind as I took a deep breath to oxygenate my heating body. The roaring cheers made my heart race even faster.
"Suuuup..."
"Hands."
The referee checked my gloves for issues, clearly startled by the thickness of my fingers on first sight. Even among heavyweights, bones as thick as mine are rare. After inspecting my gloves, he applied Vaseline to my face.
As I stepped into the octagon, I locked eyes with Bruno, who was still staring me down. I shook out my arms, feeling the muscles ripple. My body was in peak condition today, just like always. I grabbed the cage, squatted down, and loosened my shoulders—one of my standard routines. Brown would have neutralized his grappling, but I wasn't letting my guard down. To become a legend, everything had to be flawless, zero risks.
"Huuu."
With my routine done, the announcer introduced us.
"This is a light heavyweight three-round bout!!! Pro record: 1 win, 0 losses! Height 195cm, weight 93.8kg..."
Anyone who loves the WFC knows that voice. It pumps you up. I rolled my shoulders, found my rhythm, walked forward while glaring at Bruno.
"From Seoul, Republic of Korea~ The Ko~rean~ MoooOnster!!!"
""Waaaaaah!!!""
I struck a pose, flexing my muscles like I was showing off to the arrogant crowd. The intro wrapped up, the announcer backed off, and the ref called us to the center. He tucked his arm under the announcer's, mic in hand.
Today, my focus felt off. Normally, I wouldn't notice those little details... Guess I was underestimating my opponent too much.
As I closed in on Bruno, the fire in his eyes stimulated me. The crisis sense that he could snag my ankle hit hard—my ankle throbbed, the periphery went dark. Bright lights, the smell of sweat hitting my nose, the crowd's heat on my skin... The ref hadn't waved us off yet, but we backed to our corners.
"Fight!!!"
I strolled forward casually, extending my hand. Bruno touched gloves. Wrestling base—he hunched low, ready to shoot anytime. So I fired a light jab.
Pang!
Even an unranked WFC fighter is still WFC. He reacted to my jab, raising his guard. But seeing a punch swing like mine for the first time? His eyes went wide.
"What? Kinda different, huh?"
Normally I'd check with a kick, but I wasn't ready to show my full kicking arsenal yet. As Bruno flapped his mouth and raised his guard, I slammed a straight into his arm.
Crack!
He must've prepped for it—Bruno swung back simultaneously. The overhand came deeper than expected, so I hopped back like a frog.
"Now! Shoot!"
His coach's call. Bruno dropped even lower, prepping the takedown. But the distance I created threw off his timing—he couldn't close easily.
It reminded me of those old taekwondo guys back when front kicks weren't famous in Korea. Nobody uses front kicks now, so he's confidently sticking his face in my range like that.
Definitely... In this era, grapplers have zero striking defense. They just eat shots and try to fold you in half.
Bruno hunted another opening. I feinted like I was jabbing again—he raised guard. I yanked my upper body back; thinking I was retreating, his guard opened. That's when I snapped a front kick up through the gap like an uppercut.
Smaaaack!
An angle he never saw coming. The kick's destructive power—totally unlike a punch—dropped him without knowing what hit him. Eyes wide open, out cold. Looked deader than dead.
I hadn't even been locked in. No need to pound out a guy already done. I shrugged arrogantly, palm open wide.
""Waaaaaah!!!""
The ref flew in after the crowd's roar, checking the KO'd Bruno. The commentary team was clutching their heads. The fight lasted under 15 seconds. I spat out my mouthpiece, tossed it back, and hit the crowd with my signature ceremony. Left index finger pointing at them, hand grabbing the Desert Eagle tattoo grip tucked in my pants.
"Common! Comoooon!!!"
""Common! Common!!""
One shout started it, and the whole place chanted my ring name. Yeah, this life's ring name was Monster. Nice ring to it. I cupped my ear, flashed a grin.
"You crazy fuck!!!"
Whittaker, hyped up, slamming the cage fence. Clang!
"You fucker! Why didn't you tell me you had a kick like that?!"
"Now everyone'll copy it."
"You goddamn insane bastard!"
That's why fighters don't use it much. Same reason as no deep kicks—shins get wrecked blocking elbows, tons of guys ruined that way. Unless you've got pinpoint accuracy, you don't even try.
The ref climbed in, raised my hand with the KO call.
""Waaaaaah!!!""
Then John Logan grabbed the mic, bounding up excitedly.
"Another young gun, huh?"
"Nice to meet you."
"What the hell was that kick? We all shit ourselves! Thought Bruno's head was gonna detach."
"Just a basic front kick you learn as a kid in Korea."
"They teach that in Korea?"
"Every Korean fighter knows it. It's the first self-defense kick you learn there."
"Holy shit! Hard to believe!"
He looked genuinely shocked. Crowd loved it, so John Logan, buzzing, fired the next question.
"People thought you'd lose again, no ranking shot. Your take?"
"They'll always wonder. Can that kid really beat this guy?"
"Ooh..."
"All you doubting fucks who think I'll lose? Confirmed: you're all retarded."
Cheers exploded before I finished. John Logan grinned, scanning the arena.
"Is this youth? The confidence on this guy is nuts!"
""Waaaaaah!!!""
Young-hoon watched the octagon cheers from inside, eyes hungry. No need to ask—he wanted this spot bad. I soaked in the roar, then headed to the locker room with Whittaker and Young-hoon.
Brown waited in the locker. Whittaker dragged Young-hoon out. Brown showed two envelopes again.
"Fight of the Night? Already?"
He smirked, nodded.
"That kick hit my neck from here. Plenty of fans felt it too. Even if you don't win it, that kick was worth it."
"Rent's due at the folks' place."
"Kuhaha. Kid acts so nonchalant—must be the fat stacks. Got a sec to talk?"
"Sure. Next contract?"
"Among other things."
Serious eyes on me.
"What exactly do you want?"
"Number one on the planet."
"...Sounds like you're dead set on dominating heavyweight too."
"Yeah, well. Still growing, usual weight's 105kg."
"Next contract's exclusive. Thinking a fight in January—cool?"
"Sooner the better. But another unranked?"
"You already got #12."
They don't usually tell you pre-fight? Didn't know WFC's system back then. I nodded, sipped water.
"Still gotta do one more unranked."
"Win and #10 minimum?"
"Depends on opponent, but yeah, at least #10."
"Sweet. Book 'em often. Running 25 seconds a year is bullshit."
Brown chuckled, nodded.
"Fight's done—go enjoy the party, kid."
He clapped my shoulder, left. Changed clothes, grabbed Young-hoon and Whittaker to watch Alaway's fight. After, the three of us hit a hot restaurant, sliced into steaks. We boarded a bus to San Francisco. Whittaker hates wasting on planes.
20-hour bus hell nearly made me puke... but Whittaker pillow-necked and crashed like it was normal. Young-hoon seemed thrilled at first—new experience, American desert views got him hyped. But flying would've been 2 hours; this was torture. Should've grabbed a book.
Scrolled SNS a bit, then slept proper. Young-hoon, the idiot, didn't get what 20 hours meant—15 hours in, he looked half-dead. I'd survived worse; bus to New York once. Still, tougher than fighting.
Whittaker just hates planes, I think. Some bullshit about mental state. Back in his prime, tickets were pricey maybe. Pre-regression, I forced him on one—he loved 'em after. Young-hoon was curious this time, but no bus repeat.