They Called Him Street Trash
They said I was street trash. The next day, I was in the locker room waiting with Whittaker, Colin, and Tahar. Austin was 186cm tall, so Tahar proved to be a huge help. He broke down everything from basic Muay Thai movements to the habit of trying to grab kicks with your hands.
The inspector referee came to fetch me. Thanks to him, we stopped sparring and ran through one of my routines—hitting the bathroom. As my entrance music hit and I stepped into the arena, the cheers exploded differently this time, ringing out sharp and electric.
I cupped my right hand to my ear, soaking in the roar. "Monster! Monster!!!" The mic work hadn't been cutting it before, but looks like I worried for nothing. My popularity was hitting that tipping point where it climbs on its own.
Hand still to my ear, I pointed at the camera with my other hand's fingers and nodded. Back before my regression, my ring name was Human Press. I'd earned it turning opponents into vegetables with jiu-jitsu. Got a ton of shit for having no respect for fellow fighters, too... This time around, maybe it was the striking focus? Or just the sheer cockiness? Either way, with fans overwhelmingly on my side now, it felt damn good.
The cheers swelled louder as I approached the Octagon. Just three fights in, and the calls for me were already surpassing my pre-regression peak. This chant pounding my heart got me hyped as hell.
"Monster! Monster!" Was this the vibe when generals stepped forward for single combat in ancient wars? The crowd spread out like a backdrop beside the Octagon started looking like ranks of soldiers to me.
As I fixed my eyes on the Octagon, the ref spoke up. "You're consistent, kid."
"We've only known each other a few years—already calling me consistent?"
It was the familiar face of the inspector ref I'd only just noticed. I smeared on the Vaseline, stepped inside, and loosened up. Far off, Austin was making his entrance to his music.
The ring announcer hyped me up. Matching his rhythm and breath out of habit, I shook out my arms and felt the muscles twitch. Then I flowed through my usual routine.
"The Kooo~ rean Mooo~ nster!!!"
"Huuuuh." Camera locked, arms wide, lungs maxed with air—oxygen rushed my brain. My body screamed peak condition.
Austin's intro wrapped, and at the ref's call, we met in the center. He ran down the rules, but we just stared each other down, unblinking. We backed to the fence, and with his "Fight!" we closed in.
I offered the glove touch; Austin dodged back without it. He glared like he wanted to kill me over yesterday's scrape, so I flashed a grin. That fire in him amped my focus.
Closing distance, he jabbed to gauge range. Starting with a low kick like Tahar predicted, so I checked it and whipped a high kick right after.
Crack! He blocked and grabbed for my leg—classic Tahar intel on his habits. As he released, I drove my foot deep and snapped a punch; he over-backpedaled out of range.
WFC fighters came with baseline reaction speed, no doubt. Since he was just beyond punch range, I fired another high kick with my left.
Thud! Muay Thai loves catching kicks then sweeping the other leg for humiliation. Austin was gunning for that on me, constantly hunting my legs. He snagged my left with his hand to delay the pullback.
I spun my body, loaded rotation, jumped—and slammed a spinning back kick into his jaw.
Wham!!! The sole connected perfectly. Just in case, I landed ready to fight. Turning back, Austin was frozen stiff like a taser hit, collapsing in slow motion.
Thud!
"...!!!"
Silence. The hush from 20,000 in this massive space threw me off. The ref rushed the downed Austin to check him. Then the roar erupted.
"Wooooaaah!!!"
Not a planned move. With a low kick incoming on my plant foot, obvious as hell, I jumped to bait the grab and spun it into a wheel kick. Pure show-off flex.
The commentary team was on their feet, heads in hands, stunned. Didn't see the impact myself, but perfect finish—I spat out my mouthpiece and tossed it.
If every fight ended this quick, did I even need to worry about aftermath? Meanwhile, Whittaker and Colin below sparkled with excitement. Guess today's performance blew their minds.
Service for the fans who came to see me. I mimed pulling a gun from my abs tattoo, struck a perfect stance, and pretend-executed Austin.
"Bang~"
"What the hell!!! What was that kick!!!"
Brown in the distance stared like a man in love. Arms wide, I basked in the endless cheers.
Austin stirred, realizing he'd been KO'd—biting his lip, slamming the mat with his fist.
"Wooooaaah!!!"
Chants unrelenting; the ceiling screen replayed my back kick—perfect timing, dead-on jaw. Seeing it, the ref climbed up. He grabbed my arm and declared the KO win.
I grinned like a maniac at the camera, shaking my head wild. Then hugged Whittaker and Colin as they rushed in. Tahar hung back watching, so I pulled him in too.
"You helped a ton."
"Haha... Glad to hear it."
Still bugged he picked Dominic over me? Whatever, I didn't care.
Next, mic in hand, announcer John Logan entered the Octagon. "Insane! That KO's going down in WFC history! What the hell was that kick!"
"Taekwondo. Every Korean boy learns it before they walk."
"That kick!? Before walking? Bullshit."
I shrugged; he slung an arm around me, thrilled. WFC brass loving me? Crystal clear now.
"So boxing base was a lie. Two kick KOs already."
"My record's boxing-based, yeah."
"Alright, ready for top 10?"
"From the day I stepped here till I retire, I'll prove it my whole career. Prove my bloodline's the strongest on earth. Till no one can deny I'm the planet's best."
"Kuhahaha!"
Laughter mixed with cheers. Then Light Heavyweight #7 Callum Drake yelled from the side. "Suckling bitch! I'll smash you flat!"
Perfect camera angle, his spot, storyline gold. I strolled, then sprinted and vaulted—vaulted the fence one-handed easy.
Thud! Crowd gasped at the insane leap height. Smaller guys usually climbed it. Seeing I was bigger than expected, cheers ramped up.
"Wanna prove it now?"
"You got the balls, pussy?"
I launched at Callum. Chaos erupted; they pried us apart. No actual punches landed.
"Wooooaaah!!!!!"
Trading curses, dragged off by security—I grinned at Callum and flipped him the bird.
Back in the locker room, Brown stormed in stone-faced. "Jesus, no. What the hell was that!?"
"Hype."
"You crazy fuck..."
"Uncle. Why'd WWF dominate an era and get famous?"
"..."
"Stories drive hype straight to the bank. You think I built ticket power just to catch your eye? The bad boy's wild shit is cliché gold. Folks will hunt a hero to 'teach' this one-of-a-kind punk a lesson."
Brown rubbed his temple, shaking his head with a sigh. "You wouldn't get it. The blood and cash we poured into branding this a legit sport."
"But people crave raw fights too. Not point-chasing kickboxing sport?"
"..."
"Say the word, I'll stop. Just overdid it for hype."
He rubbed his forehead, face hard. "Blackmailing me now?"
"Nah. Better idea."
"...? Spill."
"Fine me hard."
"What...?"
"Call it fight money payback. 'This lunatic's wrecking our rules. WFC seeks a real fighter to school him.' Own the narrative."
Brown grinned ear-to-ear. "Sure you won't get schooled?"
"Know my style? AKT crew I trained with doesn't."
"..."
"Secret: Dad's a jiu-jitsu guy. Taekwondo from first steps? Jiu-jitsu before that."
I grinned; his eyes lit with anticipation.
"And boxing? Self-taught from when I could run."
He clutched his forehead, chuckling madly. "Think I'll lose?"
"Crazy, right? I'm the real mad dog."
He handed over the Fight of the Night bonus cash stack, offered a handshake. His gaze totally shifted—satisfied smirk as he left.