Young-hoon's Debut Knockout and Press Conference Chaos
Street rat, my ass. As Adam staggered away with his forehead split open, I drove in deeper and unloaded a barrage of punches. Just as I'd predicted, Adam's backstep was trash, so he kept eating Young-hoon's punches. He couldn't even keep his balance, so instead of attacking, he opted for pure defense. Young-hoon stuck to him like glue, relentlessly hammering away with punch after punch. When a guy's got no offensive drive like that, you could just shove his shoulder and topple him—but Young-hoon didn't have that kind of savvy yet. Hell, he didn't even have the stamina or power to waste shots on the guard. He threw punches until he pinned Adam against the fence, then—as planned—slammed one into the body. Thwack! The problem? True to his weak-ass physique, the body shot didn't seem to do jack damage.
But Adam, taking the hit to the body, ducked his head for a takedown to turn the tables. Pinned against the fence, lowering his head shifted his entire center of gravity forward. Young-hoon, like he'd been waiting for this exact moment, drove a precise knee right into Adam's face. Crack! He stepped back, reloading his fists as he retreated. Adam crumpled to the mat like a puppet with its strings cut. The ref rushed in and shoved Young-hoon away as he gasped for breath. The guy's only got two pro fights under his belt, but damn—this had to be a perfect debut, right? Young-hoon didn't even go for ground-and-pound like I would've. Nor did he check on his opponent. He just stood there, staring up at the arena lights. Then he slowly clenched both fists tight.
"Raaagh!!!"
"Woooaaah!!!"
The crowd roared at Young-hoon's primal scream. If only his voice were a bit louder and deeper. Even when I tell him to relax, he always uses polite speech and does everything I say—I was starting to think he had a ton of estrogen. But maybe this is his real self?
"The kid's a dude after all."
"Yeah."
I'd drilled wrestling defense into him just in case, but it never came up. Hell, maybe skipping it was a blessing. The ref waved us in, so Whittaker, Tahar, and I stepped into the octagon. That's when I spotted Brown sitting way in the back. Guess he got curious since I said it was my disciple. When I tilted my head like, what do you think? he shot me a thumbs-up.
We carted Young-hoon off to the hospital after his debut win. Get this—the idiot had a hairline fracture in his finger. If he were a hard puncher and broke it, I'd get it, but he barely did any damage with his fists. My guess? It cracked when he uppercut Adam's forehead like he was chopping wood. Basically, Adam headbutted Young-hoon's fist. A knot swelled up right where Adam blocked punches with his forehead. I never imagined a body that fragile, like some bug.
"Idiot, I taught you how to slip shots, and you go bashing your head into them."
"I-I was sure they were punches I could tank... and I didn't want to miss another chance."
"You did good."
Young-hoon doesn't dominate with reach like me. Even with good eyes, his counter timing's sloppy. Fighting has a rhythm, but he doesn't have his own yet. So unlike me, wading in while eating shots is his best bet—but with bug-like durability, that's a problem.
"Even if you slip, I can guess where you'll be. You're still young—what if your durability shatters?"
"..."
"Keep throwing low kicks and your shin'll snap first."
"Sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
He flinched at my cocked head and sudden apology.
"I knew training too hard builds fatigue and makes me snap easy."
"Yeah."
"And don't apologize anywhere else. Especially not over weird shit."
"...Got it."
Still, gotta give him props for those overwhelming eyes. Of course, we'll see against strikers.
The house Uncle Jake set up was in Atherton. A bit far from Might's place, but not too distant from Grandpa's estate. Next up for me: WFC Fight Night 29. Main event against Malloy in Vegas next month. Not sure if I'm still growing or what, but my walk-around's 107kg even cutting. Aiming for 98kg.
Young-hoon toured the finished interior with his casted arm.
"Second floor's gym equipment. Train there once you're healed."
"Got it. What's this? For fish?"
He stared at the massive aquarium you'd see in a public exhibit.
"Gonna put training facilities in it."
"This... is a training setup?"
"Design's not done—experience it later."
Nearly 5m deep monster tank. Cost a fortune to build that training pool.
"Birthday passed?"
"Yeah."
"Get your license when we hit Korea. Let's shop."
We loaded the car with bulk meat and veggies from the mart and headed home. Young-hoon needs to focus on recovery. I did light solo training, gave him a guest room, and napped in mine. Sparring with Colin and Young-hoon, wrestling sessions—time flew. No need to beef with Malloy on SNS. Folks were already calling him "Keyring Melon," the nickname I coined. Like auto-farming hate. He scraped alone to provoke me, but I ignored it all. October rolled in, and we flew to Vegas. Acclimation training, then pre-fight presser. Hit 98kg—now just water cut 4kg. Process still exhausts me. Even if the octagon proves I'm alive, getting there sucks. Might as well fight longer, I thought.
Entered the presser to cheers from some. Definitely a rising star now. Grabbed the mic, pointed to a raised hand.
"What do you think Kieran Malloy's weakness is?"
"Who? Keyring Melon?"
Malloy bristled right off the bat.
"I've never bothered analyzing an opponent's weaknesses."
"Your YouTube says otherwise—you break down habits every time."
Analyzing and prepping's standard. Even drilled with Tahar mimicking him, discussed tactics. But my secret weapon calf kick? Saving that for our champ.
"Felt it against Callum. Didn't wanna waste my precious four months."
"Monkey boy's talking human, so I listened once. Won't again."
This guy's impulse control is nuts. Straight to racism... That's why I dodged trash talk on SNS. Dude looks like he won't listen—pure waste. Clash back and my image tanks.
"Speak proper English or shut up. Can't talk better than me? You even American?"
"Seeing your disrespectful ass, guess your dickhead mom didn't raise you right. But you're young—I'll teach you personally in the octagon."
"No mom, so you keep dragging others'? Keep it up and you'll drop dead."
Pulling diva act on SNS, but my ignores hit hardest. He smirked at my glare.
"Scary? Tiny body birthing a scary fuck like you—must've miscarried the second."
Full pad joke structure. Street rat with spicy mouth.
I lunged from my seat, but Brown and others held me back.
Mentally? Zero damage. Korean gamers spew worse. But if Mom hears this trash talk, I'm fucked. Gotta overreact to dodge her scolding. I hurled the table mic at Malloy. Bang!
Screeeeech—
"Hold it!!! Hold!!!"
"Hey!!! Grab him!"
"Shit, what strength...!"
Presser ended fast amid my chaos. Brown skipped visiting—maybe disappointed. Mic toss looks like emotional kid shit. Opposite: hype for main event exploded. Folks who liked my talk saw me as unhinged brat over parent insults. Malloy stole spotlight too—racism to family digs. Haters galore, but buzz is buzz. Atmosphere's fine by me. Curious for my "angry" performance. US/Korea forums split: Malloy execution or my bubble bursts.
Tahar flinched at my bike-riding grin.
"You okay? Seemed too emotional."
"Yeah? But saw the hype? Washes my Callum image hit—perfect cleanse."
"..."
He eyed me like a psycho. Realized mic toss was performance. Not an idiot—I'd land it point-blank.
"Hmm... Pin 'family insults make next fight brutal' image? Foes'll bait with mom jabs for clicks."
"You really... psychopath?"
"Gotta build fame, duh? 'Boy protects family'... wholesome vibe?"
"Telling Whittaker."
Tahar bolted to Whittaker like I had cooties.