Toying with the Challenger
He was just a downgraded version of me. It wasn't until later that the average height in WFC light heavyweight ballooned up—back then, most guys were in the low 180s. I looked down at Malloy, who was just a touch taller than Young-hoon.
"You little punk, you've got one hell of a menacing glare."
"You're dead now. Right here."
"....."
"Beg the ref to save you if you want. But keep smiling till the end."
Staring at Malloy's repulsive mug made my stomach turn, and the moment he backed away to the fence, the lights dimmed around us. Then a ref appeared in a flash, signaling the start.
"FIGHT!!!"
I took a deep breath and advanced slowly. When I offered my glove toward Malloy, he didn't even pretend to touch it—instead, he widened the distance. His refusal felt like a declaration: Don't treat me like a human. So I just stood there, smiling as I watched him.
"Fuck..."
Was he already scared of me? His skin glistened like he was sweating buckets. Malloy spat a curse, dropped into stance, and circled in slowly. The instant he entered my range, I shot out my left hand. His right arm came up at the same time, swinging with the mindset of blocking and countering. For an MMA fighter, his speed was close to Colin's.
I retracted my hand, slipped it with a duck, and drove a fist into his side.
Thwack!
"Urk!"
Malloy gritted through the pain and grabbed the back of my neck. A knee came up next, but I shoved myself deeper into his clinch and raised an elbow.
Crunch!
The unorthodox elbow that had floored Chanh Ho hyung connected, but it must not have landed clean. As I straightened my torso and twisted, I unleashed an uppercut with everything I had.
The impact sent him staggering back. I adjusted my angle toward his retreating jaw, but...
Whoosh!
Malloy barely dodged. Or maybe instinct yanked his head away. As he threw his punch and tried to pull back, I halted his retreating foot.
I stood still, watching him backpedal for a long moment. My uppercut must've grazed his nose—blood was trickling out. And his forehead was swelling grotesquely. Guess that elbow had clipped it after all.
I strode toward Malloy, who'd retreated all the way to the fence. Even from afar, he backpedaled desperately to create space.
"What're you doing?"
"Urrrrgh!"
I shrugged with both hands up, and Malloy flinched before refocusing. As he struggled to regain his composure, I lunged with a flying knee. It sliced through empty air. At this level, even if their technique sucked, their instincts were top-tier. And his power output was way beyond what I'd expected, juiced up on whatever he was on.
As he swung at me up close, I raised my hands to block.
Thud!
His punch hit heavier than anticipated, rocking my upper body. My stance crumbled, letting a middle kick sail in. To disrupt his flow, I forced a knee up into a kick catch.
Crack!!
I caught it with my knee, and still, the vibration rattled my bones. Before regression, no one kicked this hard unless they wanted their shin snapped in two.
As expected, Malloy couldn't plant his right foot and wobbled. I pressed forward with a left jab; he barely slipped it, so I followed deep with a straight.
Crunch!
Malloy clapped a hand to his nose and limped away like he was fleeing. Pulling distance like this was basically running.
"Come in."
"...!"
"Don't run—come in!!!"
I stabbed a finger at the mat and roared. Suddenly, the crowd erupted.
"Wooooah!!!"
Malloy's eyes shifted to those of prey sensing its doom. I fired a left jab; he slipped it weakly, so I drove a straight deep into the canvas.
He twisted his head to let it slide, but blood poured from his nose on impact. Spatial awareness gone, he crashed into the fence. I methodically stabbed punches into him.
Pok! Pok!
Even amid this, he slipped some and blocked the lethal shots—definitely a cut above. But the skill gap was crystal clear. His grotesquely swollen forehead split open, blood gushing everywhere. And still, he swung back at me.
A punch from that stance could still be dangerous in light heavyweight. So I ducked into infighting posture, guarding my side while whipping a horizontal right elbow.
Slice!
His opposite forehead gashed deep on impact. I created space, twisted toward his nose, and drilled a spinning fist.
Splorch!!
Blood rained down, coating his face. He wiped it sloppily, and I grinned, licking my lips.
"Heh."
"....."
His eyes darkened with defeat as he watched me lick above my mouthpiece. Normally, I'd have finished him right there... but I hadn't achieved my goal yet.
"What the hell are you doing! Get back in!"
Whittaker suddenly appeared, yelling. He wanted a clean win, but I had to settle the score, right?
Malloy's right leg was toast—his footwork was long gone. As I closed in on him, barely able to open his eyes, the ref jumped in and halted the fight.
"BOOOO!!!"
Ignoring the jeers, the ref called the ring doctor and cutman to check Malloy. If it ended like this, it'd be too unsatisfying. I should've listened to Whittaker...
I cracked my neck, waiting for the ref's call. Whittaker came up behind me, bellowing.
"Why didn't you stop?!"
"Too bad, coach."
"You crazy bastard! This ain't a game!"
"Sorry. Next chance, I'll finish it."
"Don't get cocky. No arrogance!"
"Yes, sir."
Even as I chatted with Whittaker, I eyed Malloy getting stitched up. Now he avoided my gaze. Colin would've glared till he was on death's door... Seeing this made Colin's grit that day hit even harder.
The fight resumed, ref yelling.
"FIGHT!"
I ignored Malloy offering his glove. He'd refused first—no need to touch now. I stepped deep into the limping Malloy and fed him a jab.
He countered wildly, so I ate it on the shoulder instead of dodging. His fist fell short of my face. Then I lightly hooked my left into his exposed mug.
Smack!
His left arm hung, guard sloppy, so I hammered a right straight into his left jaw.
Crunch!
Malloy whipped punches at blinding speed. I met his fire with mine. As his fist grazed my face, I over-twisted my head to slip it. Locked eyes on him again, I amped the power.
Thwack! Thwack! Crack!!
"Wooooah!!!"
I slipped with minimal motion or tanked shots without torso movement, cranking my punch volume to the max.
Smack! Crunch!
Punches prioritizing speed hammered home repeatedly, reopening his stitched cuts. Any regular wrestler would've been done ages ago. Malloy's striking pedigree let him minimize damage instinctively—but was that smart?
Blood from his nose choked his breath, torn skin blinded him. Splattering everywhere, it fueled me more.
"Huuup!"
I wouldn't waste this. Holding my breath, I kept stuffing fists nonstop.
Smack! Smack! Pow! Thud! Crack!
Clean hits piled up. Desperate to survive our mutual firefight, he lunged for a clinch. I countered with the perpendicular elbow I'd drilled into Young-hoon, spearing his face.
Splat!
"Grahk!"
Dazed by the unseen strike and dead leg, Malloy toppled backward. Unperceived damage hits different. Even I'd feel it if Harin blindsided me.
I held off the finish and backed away. His killing intent and grit twisted into despair and fear, goading me on. That realization—he was the prey—lit me up.
"Hoo... Get up."
"....."
"...Before I turn you into a vegetable."
I loomed over Malloy, slumped without stance. He crab-walked backward on his ass... The ref reappeared, hauling up the reluctant Malloy. As I approached, he dragged his legs away. What was he thinking? Regretting the shit he said about my mom? I hoped so. That's why I was dragging this out—to brand that face myself.
Instinctively, he raised arms for head guard, exposing his gut. I whipped a roundhouse into it.
Crack!!
His skin flushed red instantly—middle kick landed flush. Before he crumpled, I drove a knee; he endured, headbutting back.
Thud!
Not many had landed clean on my face post-regression. Even boxing-only Colin counted a good day at ten-plus power shots. Malloy's raw striking explained his #5 rank, belying his filthy mouth.
His power cleared my head nicely. Spotting the follow-up left hook, I swayed and check-hooked.
Snap!
Left straight to the face next. Pinned to the fence, Malloy ate a deep horizontal elbow.
Snap!
He reacted, raising guard, so I spun. Predicted his head position and backspin-elbowed it.
Craaack!
The feedback screamed "lights out," but I reloaded my fist. Malloy's legs buckled, collapsing. As I pinned his shoulder for ground pounds, the ref grabbed me.
"S-Stop!"
"Hoo... Haaa..."
He shoved me off with a pitiful look. I checked if Malloy was really done.
".....!"
The arena fell silent. Crowds materialized, hands over mouths or gaping in shock. Nothing like my clean fights—this was a bloodbath. Chills ran through them; some rubbed their arms before belated cheers.
"Wooooah!!!"
I tongued out my mouthpiece, spat into my bloody glove, and tossed it. Stared down the camera filming me head-on.
Then I flexed every muscle like ripping them free. Dragged every last bit of air from my lungs and roared.
"RAAAAAAGH!!!"
"WOOOOOAAAAH!!!!!"
My voice boomed louder than expected; the ref recoiled, staring. Goosebumps surged, gut-wrenching thrill exploding inside. Yeah... I fucking loved this. Risking life and limb, shedding blood and flesh for victory—this cage was paradise.
"Wooooah!!!"
"Common! Common!"
The crowd's thunderous roar vibrated my skin to the bone, driving me insane. Sorry, Mom, but the anger excuse was bullshit. In this octagon, violence was the only thing making me feel alive.