Victory Ceremony and Mother's Verdict
He was just a downgraded version of me. The crowd was going wild. I soaked in the atmosphere for a moment before realizing I hadn't done my ceremony yet. I'd even gotten the tattoo on my abs—if I skipped it now, it'd be a total waste.
I glanced at Malloy, who was out cold while the cutman staunched his bleeding. His face was a wreck as they loaded him onto the stretcher. They must not have found the source of the nosebleed, so they tilted his head to keep his airway clear. I pointed at him like I was firing a gun.
"Bang~"
Only then did I plant my hands on the fence and vault over to sit on top. I finally let myself revel in the rushing cameras and the roar of the crowd.
"Waaaaah!!!"
After that, I hugged the refs and officials entering the Octagon with me, basking in the win. Colin handed me a towel soaked with my sweat and blood.
"Psycho bastard."
"Don't talk shop with your own kind?"
"We don't do this barbaric shit."
"Bullshit? You set guys up for brain mush. Don't play holier-than-thou."
Tahar awkwardly laughed to break up our bickering. I caught Young-hoon watching us with sparkling eyes.
"That's how you do a war cry."
"Mine doesn't come out that loud."
Young-hoon shot me a gaze even brighter than Beom-jun's. Whittaker watched me wipe the blood off with the towel and finally spoke up.
"You hear me at all?"
"Letting a guy who dragged my parents into it off easy would've been a shame."
"You're the first fighter I've seen ease up on his punches mid-fight. Even I'd exploit that psycho streak of yours now."
"Then hype train straight to the top, right?"
"You mad bastard..."
My bottomless confidence left Whittaker speechless, cracking a smirk. But Colin called me a psychopath again. Tahar chimed in dramatically, saying he'd said the same thing to him.
Then came the ref's official victory announcement. With Malloy carted off on the stretcher, I stood alone in the Octagon. 5-0, all five by KO. With that brutal record, John Logan burst into the cage, hyped as hell.
"You're only 19! Nineteen! 5-0 with five knockdowns. You even human?"
"Still growing, feels like."
"You lunatic. Do you even know what you're doing?"
"Not really, but one thing I know."
"What's that?"
"Haven't even started yet."
"Waaaaah!"
The crowd erupted before I even finished. Just five fights since joining WFC. Sure, it'd taken two years to get here.
"Your fans were on edge all week, saying you couldn't control your emotions and you'd lose. But you proved 'em wrong again. Got a word for the doubters?"
"Every mom in the world is great. No such thing as insignificant people."
John Logan nodded. I took a swig of water and kept going.
"He dirtied his mouth talking about the greatest one, so I branded his face."
"You sure left your mark. Last words?"
I switched to Korean.
"Sorry for making you hear that crap. But as a son, did I get revenge?"
John Logan blinked, clueless.
"What?"
"I'll keep proving myself till I reach the top."
The crowd cheered my words. No Koreans in sight, so probably only Young-hoon got it.
Back in the locker room, I changed and headed to the presser. Malloy went straight to the hospital. A reporter raised his hand; staff handed him the mic.
"That artistic finish today—was it planned, or spontaneous?"
Probably the right elbow into the spin-back elbow combo.
"Spontaneous. Practiced it, but first time live."
"What about that unorthodox elbow from the early clinch?"
"Planned that. Malloy loves grabbing the neck for knees."
Next reporter.
"What percent of your skill did you show in this win?"
"Always give 100%. Opponents just can't hang. Gave you three whole minutes today, though."
They nodded, scribbling furiously at my cocky assurance. Next was a reporter whose face screamed hostility.
"Some say pounding on a knocked-out opponent was inappropriate. Your thoughts?"
"If you hate it, skip MMA and watch padded-up standup rules. But if you want a sport that doesn't stop for injuries, watch WFC."
"......"
The fact-check owned him; he sat without a peep. Next one jumped in after my crisp clapback.
"Some fans felt killing intent from you. Intentional?"
"Don't usually plan emotions."
"So... did you really mean to kill him?"
"Nah. Just my rule: opponent's not human till the ref stops it."
I sipped water, griped about the stuffy room. Another hand shot up.
"Fans love your bad-boy gimmick. Planned or real?"
"Everyone wears a mask. Mine had some cool ones."
The presser flew by like that. The fight blew up in Korea too. With America calling me an unprecedented martial prodigy, interest spiked back home. Hell, in MMA circles, I was WFC's poster boy—no exaggeration. Even haters who dissed me for being Eastern watched my highlight reels on repeat.
I watched my own fight footage for the first time. Consensus: straight-up Malloy execution. Overwhelming striking gap.
SNS views skyrocketed; comments overflowed with fans hyped on my bloodlusted rampage. That finale? Blood spraying everywhere—pure gorefest. Real talk, if you told me to wreck someone that bad now, I couldn't. Humanity would kick in.
The Octagon definitely unearthed violence I didn't know I had.
Back in San Francisco, Team Monster did a group feast.
"Colin, you got here a day early and hogged it all?"
"Should I bounce?"
"Sulking? Not like I'm dating a guy—feels gross though."
"Hahaha!"
Colin shut up and ate quietly, knowing banter got him nowhere.
"Young-hoon, you've got a fight in two months."
"Only three fighters on the team, but why so many bouts?"
"Peanuts compared to AKT."
"Really?"
Young-hoon hadn't locked in a weight class yet. Thinking light-to-welter, but we figured welter for his edge. Wrestling too weak otherwise. Welter punch power suits him, and mass helps sprawl defense. Less risk from heavier wrestlers' shots.
"Anyway, thanks for the hard work, everyone."
"You had it worse."
"This is gas money."
I slipped Whittaker and Tahar envelopes with fifty fifties each. They refused at first, but I wanted to show gratitude.
We stuffed ourselves on meat till we burst, then headed home.
Next day, Young-hoon and I boarded the flight to Korea. More challengers than expected wanted my head. Probably 'cause grappling unproven, now tagged WFC's top striker. But lower ranks calling me out.
-"My record's 5-0, all first-round KOs. Don't call out someone climbing with wins if you're ranked lower. Save it till I'm champ or lose."
Fiddling with my laptop, I saw Young-hoon zonked out beside me. No jet lag, but he sleeps like a champ always. Stretching out felt languid. Post-fight rest hits different...
One-year deals meant next year's purse jumps units. Hit 20, no more underage limits. Want six fights a year, but who steps up...?
Checked coins surging like mad. Memo says pull out at this mark.
Uncle Jake picked us up in Korea. Dropped Young-hoon, then home.
Mom sat legs crossed.
"I'm back. Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing to say?"
"...Mentioned Mom?"
"That's shitty too, but your job now—deal."
Her tone demanding confession made my head spin. Bad vibe; deep thoughts. Can't spill crimes she doesn't know.
"Eat and think? Got gifts."
"Strip."
I dropped to my knees on instinct. If she saw the fight, shoulder tattoo's first she'd notice.
"Before I grind it off with sandpaper."
Now I saw the grinder beside her, sandpaper loaded. She'd do it.
Dad got black belt without injuring folks. So... my brutality's from Mom, probs.
I stripped fast.
"Tsk..."
Anyone else, worry. But years taught me: pre-approval reaction. Hates it bad, but whatcha gonna do.
"Sigh... Wanted the tattoo that bad?"
"Yeah..."
"Haa. Where else? Spill."
"Just right arm... No more."
"Do more, I grind it off—no prob?"
"Course!"
"If Beom-jun even whispers he wants one..."
"Never! Won't happen!"
Back planned, but end here for now. Dodge Mom after.