Snowy Sapporo and Savage Presser
He was just my inferior version. Thanks to our family knowing English, immigration was a breeze. But since I was the only one who spoke Japanese, I led everyone onto the bus. Sapporo was blanketed in heavy snow. The kids' eyes sparkled at the rare sight of it all outside the window, a sight that even brought smiles to Mom and Dad's faces. We arrived at a quiet ryokan, unpacked, and since we had a driver, headed into the city together.
I gave Hayun a piggyback ride, wandering around and trying all sorts of food. Harin watched enviously, glancing at Hayun clinging to my neck. Did it remind her of the piggyback rides I'd given her when she was little? When I offered to give her one too, she got shy, but I hoisted her up anyway—giving even 170cm-tall Harin a ride. Despite her grown-up body, she was still a kid at heart, and she had a blast on my shoulders. Meanwhile, Dad was eyeing it all enviously for some reason.
We wandered, sampling various foods, before heading back to the ryokan and slipping into yukatas to really feel like we were on vacation. Mom was thrilled with the place—we'd splurged, after all. The kaiseki meal they served was top-notch quality.
"Why don't we bring Young-hoon's family next time?"
"Better if we go alone. His mom is a bit shy around strangers. She stuffed us with grand hotel tickets and a welfare card, telling us to spend freely on our trip."
"Good call~ Next time, go with Kang-chan or Min-hyuk."
Mom fussed over them even more than me. I only had those two real friends, and they got along great with Dad and Mom. Dad saw them often at the PC bang, and Mom had run into them a few times around town.
After dinner, Dad and I took Beom-jun for a soak in the baths. The next day, we roamed more, tasting local specialties, snapping photos, and making the most of our time. Only after wrapping up the Japan trip did I get serious about my diet and training.
I chose to head to America with Young-hoon and invited a wrestling national team rep for training sessions. That's when Brown showed up in person, having heard I was in San Francisco. He slid a new contract my way, his eyes on me like a lovestruck schoolgirl. And that contract? It was that affection spelled out in black and white.
PPV revenue share right off the bat—who'd have thought?
"You think you can win this one?"
"Whoa, President, you can't say that. Isn't it too biased?"
"What's it matter? I'm not the ref."
The old contract was a flat $40k per fight, plus $40k for a win and a $50k Fight of the Night bonus. Now? They'd slapped $800k on the table for this bout. Bold move for this era. Maybe pissing off the boxing orgs had the biggest impact? Colton wanted me dead, and plenty of others did too.
Seeing that price tag made me grin—that's why they push for main events.
"Everything looks good, but I've got one personal request."
"Shoot."
"You don't need to pay me this much fight money. Raise it for all the WFC fighters instead."
"...?"
Brown's face hardened at my meddling in operations—a champ wannabe like me crossing the line.
"You might think it's arrogant, but fighters follow the money. Gotta be top-tier pay to compete, right?"
"Hmm..."
"Why do I chase cash? You know I roll in private jets you don't even have. But we need pay that draws national reps' eyes to WFC."
"To lure in talent?"
Brown stroked his chin, eyeing me.
"Remember what I said in that first AKT interview?"
"...?"
"That I'd prove I'm the strongest man on Earth."
He gave me a suspicious look, then flinched at my ambition. His gaze shifted.
"Think I can't deliver?"
"One question."
"Yeah."
"What's Dmitry's weakness?"
It felt like he wanted reasons to bet on me over Dmitry. I never held back on this stuff, so I smirked at Brown and spread five fingers, folding one down.
"Five already...?"
"Just a reach-abusing distance-fighting bitch."
I folded another.
"Acts like a hexagonal all-rounder and striking god, but it's all cheap tricks—evasion's amateur-level standing. Shows up big under frontal pressure."
I kept folding, not stopping.
"Oblique kicks give him some fun, but the flaw's obvious. Step back a bit or stand square, and his balance crumbles—wide open."
"....."
"Can't defend low, mid, or leg kicks. Durability's suspect; catches a kick and freezes his step. Check the tape."
"...I see."
I folded the last one.
"He seemed technical in my absence, but now? Just my downgrade. Lags me in everything."
"....."
"They think I'm a genius striker. Title fight, I'll show my best game's jiu-jitsu. Colton? Not even worth the demo."
"No jiu-jitsu on Colton?"
"Gotta make Dmitry think he's got a shot to call me up."
"You've been wrestling every session, using it pure defense so far... to draw out Dmitry?"
"Duh. If he runs with the belt, my next 1-2 years are toast."
Brown's jaw dropped at my reveal. I grinned. Win this, and he'd push me as the face over Dmitry. Colton wasn't Dominic-level, but top-tier at wrestling's endgame. Made for perfect defense partner—couldn't beat him there, but reshaped my muscle for wrestling D. I'd hide that defense as much as possible, but no risks.
Young-hoon picked up wrestling too, training on. Meanwhile, Colin grumbled at me.
"Did you have to say that?"
"Say what?"
"Gerard Tyson snaps his neck in 10 seconds."
"You a fan?"
"Nah, but Whittaker spat."
Whittaker? Yeah, he'd curse. Would've street-fought a punk like me in his day. But boxing's always been the path for real fighters—Whittaker's era or now. Colin knew my hits firsthand, so 10 seconds rang true. Lately, 7-years-older Colin seemed wiser, maybe from late-20s popularity bump.
"Whittaker asked."
"About what?"
"If he can bring a boxing-prodigy kid to Team Monster."
"He's the boss and head coach—his call."
"Yeah?"
Used to focus on just me, but with Colin's success, master-apprentice itch kicked in. Pushing 50, he got up and hit the heavy bag again. I swapped with exhausted Young-hoon, joining Tahar analyzing his wrestling and drilling with my partner.
Time flew; we boarded the private jet to New York together. Everyone buzzed about flying private thanks to me. Colin even posted SNS pics. In NYC, we hit the prepped gym for altitude acclimation. Environment matters at your limits—slight humidity or temp spikes tank endurance.
Two weeks of that, then the presser kicked off promotion. NYC chill had me in warm training gear, shades, and headset—thug-style in the chair. Colton? Sharp suit, total contrast.
"Thanks for coming. This is the press conference for WFC 169 numbered event."
Reporters perked at Brown's words.
"All our stars are here. Questions?"
A reporter raised a hand; mic passed.
"Question for the Korean Monster first."
I eyed him; he continued.
"Colton's Iowa-bred, MMA-adapted wrestling perfection. Counter with strikes alone?"
Thought it'd start tame, but bad-boy spotlight hog was locked. This Colton hype drew eyes—prime stage to shine.
"That fucker's not wrestling. He's a dog-fucking mutt doing bedroom shit in the Octagon. Should be Cumshot, not Colton—Cumshot Brownie Shit fits his nasty-ass image."
"Hahaha."
"Dude lies around all day filming gay porn with guys. Porn gets boring if it's vanilla hetero every time—gotta slap around for flavor, right?"
Crude sex prefs landed laughs.
"Cumshot wants fun fights too. But how? Life skills? Just horny dogs tag-teaming ass-checks and pounding."
"Shut the fuck up!!!"
Colton's beet-red face cracked me up. As a grappler, I knew what cut deepest.
"Why? Mad? Then don't wrestle."
"I'll break you with that wrestling you trash."
"See? Only move he knows is rolling around ass-fucking. Humans stand on two legs."
He shook with rage—almost pitiful.
"Counter? Fuck if I know. I'd bite my tongue and die before letting that disgusting dog-fucker touch me."
I raked Colton raw, oozing win confidence.