Crescent Kick Carnage
Is this anything to be surprised about? Of course not. Colton climbs into the octagon with his eyes locked on me from start to finish. His raw hatred and burning desire to cripple me pull me right into the moment.
"Suuuuuuck... Haaaaah..."
The stench of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from the previous fight stings my nose. The announcer's voice booms, resonating with the crowd's roars, planting me squarely in this modern-day Colosseum.
"Kooooreaaan~ MoooOnster!!!"
"WAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
The cheers vibrate the solid mats beneath my feet, firing me up. The air feels thicker, pressing into every corner of my lungs. My pounding heart reminds me I'm alive.
I savor the crowd's roar in front of the camera flashing on me—head tilted toward the arena lights, arms spread wide, eyes closed.
"Comon! Comon!"
With my intro done, the ref calls us to the center. We eye each other while he runs down the rules, then back to our corners, still staring. The "Fight!" rings out, and as we advance, we tap gloves lightly.
I figure I haven't shown much in the WFC yet. But Colton, with his wrestling base, doesn't lunge forward. So I open with a deep kick.
Thud.
Colton, squared up facing me, twists away by pulling back his rear foot, slipping the kick. I hadn't even considered he'd react that fast. My weight shifts forward, forcing me to raise my guard and yank my upper body back from his uppercut.
Whoosh!
If Colton had any real striking chops, he'd have hammered my guard. I backstep quick, and a fist whistles past my vision... Nearly ate a clean shot from a pure wrestler. Colton's guard is airtight. I reset my base and fire a middle kick.
Crack!
Colton flinches, so I drill in a one-two. He raises his guard and backs off. He's paranoid about my punches. His tapes never showed this level of power—must be because I ground him down like crazy.
"Go in!"
Colton's coach yells from outside the fence. Whittaker never feeds me bullshit like that. He only commands when he's dead certain.
Colton's been eyeing takedown angles from the jump. My knee twitched, that's why he backed off. Right now, if he shot, he'd get his head exploded. That's his read.
I point at his coach, then press my finger to my lips—shut the fuck up. Colton swings at me. I don't even look, just footwork my way around it smooth.
Swish swish.
Now that I've got his distance dialed in, I snap my head off-line and flick a jab like it's nothing.
Pop!
His guard cracks from the impact. I stuff a right straight through.
Thwack!
The punch sinks deep—his legs buckle, balance shot. He tries to clinch, but I shove his shoulder and backstep away. A wild punch sails past late. I smirk.
Whoosh.
Grinning as I reset, he looks lost in thought. As he backs off for recovery time, I plant another deep kick. His elbow comes out naturally— he's drilled it—but it's awkward as hell.
Splat!
This one's brutal; he rolls backward. Normally I'd pound him out, but staring at him down there, I bust out a shuffling dance, clowning around until he stands.
No grappling chances for him, period.
"Go in! Striking's not working!"
Colton pops up, now in a low head-down stance. I snap a front kick, but he explodes forward like a trigger pull. Caught off-guard by the speed, I miss the timing—shove his head hard right and spin him aside. He gropes for my waist but barely misses; slams into the fence.
Clang!
He resets, but he's heated from that. He drops into that classic wrestler pose, chin forward. No more striking for him—that's the vibe.
I step in quick, fire a one-two. It grazes his shoulder, doesn't reach his face—no biggie. With Colton's striking, he'd dodge for a counter anyway.
Like a button you press and it pops up, every time I jab, his habit swings come. I've rewatched his prep footage hundreds of times. My knee beats him to his face.
Crunch!
Colton staggers. I grab his head and slam a flying knee.
Splaaat!
He's drilled hard, alright. Blocks with his arms mid-chaos, drops his head again, shoots. My body lifts for a sec, but I jam my elbow into his neck.
That's why wrestlers fade in heavyweights. Hard to get the lift, and if you fail, the risk is massive.
I post up and hold; he flops down. I spin out light from his grasping hands—even my ankle.
"WAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Before he recovers, low kick to the thigh.
Craaaack!
Staggering Colton gets fists, but he keeps that guard sky-high. He's got plans, but keeps veering off-script. Shows how much he prepped.
That's why I'm pulling a secret weapon.
This one's called the crescent kick. Or Crescent Kick.
Skooom!
"Kyaaak!?!?"
A reverse shot using the ball of the foot. If it clips the guard or ribs, my toes flip and shatter—total game-ender. Pain beyond his expectations drops him to his knees, hands clutching his side like a knife wound.
No guard, can't even breathe—I unload Carlos-style buzzing punches to the face.
Crack! Thud! Pow!
Taking shots till he fades, but his hands stay glued to his side. Ref freaks and dives in; I backstep-spin away casual.
"WAAAAAAAAAOW!!!"
Eyes rolled back, slumped against the fence—Colton out cold, pathetic.
With the moment peaking, forgotten facts flood back: this is already a title shot.
This time, I raise my arms, charge the fence, leap on top.
Yank out my mouthpiece and spit it back.
"Fuck the ground game! Striking's king!"
"WAAAAAAAAH!!!"
1v1 grappling's supreme. Always has been, always will be. I've topped out on grappling alone—that proves it. But with grapplers owning top ranks, flashing knockout striker genius sells.
Drop down, perfect KO win locked. Brown himself rolls up, hands me the mic. Dmitry's here—time for a proper war declaration.
"If #2's this weak, you're definitely overhyped."
Dmitry stands, staring daggers. Greed in his eyes—he wants my spotlight. Perfect. He sees me as prime prey.
Good I played up fearing Colton's grappling.
"You're title-ready tomorrow. Let's run it."
Not overhyped—this era's Dmitry is a monster. No one stops him. Even doped, his defenses are near-perfect.
"Think you're special? I'll kill you in Round 1 too."
"WAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Crowd erupts as my crew piles in for hugs. Colton stirs, recovered some, slams the mat with his fist.
Smack!
I approach the downed Colton, offer a hand.
"Sorry. Had to talk shit to hype the crowd."
"..."
He wipes nosebleed from the knee with his arm, slaps my hand away. Clutching his ribs, staggers out the octagon.
"BOOOOOOO!"
Kid ate shit-talk then got demolished. Me shuffling over his ass didn't help. Probably hit sage mode hard from the humiliation. Gotta apologize proper later.
Ref raises my hand. John Logan hops up for a quick on-site interview.
"This mad bastard actually did it. So much to unpack! Early head movement, and that kick just now—what the hell!? Korea's kids gonna eat good again, right?"
"No debate I'm WFC's best boxer. The kick's a half-moon kick in taekwondo. Think reverse shot with the foot."
"So that's why he crumpled? Insane technique! What's next, another banger!?"
"Saving that for the beanpole over there, Dmitry."
Dmitry's face hardens. Someone shoves a mic his way.
"Who you calling beanpole at 2 meters... You'll cry like a baby, kid."
"Shut up. Go get your DUI for drunk driving, junkie. Spotlight's mine now."
"Watch your mouth. Or die."
"Plenty talked big about killing me. Results say who died."
"I don't talk."
"Cool. I do. Careful with the gear. Do it in my face, I'll start with your fingers."
I stare down Dmitry from the octagon center. He stares up. Cameras love the angle, framing perfect. Our silence amps the crowd roar.
Winner takes all. Octagon's ruthless. Even legends get called frauds losing to novas. Win or bust. Hog every eye, or fans turn. One slip on that knife-edge, and you're done. I feel it.