Weigh-In Warfare
Was this surprising? Of course not. It was only natural. Time passed, and now we were doing promotions with signings. Brown had asked us to take some photos—not a full face-off, just for hyping this fight.
Dmitry, with the belt slung over his shoulder, was glaring at me now with a hint of real killing intent mixed in.
"I'm gonna dismantle you piece by piece."
"You're boring me."
"I'll smash you somehow..."
He'd been all meek until our faces were inches apart, then bam—threats. It felt like he was repeating it to himself, like self-hypnosis, psyching himself up on how he'd take me down.
I shrugged at him. "Try it."
"....."
"What're you waiting for? This is your chance. Even your shitty strikes can reach me from here."
Brown must've sensed something, because he quickly pulled us apart.
"Shitty. You blew another opportunity. Why don't you just go home and fuck your fiancée some more?"
Dmitry slammed the champion belt down like trash and came at me again. The vibe between us was off, and people rushed in to hold us back.
"Woooaaah!"
"You toss that belt around too easy~ Real sportsmen treasure their belts."
"You still think this is a sport?"
I got why Dmitry was considered one of the all-time GOATs. Even outside the octagon, there was this chilling thrill stabbing at my heart like a blade. My lips twitched upward as the world around me seemed to black out. I pressed them down with my thumb and index finger.
That line—"You still think this is a sport?" Yeah, I'd never seen the WFC as a sport, not for a single second.
"....."
"S-Stop it!"
Brown was freaking out now, trying to rein me in based on my reaction.
The rest of the promotions had no overlapping schedules for me and Dmitry. They'd spaced them out on purpose, figuring we'd cause an incident if we crossed paths. But people's hype levels were exploding anyway.
With the networks getting involved in promotions, we did separate interviews. Dmitry openly spewed killing intent toward me, and I treated him like a whiny little bitch.
Dmitry, the generational MMA genius who'd proven himself the absolute king. And me, the supernova who'd finished every fight in the first round. Debates on who would win between us pulled in even more eyes.
What happened at the press conference spread worldwide. People saw us stepping out of sports territory and showered unprecedented attention on the WFC.
We hit water cut, and Colin was lecturing Young-hoon.
"No matter how much hype we need, don't you dare turn into that abyss."
"Yes, sir."
"That guy's not even human. Even if you gotta poke the bear, you don't drag his wife and kid into it? I'm the same age as Dmitry, and hearing that shit from a kid seven years younger makes my blood boil."
I eyed Colin, who was rambling a bit guiltily.
"What, it's not like getting engaged fixes it? Son of a pastor, having a kid out of wedlock? What's your excuse besides dodging responsibility? Spill it."
"Now you're coming for me too?"
"What? You're already eaten."
"Young-hoon, everything else is fine, but don't copy that guy's personality. You see how he poked and then tried to kill Dmitry earlier?"
"I did."
Even Young-hoon seemed a little disappointed in me. Why were Whittaker and Tahar nodding along? In a one-eyed village, two-eyed folks are the freaks. I stood by every word—no false statements, just hard truths.
The next day, we headed for weigh-ins. Tons of people showed up, hyped for this fight. No one expected 15,000 to pack in for a weigh-in. Brown grinned at the full house too.
93.7kg flashed up. I flexed my dry, ripped muscles for the crowd.
"Let's get it~!"
"Woooaaah!!!"
Dmitry breezed through weigh-ins too, staring me down the whole time.
I chugged an electrolyte drink for a quick recovery, then we faced off for photos.
"I swear on God, I'll kill you."
"One thing I'm curious about—you get how your dad feels, right? Feels like you're just prepping to bail by not getting engaged."
"You keep saying shit you'll regret. Not just you—your whole family."
"Whoa~ Threatening terrorism on a four-star general's family..."
"....."
"Even if it's just words, that's a federal crime in the US. Gotta check if there's political motive?"
Dad had naturalized in Korea, so it wouldn't actually apply. But hearing "federal law" from me must've made him shit bricks for a second.
"What? Actually scared? Heh?"
Crunch. I smirked as he ground his teeth hard enough to split his lip.
After recovery, we hit the final press conference. With all the interest, it was packed. I lounged in comfy clothes, sipping electrolytes, feet up on the table.
Brown kicked things off, and questions poured at Dmitry. It hit home how much of an underdog I was—they hadn't seen enough from me yet. But folks wanted to see his rage.
"If you win this fight, will you propose to your fiancée?"
"....."
I grinned and jumped in as he glared at the reporter. "What, no answer? No ring waiting to cap that pussy?"
He heard me and started slamming the table with his fist.
Bam! Bam!
Then he kicked the table aside and stormed out.
I just shrugged at the sight. Brown chased after him but couldn't drag him back—the presser got canceled.
Dmitry was a real star; no punishment for that stunt. If he bailed on the fight, Brown would be like a dog chasing a chicken.
Next day, back in the locker room for training. Tahar had broken down all of Dmitry's attacks, but it didn't help much. Couldn't find a sparring partner with his exact build anyway. That reach and those kicks? Had to feel 'em firsthand.
Honestly, I could lose. He was prime Dmitry, peak complete MMA. But I trusted my superior striking and the jiu-jitsu that made me champ. No way I'd lose to him—I believed that without a doubt.
The inspector ref came in, told me to hold tight. Did my bathroom routine, then loosened up from toes to head at the locker room door.
Conway West's "Black Skinhead" hit my ears—I nodded along, vibing to the beat.
Inspector opened the door. Cameras swarmed me. I draped the Taekwondo flag Young-hoon gave me like a cape, bouncing lightly as I walked out.
Main doors swung open—roars exploded.
"Woooaaah!!!"
"Common! Common!"
The packed arena echoed with my ring name. No special entrance prep this time. I shadowboxed lightly for the cameras, then pointed right at one up close before weaving through the crowd.
Raised the flag—cheers intensified. More Koreans than I expected, flying out to Vegas for me. I bumped gloved fists with fans left and right.
Inspector checked my gloves. Whittaker, watching me, finally spoke up after ages.
"Nervous?"
"Nah?"
"Ring, octagon, good guy, bad guy—purpose is the same right now."
"Hoo..."
"Yeah. Go in with the mindset of a perfect hunt."
I nodded. Ref slathered Vaseline on my face. Bounced to feel my legs, shook out my arms—body was peak today.
Stepping into the octagon, sweat and blood hit my nose straight to the brain. The world blacked out, leaving just me and Dmitry.
Suuuuck...
Excess oxygen rushed in my mouth, out my nose, scraping my lungs. My body lightened; Dmitry at the far fence looked right in front of me.
Haaa...
He crouched, ready to explode anytime. Thrill crawled up from my toes—muscles tensed all over. I savored it, squatting to grip the fence and roll my shoulders.
Dmitry stared, eyes full of victory certainty.
Announcer rolled up. Red corner for me again. I synced my warm-up to his familiar rhythm and intro.
"Kooooreaaan~ Mooonster!!!"
Stood tall, checked the lights, posed for cameras—arms spread wide, showing off reach.
"Woooaaah!!!"
Thunderous cheers hurled me back to the Colosseum. The frenzy vibrating through my skin to my bones hyped me up.
"Common! Common!"
Closed my eyes, soaked in the roar. Intros done, ref called us center.
Standard fouls spiel—didn't need to hear it. Shorter Dmitry looked up at me and sneered.
"Finally... I get to kill you."
"....."
"Time to cry now."
His eyes burned with killing intent overpowering his fire. Chilling stab at my vitals made me tingle.
Heh.
Muscle twitches from his toes, even his heartbeat thrummed in my ears. Time slowed; his murderous pupils mirrored my grinning face.
So I let my lips curl up this time.
"....."
Normally, we'd back to fences, fight, then center up. But Dmitry offered glove first.
He had this routine—always trying to tap higher than the opponent. I smashed his glove down hard from above.
Smack!
He stared at his flung hand, eyes boiling with rage.
"I'll kill you, you little shit..."
"Yeah? Let's die once then."
With that, we backed to our corners.