Is This Surprising? Of Course Not.
Is this surprising? Of course not. The arena erupted in a deafening roar of cheers. People startled by my shout turned to stare. The heat spread like wildfire, and the crowd screamed my ring name.
"Common! Common!!!"
I pointed at the fans, touching the Desert Eagle tucked into my waistband. Then I whipped it out in a flash and aimed at Dmitry.
"Bang!"
The crowd spoke for me, so I nodded, spat out my mouthpiece, and tossed it aside. With the atmosphere finally calming a bit, Whittaker sat me down in my corner stool. He checked my right eye.
"How's it feel?"
"Just a bit red? Can you see?"
"Kinda blurry?"
"Fakin' it, you little shit..."
"Aigoo? I've never faked an injury."
He must've freaked seeing me take hits for the first time. Didn't feel like I ate many punches, though. Some blank spots in my memory—my face felt tender. The ring doctor came in late to check my eye. Since I said it was blurry but visible, he sprayed saline in it. Might need a proper exam later.
Dmitry got stretchered out. My right vision hadn't cleared at all, which worried me a little. Young-hoon looked concerned; Colin seemed jealous.
"Beat you to champion, huh?"
"...Wait. I'll get there soon."
"I'll wait 20 years. Take your time."
"Fuck off."
I grinned at Colin's grumbling. He'd snag a belt soon enough.
Brown and the ref came in next, officially declaring my win. Brown wrapped the champion belt around my waist—but my core was too thick, so I held it with one hand.
"How's it look? Suits you?"
"Yeah. You're the champ now."
John Logan hopped up, draping the full champion belt over my shoulder.
"You're only 20!!! Do you know what you've done!? You've shaken the world! How you feeling right now?"
I flashed a grin at the camera for his question.
"Is this surprising? Of course not."
"Woooaaah!!!"
I chugged the water Tahar handed me, then snatched John Logan's mic. Sorry, I do this a lot. But I had words for Dmitry.
"Dmitry, when you recover, challenge me for the rematch! I'd be pissed too in your shoes."
I handed the mic back quick, climbed the fence, balanced on the top rope, and stood tall. Gripping the mic, I pointed at the crowd.
"And I know a ton of you wanna fight me. Sorry you waited so long. Come at me in order of who proves they're worthy. I ain't running."
"Woooaaah!!!"
"I'll keep proving it. That I'm the strongest on Earth! If no more challengers in light heavyweight, all you heavyweights wait up—I'll smash from the bottom and conquer every last one."
"Common! Common!!!"
The reaction was insane—I almost flipped in mid-air. But nah, injury risk would make it a black mark. Played it safe and dropped down. Handed the mic back to John Logan, who hit me with another question.
"Next goal's heavyweight?"
"Defense first. Once everyone's cool I'm the champ, then I'll move up."
"Hahaha! You've kept every word so far."
"Who else is gonna defend this belt?"
I stroked the belt amid the roaring fans. Posed for pics with celebs dying for a shot, then headed to the locker room for the waiting ring doc. Right eye felt gritty like sand—turns out just a corneal abrasion. He patched it with meds and a medical eyepatch. Whittaker eyed me.
"Young-hoon. This is what a body is."
"Yes, sir."
"Took shots that should've cracked his skull, but not a scar. Look at that."
Referring to the punch that blacked me out, probably. Jaw ached, but looked fine externally. No real bruising. I'd thought Whittaker picked me for my grit. But he kept hyping my body—maybe that's all he saw and decided to build me up.
Meanwhile, Colin stared at his own fists. Clearly envious of my physique. Whittaker approached him.
"See Young-hoon? That's a body you rarely see—total trash."
"..."
"Body that should be sittin' reading books."
Young-hoon looked bummed hearing that. Wanted to defend him, but... his body's legit trash. We took a recovery break, changed, and headed to the presser. Tahar even hooked me up with sunglasses over the eyepatch.
Sat down, and a reporter raised his hand.
"First off, great fight. Congrats on the title."
"Thanks."
"Dmitry seemed way more hyped than usual. Think your pre-fight comments got him emotional?"
"Probably. That's why I want a rematch for him."
Another hand shot up.
"You got eye-poked—why no timeout?"
"Signaled, but ref missed it. Dmitry didn't give me a breath anyway."
"When his hook landed?"
"Yeah. First time—felt like a cactus in my eye. Tears in the other, couldn't see shit."
"So you think he pressured you intentionally after the poke?"
"Who cares? I won anyway."
Reporters grilled on the eye-poke. History's written by winners, huh? Dmitry was suddenly the villain.
Steak in Vegas ain't bad. Not legal drinking age yet, but we gorged and boozed like maniacs.
"Knew this fucker'd be champ."
"Yeah?"
"Else I couldn't say I got beat by an elementary kid!"
Tahar perked up at Colin's story—his reverse scale. Never told anyone. Drunk and hyped, Colin spilled getting owned by me. Bragging like the scars were medals.
We all flew back to San Francisco. Young-hoon and I headed to Korea; I uploaded clips en route. Private jet vids oiling the WFC belt, eating with it, hugging it in bed like a pillow.
YouTube blew up too. My one-two then pointing at Dmitry—no follow-up—already at a million views. Dmitry fleeing with that dazed look. Me standing still, feeding him potato punches. Way different from my pre-regression gentlemanly style. What kinda maniac is this? Even gave him groggy mercy. Hot-blooded psycho even to me. Felt fresh, like it wasn't really me.
Dmitry fight drew eyes from presser on. Back in Korea, played games with Harin and Beom-jun. Dad came home; we ate dinner together.
"Saw your fight, punk!"
"Why would I watch that?"
"Gotta see our eldest!"
"Why watch punching!?"
"'Cause he's the eldest!"
Mom's brow furrowed at Dad's "it's obvious" tone. His voice shrank. She kept the kids from watching too—though Harin and Beom-jun probably snuck peeks.
"Almost sent the cavalry when you mentioned me, but that arm twist? Felt good."
"Duh. Don't touch Mom."
"How much per fight?"
"Think 2.4 mil this time?"
"F-Fuckin' brutal..."
"Taxes take half. Champ bonus doubles it. Stock skyrocketed 'cause of me. PPV deal too. This was huge, but next one's fine."
Dad nodded.
"Half the WFC audience is your fans now. You scraped boxing good."
"Yeah?"
"Friend who watched boxing got converted—WFC's the real strongest."
Dad beamed, mouth to ear.
"This is the Becker way~!"
"Eat or no bowl!"
Mom snatched at his rice; Dad shoveled quick. Kids on break, so family water park trip. Six of us—two cars. Hit the lockers first. Folks eyed me sneaky. Famous? Approached, but they bowed sudden.
"S-Sorry!"
"...Pardon?"
Guy bolted; Dad grinned. News hyped it—WFC still niche? Didn't expect a runner...
Dad's build? No married-dad vibes. Lifeguard-ready for LA beaches. Explains Mom's cooking magic.
Out front, linked with late Mom, Harin, Hayun. Harin and I hit rides duo. Pervy stares at her, but they dodged my eyes. Weird... why no recognition? Ain't I famous...?
"I'm fuckin' Common..."?