Environment Makes Champions
The strong dominate. I didn't need to go anywhere anymore. WFC 177 was going to be held in Korea. I never imagined they'd host it here. Not many people on the street even recognized me...
Still, I had to do some SNS promo. With my next fight still three months away, I headed back to the States.
Upon arriving in the US, I greeted the two uncles assigned to my security detail. A total of six guys had been hired, working in three shifts while I was stateside.
"Looking forward to working with you."
"Daniel's eldest son? You're a beast in the Octagon!"
"Haha, thanks."
Most of them were Dad's buddies or Great Uncle Big's subordinates. After polite greetings, I unpacked at home and headed to Whittaker's gym.
Team Monster's gym was right next to Whittaker's. But Whittaker's place was still our main hub. He believed the saying "environment makes champions," so the gym hadn't been painted or renovated—pure old-school grit. Hell, it even had that faint onion-wrapped-in-piss smell from the disinfectant. Show up early to numb your nose, or the afternoon turns into hell.
At least the equipment kept up with trends. It was rundown, sure, but Whittaker's philosophy made sense here. Being in this place changed your training intensity and pushed your endurance limits.
Young-hoon's RFC fight was in San Francisco. Thanks to that, I got to see him grinding in his sweatsuit, laser-focused. He gave me a quick bow, then dove back into shadowboxing.
Tahar was glued to his tablet, so I walked over.
"Young-hoon's signed for three rounds, right?"
"Obviously. They gave him that courtesy. Check this out."
He was watching footage of Young-hoon's opponent, Kamilu, so I leaned in.
"Offensive wrestler type. Brown's got his eye on this guy too."
RFC was a direct pipeline to WFC anyway. I'd won the title there and jumped straight over. Even with wrestling offense, Kamilu wouldn't steamroll Young-hoon with half-assed attacks. Tahar always stressed expanding attack options—more setups meant wearing the opponent down faster.
"What do you think?"
I wasn't Young-hoon's coach, but Tahar often asked my take.
"Tell him to ignore the wrestling."
"He could get taken down in spots."
"A high-volume guy ain't gonna grind on the ground. He'll gas himself out. If he gets planted, just survive till his tank's empty."
"And the points? Ignore those too?"
"If it goes to decision, he's probably losing anyway."
His kicks were sharp—better than I expected. Solid jabs too. And his physique edged out Young-hoon's. At 187cm tall with 197cm reach, the guy belonged in middleweight, not scraping by at welter.
"Hmm."
Tahar didn't love my read. Maybe because I never fought for points. Even thinking from Young-hoon's shoes, it was iffy. Taekwondo kicks could create chaos, at least. Problem was time—way too short.
Kamilu had a habit of pawing with his lead hand, like Dmitry. Exposed his ribs too. Perfect for a roundhouse, but Young-hoon couldn't snap it like me. Accuracy issues—lucky if his own leg didn't shatter.
"I've drilled hook kicks and spinning back kicks with him. Maybe cap it at backspin elbows?"
"Solid. Won't take long."
"Clinching might be smarter overall..."
Tahar chimed in with his thoughts. Whittaker wandered over, curious about our debate. He watched the tape intently and seemed to peg Young-hoon as overmatched.
"I'd bet a grand on that guy."
"I usually take the underdog. Young-hoon it is."
"...Your money's no good. Put two grand on him."
"C'mon, he's the massive underdog!"
Whittaker, lost for words, called off the bet and bailed. The guy's usually rock-solid in his convictions—except with me, apparently.
I had my own fight with Marius coming, so I started drilling with my invited wrestler partner. Two weeks flew by. Young-hoon made weight, then hit the presser.
Main card status with a presser? That was beyond generous—straight absurd. Kid had just one pro fight. Even got saddled with "Baby Monster" as a ring name, drawing crowds.
Tahar handled onsite, so Whittaker and I watched the stream.
-"Dropped in as a replacement—enough prep time?"
-"Did my best."
His English wasn't fluent yet, so short answers. A bit Konglish, but understandable if you tried.
-"Pressure as Korean Monster's disciple?"
-"I'm not worthy of that title."
Stiff English plus Young-hoon's humility made it dull. But Kamilu stirred shit—maybe to bait him, maybe for attention—by name-dropping me.
-"Wanted to fight Korean Monster, but his teammate'll do."
-"Think you could beat Korean Monster?"
-"Of course. They call him a genius, but elite strikers see the holes."
Young-hoon ignored the jabs till then. But his eyes changed on Kamilu.
-"You're not worthy to speak his name."
-"...Huh?"
-"I've never hit Korean Monster. But you? I will."
-"My skill's beyond you too."
Whittaker, watching beside me, chimed in. "Not good."
"Yeah."
Nothing riskier than a rookie getting emotional. Especially against a points fighter like Kamilu.
Next day, I cornered Young-hoon in the locker room. Good thing his recovery was solid. Kept tweaking his spinning back kick timing, but it felt off—too predictable. Tahar even mimicked Kamilu's stance.
To avoid a repeat drama, I went solo to the guest seats. Sat comfy, but the big dude next to me kept glancing. Fan? Nope—Marius.
"...?"
My next opponent. No clue why he was here. Scouting my weaknesses via Young-hoon's fight, maybe. Spotted me, scratched his head awkwardly.
"Nice to meet you."
"Uh... yeah."
Awkward as hell. Of all seats. I fished gum from my pocket.
"Want some?"
"Thanks."
"Later... watch my ass, yeah?"
"Kh... sure."
Recalled his vow to wreck my backdoor, probably. We chuckled, then stared ahead silent.
Time passed. Young-hoon's walkout hit. Rare for a one-fight guy to draw this hype. My shocks rippled—folks expected big from him too.
Stood for glove check, joined the corner. Random cheers erupted. Korea was WFC barren, but I was an MMA superstar.
"Comon! Comon!"
Word was my champ status boosted WFC buzz back home. Whittaker steadied Young-hoon's mind.
"How you feeling?"
"Not bad."
"Anything off?"
"Nope."
"Then that's peak."
Young-hoon nodded, locked in.
"Wanna win?"
"Yes."
"You're not that monster. No getting emotional."
"Huuu..."
Glove-tapped his chin, focusing.
"Think that guy beats Leon?"
"Never."
"Prove it."
"Yes."
Whittaker patted his back.
"Hunt that fucker now."
"Yessir."
Young-hoon warmed up and entered. Colin stood by me—VIP seats explained his tag-alongs. MMA popped live; the vibe was electric.
"Fight!"
They traded light shots at range, mixing kicks, probing. I hated standoffs—didn't reveal shit, just sharpened senses.
Crack! Kamilu's low kick lifted Young-hoon's leg, but he kept his torso squared. Kamilu sidestepped casual. Deep jab followed—Young-hoon slipped with body movement, fired a one-two. Reach gap meant misses, but Kamilu's mid kick climbed.
Snap! Young-hoon caught it, hoisted the leg, shoved. "Knee that kick!"
Dong vision good, execution not. Kamilu backed off; leg dropped.
"No wrestling offense, missed chance..."
"Don't sweat it. Young-hoon's sharp."
Lead hands clashed, rear hands probed.
Thwack! Thwack! Light exchanges reset the dance. Kamilu dipped deep—Young-hoon jabbed into a one-two combo. Late block, but face shots landed at range.
Crack! Stuffed a hook with a light straight.
Smack!
"Ooooh."
Ridiculous—Young-hoon's punches were water. No grogginess. Power decent, but unloaded? Pathetic. Whittaker shook his head.
"Zero lats."
"Lats?"
"Punches need extension, but weak lats don't push the pulled arm. No whip flexibility either."
He always called Young-hoon's body trash. Nothing usable. I disagreed—solid fundamentals would devour most.