Hitting the Wall
The strong are simply strong. Young-hoon didn't stop advancing even as Kamilu's front kick whipped out.
"Slow down! What the fuck are you doing, getting all reckless!?"
Standing next to Whittaker as he bellowed, I chimed in. "You know about despising the weak?"
"...?"
"Unless Young-hoon has some standout talent that blows past his reaction speed or durability, that guy's gonna feel like a brick wall to him."
Kamilu fired off a kick, and Young-hoon dodged it by a hair. He stepped in deep with his lead leg and snapped out a jab.
Crack!
Even though Kamilu's right hand was already flying at close range, Young-hoon's straight got there first.
Smack!
No matter how much it felt like a water punch, not many welterweights could eat a clean shot like that and stay upright. Young-hoon latched onto the groggy opponent, grabbed the back, and unloaded a barrage of punches.
"Woooaaah!!!"
A flush hit landed on the face, and the opponent crumpled. He rolled to try to stand, but Young-hoon stuck to him like glue, hammering away to finish.
Thud! Whap! Thud!
He backed him up to the fence and drove a knee into the body. But the opponent finally raised his guard and scrambled up. Young-hoon spotted the open midsection and planted a practiced spinning back kick right there.
Snap!
"Gah!"
Bigger pain than expected—Kamilu dropped to a knee. Tahar and Whittaker yelled at Young-hoon to go for the ground-and-pound.
"Finish him!!!"
"Now! Hurry!"
Young-hoon pounced and axed a punch down at Kamilu's face. The guarded-up Kamilu made full mount easy, but it didn't do much damage. Beep!
Regrettably, the first round ended without the finish—just five more seconds and the ref would've stopped it...
Tahar rushed in to check on Young-hoon. "Stamina looks okay, right?"
"Not like you. He'll slow down and weaken starting next round."
"I'd call this a solid scrap. He's only got two more fights left anyway—good experience."
Cold hard truth: Young-hoon's odds of winning now were slim to none. The tricky elbow I'd drilled into him was all that remained, but whether the opponent would eat it was anyone's guess.
Beomho hyung. He never lost his swagger, always carrying the unshakable conviction that he was the strongest in the world.
The first time I followed him and saw a WFC fight. Beomho hyung said WFC was the stage where the world's strongest proved it.
He lit the path for me, but he wasn't just cocky. No, his every move was different from anyone else's.
His self-belief drew eyes. His faith in himself shattered doubts.
In the end, Beomho hyung proved it all, just like he'd always said he would.
After backing up every word, he told me I had talent too. He was convinced of gifts even I didn't know I had.
That's why I wanted to prove it in the octagon. No—to make hyung's conviction real.
"Huff... huff..."
"Young-hoon. If you're that gassed, go for the clinch."
Behind Coach Tahar, Kamilu with blood pouring from both nostrils. How dare that scrub even dream of comparing himself to Beomho hyung. For a nobody like me, just following the path he'd carved was overwhelming enough.
"You hear me?"
"Yes."
"You've got no weapons left. Best bet is draining his gas. Lure him into shooting a takedown."
"Got it."
I still felt like I could keep going, but everyone fretted over my stamina. Was I really fading? If anything, I overflowed with energy—more than usual. And the one heaving for breath was him, not me.
That's when Coach Tahar grabbed my hair. The sudden scalp-yank jolted a yelp out of me.
"Ack!?"
"Don't get cocky. That's not you."
"..."
First time seeing Coach Tahar dead serious. His expression snapped me back. Only then did I notice my ragged breaths and trembling fingertips.
"Huff... Got it."
"Breathe in through your nose, out your mouth. You're doing fucking great—conserve for round three."
"Suuuuuck... whoooo."
"Leon said something about a stance you learned. For baiting attacks."
I racked my brain—what was he talking about? Then I remembered the stances Beomho hyung taught me. Glancing outside the octagon, there was hyung demonstrating one.
"Yeah. I know it."
"That bait a takedown?"
"Not sure."
"If you're confident, try it."
"Yes, sir."
The ref cleared the coaches, leaving just him and Kamilu in the octagon.
"Fight!"
We touched gloves on the ref's call. What hyung taught me about pacing floated up—his special way to conserve energy, just for me.
Hands gathered low at chest level, not face-high, to keep kicks in view. No need to deal big damage. Press in, shrink the distance.
The second he entered punch range, he jabbed—I slipped back.
Whoosh.
Ducked the follow-up hook by leaning torso back. Jabbed into the empty space.
Crack!
Advanced again, caught the incoming kick with a leg catch. He was in range but held fire, so I jabbed again.
Pop!
I halted my advance on the dodging opponent—no need to chase. A fist whistled past my face.
Stepped in with a front jab.
Thud!
Felt heavier this time, so I flicked the right hand from my chest like a jab at his face.
Whap!
Opponent backed off desperately; I went for a deep kick but saw the elbow drop and pulled it back. Goal now: save every ounce of gas.
I smirked at Young-hoon's shifted stance. Total one-eighty—pure extreme jab pressure now.
Kamilu wiped his bloody nose, glaring daggers. Could a guy play that annoyingly perfect?
Mechanical: advance, evade if attacked, punch if not. Ice-cold patience in every move. Hell, every step forward teased a kick setup—if no reaction, it stabbed the body like a jab.
"Heh. That's the stance I taught him—kinda suits the kid, huh?"
"..."
"Extreme jab rush."
A tweak on Jack Kerrigan's post-crashbike stance. Maximized Young-hoon's dynamic vision too. Unless your striking was elite, no piercing that defense.
Finally, Kamilu charged for a takedown. Young-hoon, solid on D, sprawled perfectly. Kamilu tried shaking his base, but Young-hoon leaned on the fence, casual as hell.
Wrestling offense is tough enough—add nosebleed messing his breathing? Even with Young-hoon's crap cardio, Kamilu was burning faster.
Seemed Kamilu aimed to drag him to the fence. He twisted up quick with an uppercut. Young-hoon arched back max against the fence, head slip evading clean.
Kamilu followed with a straight.
Pop!
Dodged that slick too, but his retreat path sucked. Kamilu's back foot shot forward—Young-hoon's chin caught the instep.
Crack!
Stumbled but stayed up on the shin snag. Shock dropped his guard though. Kamilu's flying knee clipped the jaw next.
Thwack.
Marionette with cut strings. Before ground-and-pound, ref dove in to stop it.
Young-hoon's clean knockout left us speechless. Whittaker shrugged at me.
"Shoulda bet."
"Yeah, I wanted to spot you some pocket money."
"Tch."
WFC direct ticket on the line—huge bummer for Young-hoon. But less than a year since his first WFC taste, scrapping toe-to-toe with a promotion's #5? Unreal.
Flashback to my past self at his age... he'd crush me.
Kamilu celebrated. Middle finger at me, then humped the air over KO'd Young-hoon like a cheap stitch-job.
"I'll lay you out and fuck you too."
"...?"
Random provocation? I hopped the pad up, stomped the fence, gripped and vaulted over in one.
Thud!
"!!! "
Ref freaked, tried stopping me. I shoved him aside, closing on Kamilu. Bounced ref drew a swarm of officials piling on.
Kamilu, who'd started it, now cowered against the fence, palms out in surrender.
"... Tch."
"..."
Looked like a dopamine rush from the hard win made him mouth off. I turned, headed to unconscious Young-hoon.
He stirred, tried sitting, collapsed. Slapped a hand over his face.
"Haa... fuck."
First curse I'd heard from him. That pissed?
Hand hid his face, but not the bitten lip. Grind.
"Feel robbed?"
"..."
"Embarrassed?"
"I... tarnished it."
"? Tarnished what?"
Lips clamped shut again. Trembling hands screamed self-disappointment.
"Never dreamed I'd be this much of a retard? No retard's this retarded. And you're worried about that shit now? Why not quit?"
Grind. Fresh blood trickled from bitten lip. Shaking arms reeked of injustice.
"Every time I step in the octagon, I remember my loss days."
"..."
"That shitty feeling you're drowning in... I hate it so much I never wanna feel it again."
Shakes didn't quit, but no more lip-biting.
"I saw it—you could've dodged. That spot never happens."
"..."
"Don't wanna quit? Then never forget this shitty day. You're only turning 18."
I tousled his bowed head. Clean KO meant no durability hit. Luxury loss, even.
Young-hoon, mood lifting, got ring doc clearance. Took the loss call and headed down.
While he hit the locker room, I swung by Kamilu's.
They froze at my sight. I leaned on the wall, arms crossed, waiting.
"Uh... something to say...?"
"Bring Kamilu. Got words for him."
At "words," Kamilu peeked out cautious. Three coaches and still scared shitless. Then why provoke?
"S-sorry about earlier..."
"Whatever. Stay put in welterweight."
"...Huh?"
"Don't cut to WFC either. Gotta give my little bro the rematch shot."
"..."
"Win that too? Half mil cash bonus on the spot. So grind that skill in WFC."
Pulled gum from my pocket, offered him a piece.
"Looked solid out there? Top ranker material."
Popped fresh gum and headed back to Young-hoon. Come to think, Kamilu was four years older than me.