The Korean Monster's Homecoming Rampage
Strong guys are just strong. I cut my weight down to 98kg and maintained it while training. It was my first time training in Korea, but I couldn't focus solely on workouts. I couldn't say no to my little siblings begging to play. Beom-jun's requests were easy to brush off, but when Harin wanted to game, it was impossible to refuse. Thanks to that, I stayed up all night gaming with her.
Time flew by, and two weeks later, it was weigh-in day. We also held a press conference at a nearby indoor gym to kick off the promotion. After getting styled in the waiting room, I headed to the conference. The crowd erupted in cheers as I entered. Just recently, only insiders knew me... but holding a fight in Korea felt like my fanbase here had exploded overnight.
Brown hadn't invested heavily in this bout. More than anything, he regretted me fully conquering light heavyweight. Now that I'd beaten Dmitry and drawn the world's eyes, he probably wanted to match me against real heavyweight threats, not some unprofitable guy like Marius. But skipping defenses for a weight jump would tarnish history and invite endless backlash down the line. The spotlight-grabbing chance would come soon enough anyway. For now, I just needed to avoid any single incident that could raise doubts about my credentials. It was a time to build my foundation solid.
Booking the fight in Korea was one of Brown's smarter moves. It drew massive interest from Koreans. Questions poured in nonstop at the presser—about my childhood, no less, from folks with little WFC experience. It never escalated to Marius Volkov trash-talk. We just exuded pure confidence in ourselves.
"You gotta give back my champion spot you stole."
"Says the guy who didn't even challenge Dmitry. Doesn't that sound ridiculous coming from you?"
"Dmitry just dodged me. That belt should've been mine."
"What? They didn't book you 'cause you got no draw."
"Me, no popularity? In my country, I'm the absolute top dog."
Marius couldn't break out with a superior like Dominic around. Still, the guy brimmed with self-belief.
"Rat balls, what're you yapping about?"
"That rat's end will be your face."
He specifically said "facial," which in this context meant something like bukkake. That hulking Slavic wrestler didn't seem to care if anyone called him gay—it made him scarier. Every word from him felt like cracking open Pandora's box a little more. I hear gays get beaten to death in Russia. For a guy from there to spout that so boldly... you could feel his aura. Better not tease him with "rat balls" anymore.
I ran into Kim Hak-su after ages and exchanged greetings. He and Kang Du-seong, who'd recently signed with WFC, both had fights. Two more Koreans were on the card too—I had no idea there were this many Korean WFC fighters at the time.
"Man, thanks to Korea's first champ, we're all fighting here."
"Haha."
"Knew you'd be champ someday, but never dreamed it'd be with striking."
Including Superboy Kang Du-seong, the fighters were all older, so I politely greeted each one, figuring we'd cross paths often in this small world as long as I fought as a Korean. We even posed for group photos. Sucks Seong Chanh Ho couldn't join—his shoulder injury from the Fabr Aldo fight hadn't healed.
My training always centered on wrestling. Striking's instinct territory for me. Sparring with Whittaker and Colin kept my senses sharp enough. Wrestling demands execution and muscle condition, unlike striking. So when cutting muscle, I preserved as much wrestling-specific mass as possible.
After focused wrestling sessions, I did water cuts and passed weigh-ins with a dehydrated body to spare. Crowds of Koreans swarmed to gawk at me. I flexed my ripped frame for them.
"Woooaaah!!!"
After a short recovery break, I faced off with Marius. Stepping onto the scale-like platform, I showed off my pumped-up physique for the cameras. Marius showed up bloated already—probably IV fluids. I stared down at him, his height a good 10cm shorter. The crowd buzzed with anticipation; staying silent here wouldn't cut it. I locked eyes with his sky-blue irises.
"Can you see it?"
"...?"
"What a guy looks like who's never bowed, failed, or lost—not once in his life."
"....."
The air tensed sharply at my words.
"You know it. The world knows it. You can't win."
"I'm different..."
"Yeah? To me, you're beneath Dmitry."
Only now did fighting spirit flare in his eyes. No clue why Brown smirked, but they quickly separated us. Post-faceoff, we hit another presser—kept it chill, satisfying Korean curiosity. Local reporters didn't probe spicy anyway. Back at the hotel, I recovered leisurely and crashed.
New routine lately: Play Spacecraft fight footage, close my eyes, visualize—and I'm out in three minutes.
Next day in the locker room, I drilled defense wrestling. Usually I'd watch prior fights, but I could catch up after winning mine. Inspector ref entered; time for my routine bathroom break. Standing light at the locker entrance, my walkout hit: Marshall's "Till I Collapse."
Donning my flashy Gonryongpo gown—red with yellow embroidery—and shades, I waited. Door opened; I strode to the beat. Camera dead ahead—I slid shades down my nose, eyed it like a mirror, stroked my jaw checking beard stubble. Nodded to the rhythm, then walked off. Grabbed the money gun from waiting staff; main doors swung wide.
Blinding lights, roaring cheers vibrating through me.
"Woooaaah!!!"
"Common! Common!"
I grinned at the voices firing me up already. Korean crowd rivaled Brazil's heat. As my strut synced with the beat's peak, my face on fake 50,000-won bills loaded in the gun—I pulled the trigger.
"Woooaaah!!!"
"Common! Common!"
Staff cranked fans around me, sending bills flying far. Emptied the first gun, tossed it back like trash, grabbed another, unloaded again. Post-fight, they'd swap fakes for 5,000-won vouchers at the entrance. But as keepsakes, most would hoard them. Four money guns—400 bills each—rained down as I hit cage center on cue.
Doffed shades and gown. Inspector ref smeared Vaseline on my face. Another checked gloves and body for excess. All clear, I bounced into the WFC Octagon.
Tradition says champ enters last. But my routine's quadruple length, and I won't rush for the crowd. This octagon's my turf now. Invaders get purged. My early entry? Contract stipulation.
First Korea fight ever—even pre-regression. Cheers from my own skin and tongue hit different. Now I get "home ground." Feels like you cannot lose.
"Lee Beom-ho! Lee Beom-ho!"
Their voices turned them into my soldiers. Hit me: I'm Korea's WFC rep now.
Marius entered to boos. Announcer introed. I loosened up to his familiar timbre.
"Koo~ri~an Mooon~ster!!!"
"Woooaaah!!!"
Cameras rolling, I spread arms wide, flaunting reach. Roars thickened. Locked eyes with glaring Marius. His intro wrapped; ref called center.
Not hating the guy—Russian who speaks solid English with sly humor. Likeable. But inside the octagon? That defiance, vowing to topple me in my domain, grated my nerves.
Marius's lips moved as he stared.
"Not challenging 'cause I hate you."
"....."
"You're just in my path."
The Korean who smashed 20-year-old me didn't even give his name. This guy's WFC light heavyweight #3. No complacency. Weak or not, he could cave my face.
"Champ belt ain't my endgame. So don't lose."
Light glove touch; backed to corners. Ref checked readiness, dropped hand.
"Fight!"
We converged center, glove-touched once more.