Mom's Chicken Soup and Provoking the Grinder
We're not the type to touch gloves, are we?
The next day, I could feel my fame in Korea skyrocketing way beyond expectations. The biggest change was my SNS follower count exploding, with Korean comments multiplying exponentially. I lay in bed, not wanting to get up, then thrashed around and finally dragged myself out. I roughly straightened the wrecked blankets before heading to the living room.
A delicious aroma teased my nose, and I tracked it down to the source.
"You're up? Come eat."
"Yeah."
She'd made baeksuk—poached chicken soup—and I ladled some into a bowl and sat down. Mom set out the side dishes for me.
"Taste good?"
"What do you think? I thought about it every damn day in the States."
"When you heading back to America?"
"Dunno? There's some fun fights next month, so I might swing by to watch, but otherwise, I'll probably stick around Korea."
September—next month—had some interesting cards lined up. Including one with Corner Travers. I'd love to see it live, and getting chummy with Travers might boost my profile too. But then I remembered the saying: if you just sit still, at least half will come to you. I had no clue how to rack up more recognition on my own.
For the finish, I shredded the chicken breast I'd set aside into the rich broth and topped my rice with chopped radish kimchi before shoveling it in.
"Ahhh."
"Look at those table manners. Beast incarnate."
I ate heartily, packed my gear, and headed to my private gym. Despite seeing my takedown defense and jiu-jitsu skills, there was still one guy itching to fight me: #4 Magnus Leventhal.
Magnus hadn't directly provoked me. He'd just argued he deserved a shot. So I called up Brown and asked him to set up a fight with Magnus.
-"Heavyweight... didn't you say you were moving up?"
"I'm cleaning out the top ranks first—what's the harm? Dropping weight mid-camp for a title defense would be way tougher. I won't be fighting in light heavyweight for a while anyway, so I gotta wrap this up clean before heading up, no loose ends."
-"Hmm..."
"Plus, I could fight next week if you want. Just give me another proof-in-the-pudding matchup like this one. Let me smash Magnus and go heavyweight."
-"Alright."
I still hadn't fought #2 light heavyweight Dominic. But Dominic remembered all our countless sessions at AKT. He wouldn't challenge me until he figured out how to beat me.
Magnus was a super quiet German guy, basing out of wrestling and European judo. His matches featured some tricky elbows that were a threat, and his ring name was Grinder.
During a short break, I quickly posted on SNS.
I gave him a little poke, but who knows if he'd bite. What kind of martial artist pushes a monk concept anyway... No plans to stir shit in a light heavyweight division I've already conquered.
The next day, still no reaction from Magnus. The champ calls him up, and radio silence? Is this for real?
Only when my Team Monster crew headed back to the States did a video pop up on Magnus's account. Him meditating cross-legged under a waterfall. I watched the whole thing, hoping for some message to me, but it was just him sitting there silently.
"Fucking ignoring me outright—makes me wanna talk shit..."
As WFC's face, I felt the duty to drum up at least some hype, but if the guy won't bite, what can you do? The next day, Magnus just posted another silent striking drill video.
Time flew by like that. My fight was at WFC 180 in Mexico. At 105kg, dropping back to 98kg wasn't tough. Training solo in my private gym, Mom showed up.
"Get a haircut."
"C'mere, Mom hug."
"No."
I take after Mom looks-wise, so I don't grow much body hair. Hayun was jealous when she saw I didn't even have armpit hair. Mom wouldn't come near me, so I snuck up on her sitting there. I spread my arms for a hug, but she went for an elbow strike—I dodged easy. Her kicks are vicious, but hands? No contest. Finally hugging her tight, she sighed, so I went for a cheek kiss. She naturally palm-blocked my face.
"I'm your son too...?"
I pouted, but no dice with Mom.
"Raised you with pure love till you were 9. No whining."
"And after?"
"Gave you first dibs on all the good stuff, duh."
She acts grossed out, but as the eldest son, she babies me nonstop. When I'm home, even the cooking's tailored to my tastes over Dad's. She calls my name first for any tasty buys.
"I get you're not gay. So why no girlfriend?"
Mom's always prying into my love life. Craving grandkids maybe?
"Wanna see grandbabies?"
"Yup."
"...? For real?"
"Hayun's grown up plenty~"
Isn't this baby fever? She struggled so much, but now she misses it. Me? Even if I date, no kids. A selfish, irresponsible prick like me couldn't make that noble sacrifice.
"Korean girls or foreigners?"
"...Huh? That many?"
"DMs blowing up. Beauties and models from everywhere sending pics."
Nudes, but can't show Mom those.
"Doesn't mean bring just anyone. Date half a year, if she's solid, bring her for checks."
"Got it."
Mom touched my face and grinned.
"Kid. You're handsome. Take lotsa pics—who knows when it gets smashed."
Worried about her son's face getting wrecked.
"As long as it's not flush, I'm good?"
"You're human—you'll eat one someday."
"Won't."
"Don't be cocky, listen. Stockpile photos and vids."
"Yeah."
That Dmitry fight's iPhone shot after the hook was brutal. If it'd hit my face instead of jaw, nose might've gone. Gloves hit like bare knuckles—even top dodgers eat shots eventually.
I nodded at Mom's spot-on point. Heavyweight's full of hard punchers; it's just flush or not.
"Hated seeing my kid get hit, so skipped your vids."
"Uh-huh."
"Watched the belt win highlights though. Smells like pure stud—must take after Dad."
"What kinda talk is that to your son?"
Calling her son a "stud." That Dmitry fight from three months ago was still WFC promo material. My pic pointing at the mat while fleeing Dmitry? Already my signature. Pops up with "Comon" searches now—a legend meme.
"So am I the bitch then?"
"Kinda thought so?"
If Mom says it, can't argue. She suggested coffee, so I got up, showered, oiled my tats. She scowled hard.
"Won't lotion your face but slather that shit?"
"Gotta keep it moist—dry means flaking, colors fade. And I do face care?"
My vibe's a bit thug, but my looks are subtle rich kid. Lotsa folks wanna smash this face, so I maintain it. Still tank-top weather, so arm sleeves for a hip look. Headed out with Mom.
"Harin griped you wouldn't eat tteokbokki with her."
"Told her two weeks pre-fight. Nearly shit myself."
Walking the street, Mom craned up at me forever. She's tall for a woman—late 160s cm—but 30cm gap.
"How's it feel? Heart-fluttering height diff? Can't even spot Mom?"
"Knock it off."
Good mood though—she was humming. Hit the cafe; I ordered her fave green tea latte and my iced Americano. Love sweets, but diet mode means control.
"Cookie too."
Added a scone she pointed at and sat.
"Heavyweight—how's the weight cut?"
"Eat normal, train, and it bulks fine?"
Pre-regression civilian me hovered 130-140kg. Plenty even mindless eating, but factoring light heavy returns, 110kg feels ideal.
Mom felt my wrist and snickered.
"Bones just like your dad's."
"Thicker than Dad's?"
Couldn't deny, so she nodded. I'm used to Harin and Mom, but both got sneaky thick frames. Slim but girthy. Explains why Mom's kicks sometimes feel like dude punches. Comes from those dense bones.
Spent time at the cafe with Mom, then headed home.