Ringside Shoutouts
We're not the type to touch gloves, are we?
Time passed, and I boarded the private jet to watch Travers versus Dustin Cameron. I didn't particularly want to see it, but it felt like I was building a wall between myself and the other WFC fighters. Better to make some connections with the people I run into.
While refueling in San Francisco, Young-hoon, Tahar, and Snyder showed up. I took the three of them along to Las Vegas. They'd been obsessed with training up until now, so they were itching to catch a fight—might as well get some oxygen flowing through their noses too.
We arrived at the arena and grabbed hot dogs, nachos, and cola from the internal restaurant before heading to our seats. I bought them out of habit because I was hungry, forgetting I was in the middle of a weight cut. Guess I should share with the crew...
Our seats were in the guest pass section—reserved only for celebrities and WFC insiders. The WFC has this culture of seating people by recognition level, front row first. In exchange, you get caught on camera a lot, but no pay involved.
The Team Monster crew sat right next to me, with my bodyguard uncles taking the row behind. It was my first time watching a WFC event live, and plenty of fighters recognized me. Guys from weight classes I'd never cross paths with acted like total fans. A few even asked for photos, so I spent the time before the fights snapping pics with them.
Then Marius came over, and we exchanged greetings.
"What! You're here watching?"
"It's the prospect you mentioned. Gotta check it out."
John Logan had name-dropped Travers as a future champ on his podcast once. Thanks to that, interest in him was spiking earlier than in my previous timeline.
Snyder insisted Marius sit with us, saying he'd move to the back. No need, but he waved it off and offered anyway.
"I'm here with my wife and kids. It's fine."
"You have a wife and kids...?"
"...? Of course."
It was embarrassing to think I'd called a family man a "rat balls" behind his back. Guess that's why he could throw out those bold comments without a care.
Young-hoon and Tahar chimed in that he should join us too. Thanks to that, Marius and his family took the front seats. His daughter was only two, so three spots were plenty.
"Hello~"
I smiled and offered a handshake to his wife. She was a white woman with reddish-brown hair and a slight olive tone to her healthy build—probably Northern European stock settled in the LA area. White folks with that hair color have paper-pale skin that's brutal to tan. My dad has similar skin, so I know the drill: instant burns or peeling. But LA or Florida natives are a different story. Still, asking a guy's wife if she's from Florida is like begging for a fight—sensitive types twist it into "Did you meet in Miami?" and Miami implies red-light district vibes.
My big data from countless encounters pre-regression might be biased, but... those sturdy legs screamed American. Sure enough, Marius's son spoke English fluently.
"You're the uncle who beat up Daddy!"
The rhythm in his speech and cadence? 100% Florida native. I'd have brought it up warmly if it were LA or Seattle, but better not mention origins to strangers.
"Not just any uncle—the strongest in the world. Wanna see how strong you are?"
I held out my palm, and he smacked it as hard as he could. I grinned. Not even school age yet, but damn, the kid's got natural power.
"Ow! That's impressive!"
I shook his hand and ruffled his hair.
"Someday you'll avenge your dad—that's what's cool. Got it?"
"Obviously!"
"Uncle'll hold the spot till then. Want a hot dog? Gotta eat big to stand a chance against me."
"Yeah!"
"Chips too—stuff yourself. Soda?"
"Yeah!"
Winning over a guy with kids ain't rocket science. Sure enough, Marius and his wife were beaming at me.
The fights kicked off with the fighters entering. It was a women's bout, and out of nowhere, Marius asked my take.
"Don't know either of 'em."
"Really? Then based on looks alone?"
"Gimme one round—black or blue."
I don't watch women's fights. The ones I do watch are for imagery training, and these offer zero help. But since we were seated, I focused to keep the convo going.
"You don't even know their names? Black corner's Gracie—striking specialist. Blue's Manuel, Olympic wrestler. Gracie's the rising supernova in the women's division."
"Unless you're talking heavyweight like us, lower weights always default to wrestling."
"Huh?"
"Variables exist, sure. If Gracie's only trained wrestling defense for half a year, she could hang."
"Manuel's a world-level women's wrestler."
"Turtle up, eat shots till the round ends while praying."
Max defense, then minimize pain on the ground till time expires. Most strikers who only drill defense do it. Still, land damage before getting taken down, and the wrestler's cardio tanks.
"Strongest in my book? Boxl wrestlers."
"Boxl wrestlers?"
"Wrestling base with killer boxing. Near invincible."
"Not weak to kicks?"
"Didn't stop 'em from closing distance anyway."
Marius nodded at that.
"In-fighting boxers don't give kick range, and good guards get ground-and-pounded into rags. No answer. Tough to wrestle-react while dodging punches."
Marius's eyes went wide.
"Guess I need to drill boxing."
"Your punches were trash—think you can?"
"Gotta try. You beat everyone anyway, so I need lightweight #1 at least."
Couldn't hold back the smile. Marius is straightforward, manly—easy to like. Clean hierarchy acceptance with me on top. That fire in a normal guy? Thrilling prospect. Might be on juice, and WADA's crackdown is coming, but boxing upgrades could keep him alive.
The wrestler Manuel eventually crumpled her against the fence for a pounding finish. After the middleweight bout, main event Travers stepped up.
"Wooooah~!"
Spotting me, Travers pointed right at me. Giving me a shoutout, the bastard. Fuck... this is why I regress. Gesture like watch me, superstar.
I chugged my cola and yelled in Korean without thinking.
"Bus! Let's go! First-round kill!!!"
Marius eyed me as I sat.
"You bet or something?"
"Buddy threw down $200k? First-round KO pays $100k duplicate. After taxes and fees, maybe $65k. Safe bet, but underdog odds make it sweet."
"Crazy Korean fuck. That ain't illegal?"
"Don't get caught. And just $200k—for fun. Win it and I'll spot you $10k? Cheer with me?"
Marius slowly clocked my wealth, dismissing $200k as pocket change. He nodded, turned to Travers.
"Travers! First-round KO!!!"
Money works fast. We dove in as the fight started. Travers firing one-twos from the jump. Cameron countered a repeating one-two.
"Ah, no...!"
"Damn. Light heavy or heavy, that'd end it."
$10k on the line had him genuinely worried. Money spices everything up.
Travers clipped the back of the head luckily, dropped Cameron, and rained pounding.
"That's it!!!"
We jumped up cheering only after the ref intervened.
"Yesss!!!"
Travers pointed at his abs like hand over the belt.
I pulled my wallet, yanked every $50 bill, folded the stack, and handed it to Marius's wife.
"Huh!? Wh-what's this..."
"Promise kept. Big win, so here's the $10k."
I ignored her protests and roared for Travers.
After hitting San Francisco, I skipped Korea. Next fight's in Mexico anyway—training here works.
Post-workout, back at the Atherton House. Young-hoon's been training maniac lately. Fragile body means constant injury caution, yet AKT runs leave him banged up.
Lounging with my phone, Dmitry shouted me out.
"Huh?"
Straightforward post from Dmitry, but tons of likes poured in. More people want my loss than cheer me on, apparently. Felt bad for Brown that my event barely drew eyes... but him coming at me like this? Dmitry's looking pretty good right now.
Handed my phone to Young-hoon doing yoga in the living room. Swapped into my flashy Gonryongpo, set the WFC champ belts on the table, crossed my legs, propped my chin, and stared at the camera for the shot he took.
Just one photo and a line. But reactions exploded. Feeling the gap with Magnus, Dmitry looks cuter by the second. Nothing beats this for heavyweight motivation. I promised to gouge his eyes—time to amp up the pain accordingly...