The Strongest Person in the World
The strongest person in the world. The sparring session without the gym master drew a crowd of onlookers. With no coach around, this wasn't on me. I slipped on my sparring gloves and headgear.
"No pads?"
"Chinese or something? Didn't expect you to be so humble?"
I shrugged at the random racist jab. He was smirking at me. I loved looks like that. It didn't take long for his eyes to turn deer-in-headlights wide, and that fired me up.
The bell rang, and we touched gloves. "Showoff."
No touch—he threw a straight, so I backed off. "Oh?"
He kept swinging, so I ducked the hook, fired a light body shot. Thwack! He couldn't keep up with my speed at all. He dropped his guard late, so on instinct, I ripped an uppercut. Crack!
Caught clean with a light punch. The weak power bugged me, but it was good pad work. Pissed at my hits, he suddenly whipped a middle kick—I checked it. Snap!
His light frame floated him up. My throbbing knee made me lean on the ropes, head tilted. "...?"
"Playing with this little shit."
Out of nowhere, he ripped off his gloves. His buddy tried to hold him back, but I pivoted on my lead foot, spun my hips for torque, shifted my weight to my back heel, and blasted his gut. Thud!
"Gah!!!"
Big impact—he crumpled. Thought about kneeing his head, but ditched my gloves instead. No point dragging this out with a moron. He'd started with kicks outta nowhere, pissed me off—if I kept going, I wouldn't stop.
"That's how you use your feet."
I flexed my bicep with my left, smashed a fist into his potato gut. Ditched the headgear and hopped down from the ring.
A few students eyed me warily. Went back to shadowboxing, but he was still moaning up there.
"Fuck!"
Pounded the mat, glared murder at me. That's why you don't go easy. He recovered a bit and tried climbing back up. Folks pulled at him, but he ditched his gloves and charged.
Swung wild—I dropped my hips low, caught his double-leg takedown, dumped him. Bam!
"Urk!"
Boxer mixing feet pissed me off from the start. Sprawled on the wood, gasping. I jumped on his belly, elbow-smashed his head. Snap!
My weak body couldn't cut his face, but the elbow shattered his fragile nose. Desperate guard up—I yanked his left arm, hooked my leg behind his head for a triangle choke. Loosened it before he passed out, then rained reverent punches like floral arrangements. Thud! Thud! Thud!
"Argh!"
No big swings, but nose-busters would hurt plenty. Flailing uselessly, he pinched my thigh outta nowhere. No scars on me—I went to armbar his elbow, flip him. Panicking now, tapping like mad.
"W-wait!!!"
"Mercy?"
Still clueless, so light taps to the face. Smack! Smack! Whap! Blood soaked my wraps till everyone realized it was serious and rushed in. Dodged hands, released the hold, backrolled to my feet.
Wiping his busted nose, still glaring murder. "Huh?"
"..."
This guy's growing on me. How many take that beating and still eye you like that? Most crumble first glance. That fire thrilled me.
"Colin, stop...!"
"Fuck off!"
Shoved his buddy, charged again. Faked a boxer's punch—I leaned back, oblique-kneed his thigh. Crack! Knee buckled, balance gone. As my foot hit, left hook. Slice!
Body still weak. But stiff wraps tore his brow. Late recovery, right hook incoming—slipped left with footwork, punched his open side. Thump!
Straightened up, check hook left, out of range. Crack! Liver shot hurt more than the face—he winced late. Ducking? Advanced, straight to the cut brow. Splat!
"Hey, hey! Break it up!"
I'm just turning twelve in a month. Why no stopping when he charges, only when I'm dogpiling him?
My punches couldn't KO, but kicks could. Before they grabbed, front kick like an uppercut to his falling face. Boom!
Eyes rolled back, out cold. Unwrapped my hands—fingers felt cracked but fine. No real power spared them.
They called 119. I washed blood off, new wraps, kept training till Whittaker showed.
He rolled in fast, eyed me coolly at the fight news. "Heard Colin jumped you."
"That's his name?"
Scratched his head. "Saw him—brutal. What were you thinking?"
"Boxer throws a middle kick outta nowhere, so I hooked a roundhouse. Then he goes berserk?"
"..."
No cameras, but students' stories matched—Whittaker had nothing. I didn't start shit; he came at me.
"His type wouldn't quit easy."
"Who is he?"
"Buddy's guy I took in temporary. Good eyes, three months in."
Made sense. Those eyes held up. First time seeing unbroken spirit after that.
"Likes playing boss, got cocky. Found his match."
Cool as ice about a brawl in his gym. Korea? Huge drama. Here, parties chill, it's done.
"Heard the idiot shut up at your age."
"Yeah."
Adult dogpiled by an elementary kid? Middle school pride killer, can't brag.
"Even trash... eleven beating a trained adult..."
Muttered, glancing. Imagined pure boxing win. I'd have ragdolled his face worse.
Time passed; Whittaker fetched all styles for my spars. On an under-middle-school kid. Not normal for an American eleven-year-old. But my height topped adults—no kid vibes. Post-Colin, no "too much"—diverse spar partners.
Trouble followed: scout offers nonstop.
Time flew; entrance ceremony neared. Headed to Korea.
Hanbit Middle School. My alma mater.
Kids gawked at my size. Hit 180cm—towered peers. Yoga and training bulked shoulders; no kid build.
"Whoa... you're huge. Taller than my dad."
"Yeah?"
"I'm Kang-chan. Let's be friends."
Round-faced Kang-chan. Old memory buddy. Same high school. Social butterfly? Nah, suddenly invisible to kids. Pushed meals on barely-friends me.
"Like games?"
"Games with me? StarCraft? StarTale? Name it."
Bragging games to a PC bang heir? Time to show talent wall to O Kang-chan.
"Dad runs a bang—wanna go?"
"For real!?"
"Light PC Bang."
"Wait, Light is your dad's!?"
"Yup. Let's go."
Popular in middle—mouth never stopped. Now Kim Min-hyuk joined. Old memory too. High school, ditched his class for meals with Kang-chan after I bailed. Deep bros.
Staying in Korea? Chat buddies nice.
Post-ceremony, uniforms on, hit the bang. Crushed StarCraft 1v2, showed StarTale class gaps—national FPS king.
Fighting and games? Murder to me.