10-Second Execution
We're not the type to glove-touch, are we? The hype around the Magnus fight blew past my expectations. I hadn't realized people would pay this little attention. I'm just the overwhelming top dog, after all. I wanted a match with Dmitry, but since I'd already committed to Magnus, backing out wasn't an option.
Training continued in California until October rolled around. We flew to Mexico, acclimatized at the hotel, and held a press conference befitting the main event. A reporter raised his hand, staring right at me.
"We understand you've declared you'll go undefeated. Could you explain why you're bothering with a title defense?"
"Why the hell would a champion do a defense? What kind of question is that?"
"Hahaha."
"You asked why? Because I don't think a champion's worth is proven by a belt."
Everyone focused intently on my serious answer. Still, I figured I needed to show some champion swagger. I leaned back arrogantly and stared down one camera.
"I'm doing this so no one treats me like a paper champ. No matter who steps up, even if I fight every two months—no matter what—I've got the confidence I'll never lose."
I glanced at Magnus, who looked utterly unfazed by my words. Turning to the crowd, I continued.
"So I'm sorry to my fans. It's my own greed to prove myself that's forcing you to watch a boring matchup like this. Hell, does anyone even know this guy's name?"
I'd poked at him again, but Magnus just calmly noted he'd studied my weaknesses and was in training camp—nothing provocative. Shrugging at his response, I set the mic down. He felt like an impenetrable wall now.
After weigh-ins and recovery, even at the face-off, Magnus avoided provoking me. He seemed tense on his own, subtly dodging my gaze. I couldn't read his mind anymore.
Brown grumbled about how boring Magnus was, but as Germany's sole top-ranked fighter, he had undeniable name value—too much for Brown to mess with lightly. Plus, #4 wasn't a spot won by luck. He had a lean frame rare in light heavyweight, but excellent bone structure.
"Sigh. Don't whine to Brown about no fights. And quit bitching that he won't give you a title shot."
"..."
"This is for you and your German fans."
Only then did he flinch, his eyes igniting with fighting spirit as he glared at me. We proceeded with the presser, which was utterly mundane. Given the timing, no trash talk was the norm, but plenty hoped I'd spice it up. Problem is, you need a dance partner for that tango. Talking shit to a stone-faced Magnus would just make me look like a crazy asshole.
Toward the dull end of the presser, I grabbed the mic, faced the cameras, and spoke.
"Mom. Time to show the world what you taught me."
It had taken time to make Mom's Kook Kick my own. I'd hammered the heavy bag multiple times a day, but as a side-kick variant, balance was tricky. Tahar and Snyder had suffered taking it in sparring to test it live. Relying purely on power exposed you to too many risks.
"To the fans watching—I'll show you a 10-second KO."
"What did he just say in Korean?"
"He declared he'll finish it in 10 seconds."
Magnus finally spoke up, clearly stung by the blatant claim.
"Even you can't do that."
"Too long at 10 seconds?"
I thought his reaction might let me build on it, but he clammed up again. Fine—I'll respect him if he stays silent after eating Mom's Kook Kick.
The next day in the locker room, we ran wrestling drills. The inspector ref entered, and we went through the routine. My edited entrance theme echoed through the arena packed with 20,000 fans. Draped in the Taegukgi like a cape, I strode in amid screams.
I wanted to play to the crowd but yawned at the cameras instead.
"Yawn."
"Woooaaah!"
Loosening my shoulders, I approached the ref—a familiar face—who applied Vaseline.
"Not getting cocky, are you?"
"No way. I'm always dead serious in the cage."
Cocky? Who drops their guard where lives are on the line? I completed my routine, hopped into the WFC Octagon, and waited for Magnus while rolling my shoulders. He entered glaring daggers, fire finally in his eyes now that he was inside.
Magnus was an inja-gang stylist—pure toughness, no obsession with winning, just strong enough to hold #4. Anyone who'd seen his fight with Malloy knew his iron chin. Some even secretly bet on his durability this time.
I warmed up as the announcer hyped us. He introduced me as champion, finished Magnus's rundown, and we met center per the ref's instructions. Ignoring the pointless spiel, I cracked my neck and loomed over Magnus. When instructions ended and gloves extended, he touched politely.
We backed to our corners.
"Fight!"
No second glove touch. I bounced lightly centerward, then dropped my hips so low my vision blacked out.
"Hoo...!"
Instant spatial blackout. Tilting maximally forward to shift center, my tensed muscles signaled my ankle at max range. Like loosing an arrow, I exploded off the elastic power of my muscles.
Thwack!
Magnus's panicked face lagged behind my acceleration. Stabilizing my torso's balance post-launch, I slammed the mat hard.
Thud.
That shifted my center from torso to hips to my cocked right foot. He lunged for a takedown. As I extended the right leg, weight surged to the toes, infusing explosive power into the acceleration.
And unleashed the Kook Kick at his solar plexus.
Krraaaack!!!
"Gahh?!?"
Magnus's skin paled instantly. I knew Mom's lower body strength dwarfed normals, but mine made hers look average. The destructive force from my 100kg frame and long legs could punch holes in heavy bags.
He rocketed back, smashing the fence. I leaped again, driving a flying knee.
Crack!
"Kyaaaak!"
The knee nailed his jaw; he bounced off the fence and crumpled unconscious. As I moved for ground-and-pound, the ref sprinted in. I spun away like a matador, as routine now.
"!!!"
The crowd gasped, thinking that knee had exploded his head. In the chilled silence, the ref urgently checked Magnus. Public execution square—what else described this?
Magnus's skin was ghostly pale. For some reason, my solar plexus throbbed where Mom's Kook Kick had once landed. A chill sweat beaded my nape in the eerie vibe.
Coaches and ringside docs flooded the octagon, confirmed he was alive. Only then did thunderous cheers erupt belatedly.
"Waaaaaaah!!!"
"Common! Common!!!"
Their grave reactions had me thinking I'd fucked up for a second. The flying knee was instinct; I'd briefly regretted thinking I'd killed him. The roaring cheers brought relief, shaking my body.
"Sh-shit... First time I've shivered after landing one in my life."
For the celebration, I pointed my pistol hand at the crowd. Unconscious Magnus was stretchered out fast. Ribs felt shattered from the impact—better passed out, honestly.
Teammates entered; I received the new belt and victory declaration. They buzzed about the kick—Tahar and Snyder had seen it, but Whittaker, Colin, and Young-hoon were stunned fresh.
Dmitry rematch slotted for year-end. Brown worried about my durability, but I'd rarely seen round two. Training wrecked me more than fights, honestly.
"Common! Common!!!"
Now holding my third WFC belt already. As expected, John Logan climbed in, mic in hand.
"Insane! That 6-yard—5.4-meter—kick was what?! Another secret weapon?"
I'd thought it short, not realizing near 5.4m. Just stabbed within range. Won't land full power like that next time.
"Taekwondo. Mom showed it before the Marius fight. Efficient and fucking painful kick."
"No way. How many artistic kicks like that even exist in taekwondo!?"
"Overwhelming variety if I showed every kick type. But games end before I can. Gotta consider all who want a shot at me."
"Who'd think you'd honor that impossible 10-second declaration."
John Logan inhaled sharply and shouted to the crowd.
"You've defended twice now, etching into everyone's minds that you're the real champ by crushing Magnus! Next, heavyweight?"
"Dmitry. Gotta give that guy revenge to fully conquer him. It's my chance too—to utterly smash someone I hate."
"Waaaaaaah!!!"
"That Christian heretic wannabe shamelessly wants round two. So I'll make sure he can't even meet my eyes."
Riding the roaring cheers, we exited the octagon. Back in the locker room, changed, and hit the presser. No questions on Magnus—nobody here loved the no-mic guy. WFC was MMA, but entertainment too—no one remembers unpopular fighters' losses.