Dancing with the Wolf
“Whoa, that's insane!”
“It's art. Pure art.”
“I've never seen anything like that!”
“You throw a head kick and then land an elbow mid-arc? Are you out of your mind? One slip and that's a car crash waiting to happen...”
Everyone was beside themselves with admiration, but to me it was nothing worth fussing over. Every fight I'd experienced in the ancient world had been wagered on my life, after all.
Boxing, pankration, battlefield combat, gladiatorial games — it was all the same. I'd even faced wild beasts with nothing but a single blade. Fighting while injured, or watching a minor wound turn fatal, was commonplace.
In an environment like that, technique itself matters less than precision and timing. Even training carried risks you couldn't afford to ignore, so the key was maintaining absolute, unwavering focus at all times.
That was exactly why I could absorb any technique like a sponge the moment I understood its principle.
“Good.”
I was evolving, unmistakably so. Meeting the refined techniques of the modern era, I was finally coming into bloom.
***
“A middle schooler. Terrifying. Just terrifying.”
The bald man I'd just finished fighting stopped halfway through our handshake and blurted it out.
“You're going to be a champion.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I've never seen anyone fight like you.”
“Haha, thank you.”
“I have no desire to compete in the same organization, in the same weight class, as you.”
The bald man shook his head slowly.
“I've never once thought I couldn't beat anyone... but you're different.”
It was less a compliment than the muttering of a man lost inside his own world. His downcast eyes were shadowed, almost despairing.
I'd rarely heard anyone say it out loud, but those eyes, that expression — they were familiar. In the ancient world, countless opponents of mine had worn that same face.
So I offered no clumsy consolation, simply bowing my head in respect to his cornermen.
Then the referee raised my hand and shouted.
“KFC One-Day Tournament featherweight semifinal! Winner — Shin Yugyeom!”
Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap...
Some had taken their seats, some were still standing, but all of them applauded me fervently.
Feeling gazes burning far hotter than in my previous matches, I stepped off the stage.
“What kind of nerve does this kid have—”
Park Nam-rae clicked his tongue.
“That's genuinely not-sane-in-the-head level. And thanks to it, the footage came out spectacular. Post this and it's guaranteed to blow up, right? I've dug through every fight video out there and I've never seen anything like this.”
He'd been filming the whole time, of course.
“Did it come out well?”
“It's unreal! Look at this.”
Nam-rae hyung showed me the footage.
“Whoa. Damn. That's seriously cool...”
Even watching it myself, I had to admit it was impressive.
“Whew, that's dangerous. Looks great, sure, but watching it again makes my stomach drop.”
The master chimed in. I chose to take it as a compliment about my crisp technique.
“That's the beauty of fighting, isn't it?”
“...Keep that up and one clean shot could end you. I know you're pushing yourself to overcome the stamina problem, but don't stake your life on every single match.”
No, that wasn't it.
My style was like this regardless of any stamina risk, but I didn't want to bring that up and worry him needlessly.
“You're the one who told me to fight like my life depended on it.”
When Nam-rae hyung pushed back, the master cleared his throat awkwardly and added, looking at me.
“That's because this kid literally does put his life on the line. I mean you shouldn't take a big hit, develop some trauma, and quit the sport.”
“Hmm, fair point.”
“Honestly, I wouldn't trust myself to pull that off even against a beginner at the gym. Stuntmen rehearsing a choreographed sequence, maybe — but in a real fight...”
“It felt doable.”
I summed it up in one line.
“I did it because I was certain it would work. But I'll be careful.”
Still, it gave me the shot of a lifetime. I'd have to screenshot it and change my profile picture. Felt a bit like one of those people who climb cliffs just to nail the perfect photo, though.
The master apparently decided he'd nagged enough and changed the subject.
“Yugyeom, your last opponent is a foreigner.”
“A foreigner?”
He'd been keeping an eye on the other cages between matches anyway.
“Uhh, looked Central Asian to me. You know, kids from one of those -stan countries.”
“Oh! I saw him earlier too. The ones with the beards.”
Nam-rae hyung nodded along.
“Didn't catch much of his actual fighting, but he looks the part, apparently. I've been to plenty of tournaments and let me tell you, foreign fighters aren't all good just because they're foreign. They all look alike — beards, Dagestani UFC types — so everyone judges them by appearance and talks trash, but get in there with them and all they've got is strength and aggression. Half the time they get hyped up and gas out in no time.”
Having rattled all that off like flowing water, he seemed to realize he'd overshot into TMI territory and added sheepishly.
“Not that a guy like that would've made it this far, of course.”
“I agree with you, hyung, but this one just seems strong, plain and simple. Wrestling base, solid kickboxing too, and he caught every single opponent with a first-round submission.”
“Exactly like our Yugyeom.”
Nam-rae hyung asked,
“...He didn't pull any surprise techniques like you did, right?”
“No. He's textbook. So natural it felt like he'd been training his whole life.”
When the master answered, Nam-rae hyung furrowed his brow.
“A genuine -stan product. If he's dominating like that, he's probably not just some regional level.”
“There are guys like that sometimes, you know.”
“There are. But in a tournament where only the winner gets an immediate pro debut... either they should let those guys walk straight through, or the organizers should screen them out properly.”
“Well, if the fighter doesn't say anything, KFC can't exactly know in advance that he's fought in his home country. Some of them come here for work first, sort out their visa, and only then start thinking about going pro.”
“Everyone's got their circumstances, I suppose.”
I shrugged.
“Either way, whether he's from Dagestan or Bhutangas, ethnicity means nothing to me.”
Greece and Rome hadn't just been home to countless races — even by modern medical standards, there had existed monstrous giants you'd struggle to find today. In a world where men pitted themselves against wild beasts, there wasn't even a concept of judging strength by race or weight class. Simply being able to wage bloody battle against another human being was gratitude enough.
“Glad to hear you're still full of confidence after everything I said...”
The master scratched his temple and went on.
“From what I saw, he's the type who stays calm at range, picks you apart, and shoots a takedown the moment an opening appears. The way he mangles people, his strength is real too. He's probably far stronger than most pros, and the matchup's bad on top of that.”
“Master, isn't that just a fancy way of saying you think I'm going to lose? What's the game plan?”
Nam-rae hyung asked that, and I leaned in to listen too — but the master only shook his head.
“Honestly, I don't think anything we prepare right now can be applied immediately. But you still need to know your opponent. What's certain is that an early rush won't come easy. I'll think about other angles, so you work on a Plan B too.”
“I'll think about it.”
Nam-rae hyung had volunteered to help, but I doubted he'd be much use. Besides—
“I already know the answer.”
At my words, both men turned their heads at once.
“What?”
And I told them my Plan B.
“You find the answer inside the cage. Because my opponent will be holding it.”
“...!”
It was the equivalent of answering “just fill in the answers well at the exam hall” when asked how much you'd studied — but Nam-rae hyung marveled anyway.
“That's why you're built different. That's right — what's the worst that can happen, dying? No point being scared in advance!”
The master nodded too.
“That mindset is good. As long as you don't get dragged into his rhythm, your chance will come! I'll keep helping from outside, so keep your ears open and fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was nothing left to change at this point anyway. Soon, the ring announcer inside the cage I was watching called out.
“Next — KFC One-Day Tournament featherweight final! Shin Yugyeom! Magomed Ulinbekov!”
Even the name alone sounded formidable.
Carrying not tension but a fluttering sense of anticipation, I stepped into the cage. Applause erupted on its own. Somewhere along the way, I'd become a fighter to watch.
Then the -stan fighter made his entrance. Short hair, a beard — he resembled the -stan fighters you'd see in the UFC, but I didn't get the sense that his body was monstrously huge or his muscles terrifyingly carved. Up close, it was the same.
What stood out were the faint old scars scattered across his dumpling-like ears. His steady gaze, too, was unflashy but carried the air of a strong man.
“...Protect yourselves at all times and follow my commands.”
The referee said.
“Touch gloves and return to your corners.”
I tapped gloves with my opponent, went to my corner, and waited for the fight to begin. Perhaps because this was already my third match of the day, none of it felt unfamiliar anymore. My body was fully warmed, and it felt as though the senses I'd fought with in the ancient world had returned.
Thump... thump...
And then, from the center, the referee shouted.
“Fight!”
I advanced to the middle of the cage, and my opponent came out from the far side, closing the distance. He extended his lead hand like an antenna, but I refused to play the hand game. Before either of us had even established range, I was already on top of him.
Whoosh!
He snapped out a jab on reflex. I slipped it with nothing but a turn of my head and stepped in, unleashing lead hand and rear hand in sequence — a wide uppercut, then a hook.
He retreated and both shots sailed past. Having driven him back to kicking range, I raised my rear leg as if I'd been waiting for exactly this. In the ancient world I'd almost never thrown kicks that invited counters, so my form was a touch awkward — but the timing was perfect.
Thud!
The ball of my foot buried itself in his ribs just as he came forward to throw his own counter. With our bodies colliding, the damage should have landed hard — and yet, in the middle of it all, he caught my leg.
At the same instant, I spotted his guard hanging wide open, and pivoting on my trapped leg, I launched a jumping spinning back kick with the other.
CRACK!
“Whoaaa!”
A gasp tore through the crowd.
The back kick had landed on his face, so I expected him to go down. But my posture had been sloppy, blunting the point of impact — he merely staggered and stayed on his feet.
Regardless, my pivot leg had lifted clean off the ground, and I went down, slapping the canvas and springing straight back up. I was breathing hard.
Meanwhile, he'd thrown his rear hand in that window. I ducked under the aggressive swing with a lunge-like bend of the knees, and just as I moved to counter — he suddenly dropped his stance. The rear hand had been bait all along.
In that instant, I was already turning. From the low crouch, I whipped my upper body around and threw a back spin elbow.
CRACK...!
The elbow, loaded with the full rotational force of my hips and the weight of my upper body, crashed into his temple as he closed in at point-blank range.
I willed him to drop right there — but instead, he collapsed against my thigh and wrapped up my legs in a body lock.
Still, while my body weight was light, I had complete confidence in my center of gravity, so I didn't pull a sprawl. Instead, legs spread in a low base, I kept my back perfectly straight. I shoved the pressing opponent off with core strength while angling my head to the side.
He slipped past, and as I freed my rear leg and stepped out at an angle, barely recovering my balance, I drove an overhand straight into the face of the man turning back toward me.
WHAM!
Then a rear uppercut.
THUD!
Scenting blood, I lifted my rear knee as well—
CRACK!
And at last, my opponent crumpled to the floor like a harpooned quarry, and the referee dove in.
***