-He said he'd eat me alive. So I fed him my fists instead.
Saturday Night – MR Arena, Miami
The crowd pulsed like a living thing.
Flashing lights raked across the small stadium, bouncing off the cage like lightning trapped in a prison. Phones were up. Fans roaring. Cameras rolling.
And there I was.
Standing barefoot on the canva, wearing a pair of black MMA trunks, my body buzzing with adrenaline, blood humming like an electric wire.
Across from me: "King" Klay Robinson. 6'3, shredded like granite, arms tattooed with flames, a mouthguard shaped like a crown.
He pounded his chest once and grinned.
I didn't flinch, because I wasn't here to play.
Announcer's Booth
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to MR Promotions' Rising Gloves main event! In the red corner, standing six feet three inches tall, with a record of 9 wins, 1 loss—'The Brawler King' Klay Robinson!"
The crowd erupted, most of them local, most of them cheering for the giant.
"And in the blue corner… making his exhibition debut, representing the University of Miami... Kai Mendoza!"
Scattered cheers. Mostly curiosity.
The underdog. The viral sparring clip guy.
No one expected him to win.
But the experienced ones?
They were already watching his eyes.
Inside the Cage
I bounced on the balls of my feet.
My knuckles brushed together. The wraps felt tight. Secure. Familiar.
The ref gave the rules—no knees to a grounded opponent, no elbows to the spine. I wasn't listening. Not really. I was watching Klay's eyes.
[VALKYRIE COMBAT PROTOCOL – ONLINE]
Opponent: "Klay Robinson"Style: BrawlerOpening Habit: Leadoff right cross feint, follow with lead hookReaction Window: 0.4 secondsChin Durability: NormalRecommended Plan: Leg kicks → lateral movement → break rhythm → counter-stun → inside finish
I inhaled through my nose.
And exhaled slowly.
The cage door locked.
The bell rang.
Strategic Battle Start
He charged at me like a tank.
No hesitation.
His first punch was a wide right feint, just like Valkyrie said. My feet slid to the left before my mind even processed it.
His hook came fast—
—but I ducked low, inside range, and nailed his thigh with a short leg kick.
He grunted, and backed up.
The crowd shouted in confusion.
I circled him, light on my feet, flicking another leg kick. It smacked flesh like a baseball bat. His stance staggered for a second.
He tried to adjust and came in faster this time, launching a real cross to test my guard.
I absorbed it on my forearm, but the impact rattled my bones.
He was strong. Legit. A beast.
But beasts don't think.
I do.
Low kick. Step back. Right hook feint. Step in. Elbow to the jaw—
No, too early.
He wasn't rattled yet.
I needed him angry.
"Come on, 'King,'" I taunted. "You fight like your title made by your sister."
He snarled.
And rushed again.
Valkyrie Voice – Tactical Prompt
Enemy in rage state. Pattern collapse detected. Reaction lag increased to 0.6 seconds.
Execute Counter Protocol: Feint → Parry → Lead Elbow → Liver Hook
I obeyed.
Feinted a front kick—he bit.
Parried his straight.
Stepped in.
CRACK.
My elbow smashed against his cheekbone. He grunted, off-balance. His guard dropped—
BAM!
I buried my left into his ribs. Just under the liver.
He staggered.
The crowd gasped.
But I didn't let up.
Knees into his thighs, punches to the temple, short sharp jabs until—
CLINCH.
He grabbed me, crushing pressure clamping around my arms. He tried to slam me.
But I dropped my weight, twisted my hips, used his momentum and we rolled.
Back up in a flash.
He panted, bleeding now from the cheek.
I was grinning.
'This is what it feels like.'
'The weight. The danger. The pressure.'
'It's not a warzone, but it's close. And unlike the desert, this time… there's a ref. A crowd. Rules. A paycheck.'
'It feels good.'
He blinked blood out of his eye. Glared at me like he couldn't believe what was happening.
And me?
I was alive.
Really alive.
No bullets. No betrayal.
Just sweat. Grit. And the system whispering cold math into my brain like a tactician.
I felt like a soldier again.
But this time, I was fighting for myself.
Final Clash
Klay roared and threw a looping right.
I slipped it, used his shoulder as a lever—and snapped a short elbow into his nose.
Cartilage cracked.
Blood sprayed.
The ref moved closer.
But Klay was still standing.
Stumbling. Wobbling.
I followed.
No hesitation.
Left low kick.
Right jab.
Then the finish: a feint uppercut.
He raised his guard.
I ducked and launched a left hook.
It connected.
Clean.
His eyes rolled.
He fell.
Flat.
The crowd lost it.
The bell rang.
The ref stepped in, hands waving.
"STOP! THAT'S IT!"
[VICTORY]
Match Won via TKO – Round 1EXP +700Boxing Lv.2 → Lv.3Trait Gained: "Predator's Patience" – +5% effectiveness against aggressive stylesCombat Rank: E- → D
Post-Fight – Commentary Booth
"Who the hell is this kid?"
"He's got the timing, power, movement, and did you see that finish?—man, that was calculated."
"Could he be a real deal? Or is this a fluke?"
"Fluke or not… someone just woke up the arena."
Backstage – 10 Minutes Later
The locker room was cold and loud with echoes.
I sat shirtless on a bench, towel draped over my shoulders. My hands are shaking from adrenaline.
Jess called.
I answered with a grin.
"You saw that?"
"Yeah," she said, voice small. "You won."
"You sound worried."
"I am."
"…Why?"
"Because you looked like you belonged in that cage."
The line went quiet for a second.
Then she added, softer, "I don't know if that's good or bad."
I didn't answer right away.
'Neither do I.'
Post-Fight Interview
A guy in a sharp suit approached me. Slicked-back hair with silver watch and a thick Miami accent.
"My name is Carlos Mendoza," he said. "We're not related, right?"
"Right."
He handed me a black folder.
"Official invite. From the Pan-American Combat Consortium. They're watching now. You made waves tonight, chico."
I opened it.
Inside was a silver-embossed card with a single line:
"When money talks… fists answer."
Underneath it was a seal: PAC Consortium.
An underground combat scene where high-stakes business deals were settled with fists, not contracts—fighters standing in for CEOs, and every punch could shift millions.
Corporate fighting.
Real stakes.
Real money.
Real danger.
My heart thumped.
This wasn't just the minor leagues anymore.