The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mingling with the sweat-soaked scent of fear and adrenaline. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a relentless wave of jeers and cheers that rattled his skull.
"Tonight's final match—a mystery contender from the shadows!" the announcer bellowed, his gravelly voice reverberating through the underground arena.
Stumbling forward, the protagonist blinked against the harsh floodlights, his vision still swimming. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was his regular gym session, hitting the heavy bag with the same practiced rhythm he'd honed for years. But this—this wasn't his world.
His fists tightened reflexively as he stepped into the ring, the canvas beneath his feet stained with dark splotches that could only be blood. Around him, a sea of faces screamed and shouted, their excitement verging on madness. A hulking figure stood across the ring, bouncing lightly on his toes.
The opponent was young, lean, and exuded an aura of terrifying confidence. He wore a cocky grin, his bright, almost glowing eyes locking onto the protagonist like a predator sizing up its prey. The way he moved—a blur of effortless speed and precision—was unlike anything the protagonist had ever faced.
"Focus," he muttered to himself, trying to calm the panic clawing at his chest. "You're a kickboxer. You've fought before. Just... not like this."
The announcer's voice cut through the chaos: "On one side, the Phantom Kick of the arena—Min Jun!" The crowd erupted, chanting the name with frenzied devotion.
"On the other side... uh, whoever this guy is!" Jeers followed, and the protagonist felt his stomach drop.
The bell rang.
Min Jun exploded forward, closing the distance in an instant. His first kick was a blur, the air hissing as his leg whipped upward. The protagonist barely had time to throw his arms up in a desperate block. The impact rattled his bones, sending him skidding back.
Too fast. His mind scrambled to process the attack. Way too fast.
Min Jun smirked, not giving him a moment to recover. He followed up with a spinning heel kick aimed at the protagonist's head. Instinct kicked in. The protagonist ducked low, the kick missing by inches, and countered with a wild right hook.
His fist sailed harmlessly through the air. Min Jun had already darted out of range, his movements almost mocking in their fluidity.
"You call that a punch?" Min Jun taunted, his voice dripping with disdain.
The crowd roared with laughter.
Stay calm, the protagonist thought, his breath coming in short gasps. His heart pounded like a war drum. He knew he was outmatched—not just in speed, but in skill. Every move Min Jun made felt like it belonged in a video game, too perfect to be real.
Min Jun darted in again, unleashing a barrage of kicks aimed at every possible angle—high, low, to the ribs, to the legs. The protagonist dodged what he could and blocked what he couldn't, each impact sapping his strength. His legs burned, his arms throbbed, and his head buzzed with the deafening noise of the crowd.
I can't win like this. Panic threatened to overtake him. He's faster, stronger, better. If I keep reacting, I'll lose before I can even land a hit.
Min Jun launched into a spinning jump kick, the kind that would have been pure showmanship in any other fight. But here, it was lethal. The protagonist barely sidestepped, feeling the rush of air as the kick grazed his ear.
Wait... showmanship?
That's when it clicked. Min Jun wasn't just fighting; he was performing. Every move was designed to look spectacular for the audience.
If he's focused on showing off... maybe there's an opening.
The next time Min Jun advanced, the protagonist didn't back away. Instead, he stood his ground, deliberately leaving an opening.
"Big mistake," Min Jun sneered, launching into a roundhouse kick aimed at the exposed side.
But this time, the protagonist was ready. As the kick came in, he twisted his body just enough to let it glance off his shoulder. The impact hurt, but it left Min Jun slightly off-balance.
Now!
Drawing on every ounce of his training, the protagonist pivoted and delivered a lightning-fast counter—a perfectly-timed elbow strike straight to Min Jun's ribs.
The crack of impact echoed through the arena. Min Jun staggered back, clutching his side, his confident grin replaced by a grimace of pain.
The crowd fell silent for a heartbeat. Then, chaos erupted.
The protagonist stood there, panting, his body screaming in protest but his spirit surging with newfound determination.
Across the ring, Min Jun straightened, wiping a thin trail of blood from the corner of his mouth. To the protagonist's dismay, a smirk crept back onto his face.
"Not bad," Min Jun said, his tone icy. "But don't think that's enough to beat me."
The bell rang, signaling the end of the first round.
The protagonist staggered to his corner, his legs shaking. His mind raced with a mix of fear and exhilaration. He'd survived the first round. Barely.
But as Min Jun's smirk burned into his memory, one thought loomed above all others:
What the hell have I gotten myself into?