The crowd roared like a pack of wild animals, their bloodthirsty cries echoing in the underground coliseum. The air was thick with tension, charged with an electric current that crackled through the dimly lit arena. The concrete walls were stained with sweat and blood, remnants of battles past. The spotlight overhead cast harsh, unforgiving shadows that stretched long and deep, as though the arena itself was a living, breathing entity, eager for carnage.
The metallic tang of blood mixed with the sickly scent of sweat, a blend that filled his nostrils and curled in his throat. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears as he wiped his forehead, his eyes stinging from the blood trickling down his face. The sting of his wounds only reminded him of the stakes, of the strange, unnerving reality he now found himself thrust into.
What the hell is this place?
His mind raced with confusion and frustration, each moment amplifying the surreal strangeness of the situation. One moment, he had been living a normal life. The next, he was thrust into a fight for survival against an opponent who seemed like he had been born to fight. He didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten here—but one thing was clear: if he wanted to walk out of this alive, he had to adapt.
Min Jun was the perfect fighter, a master of his craft. His speed was inhuman, and his strikes had a force that could shatter bone. He seemed to move before the protagonist even realized it, his attacks flashing in quick bursts like a storm. His body was a weapon, precise and fluid, every movement calculated to break his opponent's will. And yet, despite the damage, despite the overwhelming power behind each strike, there was something in the protagonist—something primal—that refused to back down.
Min Jun's taunting smirk was maddening. He circled like a predator, never losing sight of his prey. The protagonist could feel the crowd's eyes on him, watching, waiting for the moment when he would collapse. Come on, just give up. You don't belong here, he could almost hear them think.
I belong here.
The thought was a fire that ignited in his chest. He wasn't just some random guy thrown into a ring. He was a fighter. He had been through hell before—this was nothing new. His hands clenched, muscles coiling as he focused. His experience in underground street fights, the long nights spent training, the instincts honed through years of survival—they were all coming together now.
It's just a fight. Just a fight…
He blinked away the dizziness from a hard punch to his jaw, his vision swimming for a moment. He steadied himself, refusing to let the world slip away.
Min Jun struck again, a quick jab to his ribs, followed by a roundhouse kick that cut through the air with terrifying speed. The protagonist barely managed to twist his body enough to avoid the brunt of the blow, but it grazed his side, sending shockwaves of pain through his body. His body screamed for him to quit. He was already battered and bruised, his muscles aching, his vision swimming with every movement. But he wasn't about to give Min Jun the satisfaction of seeing him falter.
Min Jun came at him again, faster this time—his movements were almost too quick for the human eye. He twisted in midair, his foot slicing toward the protagonist's throat.
Shit, I'm too slow.
Instinct kicked in, and the protagonist rolled backward, just avoiding the kick, his body hitting the ground with a thud. He scrambled to his feet, his hands shaking, his breath ragged. The adrenaline surged through him, making him feel alive in a way he hadn't in ages.
Focus. Don't think, just move. Keep moving.
His vision was blurry from exhaustion, but he could see Min Jun's outline through the haze, preparing for another strike.
The crowd's roars reached a fever pitch. The noise was deafening, the sound of their hunger echoing in his ears.
Min Jun's body shot forward, his fist aimed straight for the protagonist's face. A killer blow. But this time, the protagonist was ready.
Now or never.
He ducked under the punch, his muscles screaming in protest, and with a move born from instinct, he spun, using the momentum of Min Jun's missed strike to his advantage. He threw his own fist forward, aiming for the side of Min Jun's ribcage.
The punch landed with a sickening thud.
For a brief moment, time seemed to slow. Min Jun staggered back, his body jerking from the force of the blow. The crowd went silent, stunned. The protagonist's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Min Jun try to regain his balance. He hadn't expected it—neither had Min Jun.
Min Jun's eyes widened with a flicker of disbelief. He looked down at the blood trickling from his mouth, then back up at the protagonist. For the first time, there was a crack in the mask of superiority he always wore.
The crowd's silence broke into chaos. The roar that followed was deafening. The underdog had struck back.
Min Jun wiped the blood from his mouth, smirking once more. "Not bad," he said, his voice cold and dangerous. "But you'll have to do better than that if you want to take me down."
The protagonist didn't respond. He didn't need to. He could feel it—the shift. The balance had tipped.
His breath was shallow, his body wracked with pain, but there was no going back now. This fight was far from over.