The roar of the crowd had become a cacophony, a relentless wave of sound that rattled the protagonist's skull. The high-pitched shrieks mixed with the low, guttural growls of excitement, as if the very air in the underground arena was charged with the electricity of violence. The harsh light from above made everything seem surreal, like the world had become a painting—distorted, stretched, too bright in some places, too dark in others.
Blood soaked into the dust beneath his feet, mingling with sweat and the unmistakable scent of fear. A dark, metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body exhausted and trembling, but every muscle was still coiled, ready.
This is real. This is happening.
His hands were slick with sweat, the pain from his earlier wounds throbbing in the back of his mind, but he couldn't afford to think about it. Not now. His eyes locked on Min Jun, the fighter before him, still standing tall and unfazed despite the solid punch he had just received.
The crowd had gone wild, but the protagonist's focus had narrowed to a pinprick, zeroing in on Min Jun. He had been a blur, a human weapon moving faster than anyone should be able to. Every move he made was designed to crush his opponent, to break their spirit before their body even had a chance to react. Yet somehow, despite everything—despite the pain, the disorientation, and the mounting pressure—he hadn't gone down.
How the hell is he doing this?
It didn't make sense. Every instinct in his body screamed that this wasn't just another street fight. The world felt distorted here, as though the rules had changed. The physics. The speed. The way this guy moves—there's no way he's human.
Min Jun's smirk was chilling, a silent challenge hanging in the air between them. He wasn't concerned. He didn't look like a man who was in danger of losing this fight.
But I'm not out of this yet. I can't be.
The crowd's deafening chants echoed in his ears, their calls rising in tempo like a drumbeat. Underdog, underdog, underdog, they sang, like they wanted to see him crushed. But it only steeled his resolve. This wasn't just about survival anymore. This was about proving he could stand toe-to-toe with a god of combat like Min Jun.
A low growl escaped his throat. He clenched his fists. His fingers tingled with the urge to move, to fight back, to stop running from the inevitable.
Min Jun lunged first, swift as a serpent, his fist slicing through the air like a blade. The protagonist instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow that would have shattered his skull. The wind from the punch ruffled his hair, but it was the force of it—the sheer force—that had him stumbling backward, thrown off balance.
Shit.
He could feel the fight slipping away from him. The speed gap between them was enormous, and no amount of grit was going to close it. His body burned, his lungs screamed for air, and every part of him felt on the verge of breaking. He needed to do something, anything, to turn the tide.
Min Jun wasn't letting up. Every strike was precision-engineered to incapacitate, every move smooth and practiced, like he was dancing on the edge of destruction. A spinning back kick came next, so fast that the protagonist barely had time to raise his arms to block. The force knocked him back, his feet sliding on the slick floor of the arena, his vision blurring for a second.
Focus!
The voice in his head screamed at him, snapping him back to the present. His survival instincts kicked into overdrive. He couldn't afford to keep reacting. He needed to become the one in control.
Min Jun advanced again, ready to finish what he'd started. The protagonist could see it now—every move was a pattern. The rhythm of the strikes, the timing, the flow. Min Jun was a master, but even masters made mistakes.
This is my chance.
The protagonist planted his feet and braced himself. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was clearer now, sharper. The next strike came, a jab aimed directly for his face. He swayed to the side at the last second, feeling the air shift as Min Jun's fist missed by inches.
And then he struck.
The punch he threw was born from everything he had—his pain, his anger, his frustration, his fight for survival. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't perfect. But it was fast, it was unexpected, and it was fueled by pure instinct.
His fist collided with Min Jun's side with a sickening crack.
For a moment, the arena was silent. The crowd held its breath. Min Jun's eyes widened, and the protagonist could see the shock flicker across his face.
Did I just—?
Min Jun staggered back, his hands clutching his side. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of surprise and irritation. He wiped the blood away slowly, as if it was an inconvenience, but the fact that he was hurt—truly hurt—was enough to make the crowd go wild.
The protagonist's chest heaved as he caught his breath. His body ached, every muscle screamed for rest, but he felt alive—more alive than he had in what seemed like forever.
Min Jun didn't move for a moment. Then, with a sneer, he wiped his mouth again. "That was... impressive," he said coldly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But you'll need more than that to beat me."
The protagonist didn't reply. He just waited, his fists still raised, heart hammering.
I'm not done yet. Not by a long shot.