The gym smelled like sweat, dust, and something else—something bitter. The scent of fear.
It was after school hours, and the gym floor had been cleared out. Mats were laid across the wooden boards. The windows were blacked out with plastic, and the bleachers were packed—not with cheering fans, but with quiet students whispering like a brewing storm.
This was the "Evaluation Match," a monthly ritual at Daejin High. The fights weren't on any official calendar, but everyone knew when one was coming. Betting slips passed between desks. Students skipped cram school. Teachers looked the other way.
In the center ring stood Cho Kyung-ho.
Short, thick legs. Coiled like springs. Buzz cut. His uniform sleeves were ripped at the shoulders, exposing bruised arms that spoke of countless street fights. His eyes were narrow and fast—eyes that didn't blink much. His red armband had three black stripes stitched across it.
Three wins. Zero losses.
On the other side, barefoot and tense, was Shin Dae-hyun.
He wore no armband. No fighting record. No crowd. Just a borrowed mouthguard and a chest tight with pressure.
"Is this a joke?" someone muttered from the stands.
"That's the kid who got stomped on the roof."
"He's gonna die."
Dae-hyun heard it all, but he didn't react. His eyes were locked on Kyung-ho's legs—thick, tensed, shifting weight from foot to foot. Fast legs. Like Mr. Yoon said.
He didn't need to match his speed.
He just needed to read it.
Mr. Yoon stood in the center, arms outstretched. "This is a D-Rank evaluation match. Three-minute rounds. Clean strikes. No face shots while down. Yield or blackout ends it."
"Ready?"
Kyung-ho rolled his neck and grinned.
Dae-hyun nodded once.
"Fight!"
Kyung-ho exploded off the line like a missile.
A roundhouse kick came flying straight for Dae-hyun's ribs. Fast. Too fast.
He barely dodged, the wind brushing his shirt.
The second kick came low—sweeping the legs.
Dae-hyun fell hard, grunting as his shoulder hit the mat.
The crowd laughed.
"This ain't even a match!"
Kyung-ho bounced on his toes, not even winded. "You sure you belong here, kid?"
Dae-hyun slowly stood. His arms shook slightly. He was already sweating, but he was watching. Always watching.
Every step, every breath, every bounce.
Kyung-ho's lead leg tensed first. Right shoulder dropped slightly before each kick. He reset his stance the same way every time.
Patterns.
He had patterns.
Second exchange.
Kyung-ho faked high and kicked low again. This time, Dae-hyun jumped back.
"Hah. You learn fast," Kyung-ho muttered. "But not fast enough."
The next kick was different—a fast spinning back kick. Dae-hyun tried to move, but it caught his side. His ribs screamed.
He fell again, clutching his stomach.
The referee stepped forward.
"Still in?" he asked.
Dae-hyun gritted his teeth and nodded.
Blood filled his mouth. He swallowed it.
Up in the bleachers, Lee Chan-mi watched with her arms crossed. Her eyes didn't blink once.
"He's not trying to win," she whispered. "He's trying to learn."
Beside her sat a boy with dyed silver hair and bandaged knuckles.
"That's dumb," the boy scoffed. "He'll be unconscious before he learns anything."
Chan-mi didn't respond.
Back on the mat, Kyung-ho grew impatient.
"Tired already? Want me to end it?"
Dae-hyun stood again. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes were focused now. Laser sharp.
"You telegraph," he said quietly.
Kyung-ho froze. "What?"
"Before each kick. Your lead leg twitches. You breathe in short. You drop your shoulder. You have a rhythm."
"You're predictable."
That's when the laughter stopped.
Kyung-ho's face twisted in annoyance. "Say that again."
Dae-hyun didn't.
He moved.
He stepped in—not back, like before.
Kyung-ho launched a kick—same as always.
But Dae-hyun had timed it.
He dropped his weight and grabbed Kyung-ho's ankle mid-kick.
Unorthodox. Risky.
But effective.
Kyung-ho stumbled, off-balance, surprised.
Dae-hyun lunged and drove his shoulder into Kyung-ho's chest, tackling him to the mat.
A clean hit.
The crowd gasped.
Kyung-ho rolled to recover, face now red with rage.
"You little—!"
He charged.
A flurry of kicks came fast—spinning, snapping, sweeping.
But Dae-hyun wasn't guessing anymore. He was reading.
He ducked under a high kick.
Rolled away from a sweep.
Dodged a flying knee.
He couldn't land many hits, but he avoided damage. And that was enough.
Because Kyung-ho was tiring.
His kicks slowed.
His guard dropped.
And in that moment, Dae-hyun moved in—not to strike, but to trip.
Kyung-ho went down again.
Mr. Yoon watched closely. "He's not fighting like a student," he muttered. "He's fighting like a reader. A thinker."
The crowd didn't cheer.
They were confused.
The weak kid wasn't supposed to last more than a minute.
And yet, he was standing.
Final minute.
Kyung-ho was panting now.
His sweat dripped onto the mat. His arms were loose. His kicks had lost power.
He lunged in frustration—a sloppy punch.
Dae-hyun ducked under and countered with a short jab to the ribs.
Kyung-ho winced.
Another jab. Then another.
No flourish. No showboating. Just calculated body blows.
Kyung-ho swung wide.
Dae-hyun sidestepped and swept the leg again.
Thud.
Kyung-ho fell hard.
Mr. Yoon stepped in. "Stop!"
He looked down at Kyung-ho, who lay there, breathing hard but not unconscious.
"Cho Kyung-ho, do you yield?"
No answer.
Mr. Yoon looked at Dae-hyun. "Continue?"
Dae-hyun stepped back, shaking his head.
"He's done."
A long silence followed.
Then the gym erupted.
Not in cheering, but in murmurs. Stunned voices. Whispers of disbelief.
"He won?"
"How the hell…?"
"That was a strategy fight."
Mr. Yoon lifted Dae-hyun's wrist.
"Winner: Shin Dae-hyun."
A crimson armband was placed in his hand—blank, with no stripes yet. But it was official.
He was now part of the system.
In the hallway after the match, Lee Chan-mi waited with her hands in her pockets.
Dae-hyun limped toward her, clutching his ribs.
"You watched?"
"Every second."
He nodded. "I'm not strong. But I can think."
She smirked. "Thinking gets you past the first fight. Surviving the system… that's a whole different war."
"Then teach me."
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded once.
"I will. But only if you're serious."
"I am."
"Then congratulations, strategist."
She tossed him a small towel.
"You're officially one of us now."
Dae-hyun took the crimson armband and tied it to his bicep.
It didn't shine.
But it fit.
---
End of Chapter 3