The room behind the ring was dim and neglected, barely lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Jeok Ryeong sat in a corner, his body sore and his arms trembling. He had a cut on his lip, a bruise on his cheek, but his gaze remained steady, burning, fixed on the floor.
One of the men who had brought him to the underground club approached. He was thin, with hair slicked back and hands in his pockets. He looked him over from head to toe with a crooked smile.
"You didn't do so bad for your first time. Well, it's not like you won or anything."
Jeok slowly lifted his head and looked him straight in the eyes.
"I wasn't strong enough," he said hoarsely but confidently.
The man let out a laugh.
"Strong enough, huh? Kid, you didn't even know where to hit. Your movements were a mess. You're here because you were forced, not because you have what it takes."
Jeok didn't answer. The words of the man echoed inside him. He had no technique, no experience. But he knew, from the future memories he had seen, that it wasn't all about strength. He could learn. He could change.
Before the man said anything else, the bulky one entered the room holding a bag.
"Here you go, kid. Your share of the earnings. Not much, but enough to get started."
Jeok took the bag without looking inside. It was money, yes, but not enough to fix his situation. Still, it was a step, even a small one, towards his goal.
"What are you going to do now?" the thin man asked as he lit a cigarette.
Jeok stood up unsteadily and wiped the dried blood from his mouth.
"I'll go back. I'll learn. Next time, I won't lose."
The man looked at him, surprised, with a mixture of disbelief and respect.
"You'll go back, huh? Well, good luck with that. Although you'll need more than luck to survive in this place."
Jeok left the room and walked into the dark streets. The pain was almost unbearable, but his mind was clear. He knew the road would be tough, full of challenges and sacrifices, but he was determined to face them. Every punch received that night was a lesson. Every mistake, an opportunity.
He returned to the underground club just a few days later. Every punch he had received still echoed in his body, but he had also learned something important: pain wouldn't destroy him, only make him stronger.
His footsteps echoed in the alley. He ignored the mocking glances of those who had witnessed his initial humiliation. The same thin man saw him enter and raised an eyebrow.
"Another time? I thought after the beating they gave you, you'd never come back."
Jeok stopped in front of him, head held high and eyes burning with determination.
"I'll come back as many times as necessary."
The man let out a dry laugh.
"Well, kid, if you insist, I guess we'll have to keep entertaining ourselves with you. But don't expect it to be easier this time."
That night, Jeok returned to the ring. His new opponent was a tall, thin teenager with quick movements that contrasted with the slow but strong punches of his previous rival. Jeok positioned himself, remembering the previous experience. This time, he would try to learn more.
The fight's start mirrored the first. The boy moved fast, throwing punches at the torso and face. Jeok dodged some, but others hit him, making him stagger. However, this time he noticed something: his opponent moved his right leg just before throwing a punch. It was subtle, but enough to anticipate.
When the boy threw another punch, Jeok leaned to the side and dodged completely. The surprise on the other's face confirmed it.
But Jeok was still inexperienced. When he tried to counterattack, his fist was easily blocked. The boy seized the opening and delivered a knee to his ribs. The pain forced him to retreat, but instead of feeling defeated, he took it as another lesson.
"My punches are too obvious," he thought. "I need to be more unpredictable."
The fight continued. Although Jeok received more hits than he could dodge, he began to notice patterns. Every move he learned to read was a small victory. Finally, a well-placed hook knocked him to the ground.
The crowd roared. The referee declared the other boy the winner. Jeok, lying on the floor, tasted the metallic flavor of blood. But despite the pain, a small smile appeared on his face. This time, he had learned.
In the following weeks, Jeok kept returning to the club. Every night was a new fight, a new defeat, but also a new opportunity. He adjusted his stance, observed his opponents, read their movements. He lacked formal technique, but was developing something more important: instinct and resilience.
People began to notice his persistence. Although he still lost, he endured longer and dodged better. Even his opponents started to look at him with more than just mockery.
Every loss brought Jeok a little closer to his goal. He didn't seek to win immediately. He knew the road would be long, but that didn't stop him. With each punch, each fall, he was building something stronger inside himself: an unbreakable will that pushed him to keep going.
Night fell over the city, enveloping the streets in silence. In his small apartment, dimly lit by a battered lamp in the corner, Jeok sat on the floor. He looked at his bandaged hands, marked by the fights. Each wound was a reminder of his weakness, but also a test that he could improve.
In front of him, an old notebook — rescued from among his forgotten father's belongings — was open. The yellowed pages had become his space for planning. There, he carefully wrote what he believed was necessary to become stronger: movement patterns, exercises, ideas.
He wrote carefully:
- Daily runs to improve stamina
- Push-ups to strengthen arms and chest
- Using weights to increase strength
- Practicing quick movements in front of the mirror
He sighed. He didn't know if those exercises would be enough, but it was a start. With the money he earned from fights, he bought some used weights and adjusted his expenses to save what he needed.
The next morning, he woke up before dawn. Despite the pain in his body, he put on old sneakers and went for a jog. The streets were cold and deserted, as if the chaos of the day still slept.
Every step echoed against the pavement. He wasn't fast, but he forced himself to keep the pace. The pain in his legs increased, but instead of stopping, he remembered the shouts of the crowd, the mockery from his opponents. Every punch received became a boost.
When he returned, his legs trembled, but a strange satisfaction filled his chest. He took off his shoes and prepared for the next exercise: push-ups. He barely managed to complete ten, but every time he fell, he forced himself to try again.
Then came the weights. He lifted them steadily, feeling his arms tense. They weren't big or fancy, but they were enough. As he worked, his mind focused on one idea: to improve.
Weeks went by. Jeok kept going back to the ring. Every night was a new fight, a new defeat, but also a new chance. He adjusted his stance, observed his opponents, read their movements. He didn't have formal technique, but he was developing something more important: instinct and endurance.
People started to notice his persistence. Although he still lost, he lasted longer and dodged better. Even his opponents looked at him with more than just mockery.
Every defeat brought Jeok a little closer to his goal. He didn't seek immediate victory. He knew the road would be long, but that didn't stop him. With each punch, each fall, he was building something stronger inside himself: an unbreakable will that pushed him to keep going.
Night fell over the city, shrouding the streets in silence. In his small apartment, lit only by a faint lamp, Jeok sat on the floor. He looked at his hands, bandaged and marked from fights. Each wound was a reminder of his weakness, but also proof that he could improve.
"What's wrong with me?" he thought. Scenes from the fight flashed through his mind. "My movements are clumsy. I have no strength, but also no technique. I just improvise. I'll never win like this."
Defeats didn't discourage him. On the contrary, each blow was a reminder that he needed something more. Something that couldn't be achieved by strength or endurance alone.
His breathing was heavy. But his thoughts became clearer.
"I need a fighting style. Something that works for me. But… where do I start?"
He had no teachers. No resources. Just the ring and his opponents.
"Then I'll observe. I'll learn from them. Watch how they move, how they use their bodies."
The idea began to take shape. If his rivals were bigger, that meant their weight could be their weakness.
"If they're bigger, their center of gravity must be poorly distributed at certain moments. I can take advantage of that."
In front of the mirror, he moved his hands with intention. His punches were no longer random. Now they were calculated pushes, movements designed to unbalance.
"No more brute force. It's more about technique."
He visualized how he would apply this strategy. He would use their inertia against them. Palm strikes, pushes at the right moment. Knock them down using their own weight.
He wrote in his notebook:
- Read the opponent's center of gravity
- Attack at the moment of imbalance
- Apply pressure at the correct angle
- Turn the enemy's inertia into an advantage
He stood up. Practiced in front of the mirror. His movements were different now. More focused. More strategic.
"Next time, I won't go into the ring just to endure. I'll go to test this. Every fight will be a lab. Every punch, a test."
The fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. Jeok was determined to transform his body and mind into a precise weapon. There was no room for doubt.