Evening crept over the city like a velvet curtain, and the glow of the streetlights began to push back the coming darkness.
Bicycles, cars, and scooters hissed past on the old commercial street, their lights reflecting off rain-worn shop signs.
Among them, a single figure pedaled slowly yet steadily on a battered old bicycle: Yogan.
The frame creaked under his weight, but he rode with a purposeful rhythm.
Every turn of the pedal seemed to echo his determination.
He was headed for the Zhenwei Martial Arts Gym, a place that had been in his mind all week.
From the street below, muted yet powerful noises drifted up—
the heavy thump of strikes, the muffled boom of bodies hitting mats, and occasional roars of exertion.
The gym occupied the second floor of an aging commercial block whose cracked walls told stories of a bygone era.
Yogan dismounted, chained his bike, and climbed the worn concrete stairs two at a time.
When he pushed open the slightly cloudy glass door, a wave of warmth rushed over him—
a cocktail of sweat, leather, disinfectant, and the faint tang of liniment oil.
Inside, the gym pulsed with life.
Dozens of heavy bags swayed like pendulums under the impact of muscular men pounding away at them.
Jump ropes slapped rhythmically on rubber mats.
The air vibrated with grunts, claps, and the muted thud of gloves meeting pads.
In the midst of all this, Yogan stood out.
He wore a plain school uniform, his slender frame and youthful face contrasting sharply with the scarred, broad-shouldered fighters around him.
Yet his dark eyes held a fire that belonged here more than anywhere else.
At the reception desk sat a portly, middle-aged man with a shaved head.
He looked up from a clipboard, eyebrows lifting slightly.
"Student, are you looking for someone?"
Yogan recognized him immediately—Zhang Lei, the gym's owner and head coach, a former regional champion whose reputation as a hard trainer was whispered about online.
But Yogan's gaze passed Zhang Lei without hesitation.
His eyes roamed over the mats, the bags, the fighters.
The fire inside him burned hotter.
"Teacher," he said quietly, "I want to learn how to fight."
His voice wasn't loud, but it was unshakably firm.
"Can I start practicing now?"
Zhang Lei blinked.
This "bean sprout" in front of him looked as thin as a bamboo stick, drained from study and lack of sleep.
"Young student, the training here is very difficult," Zhang Lei warned, his tone serious.
"This is not a game."
"I'm sure," Yogan replied without hesitation.
Zhang Lei studied the boy's eyes.
They were not the eyes of someone curious for a day or two.
They were the eyes of someone who had made a decision.
He nodded slowly.
"Okay. Follow me. Let's start with the punching bag."
He led Yogan to the lightest bag in the corner, a scuffed but sturdy cylinder, and handed him an old pair of gloves.
They smelled faintly of chalk and leather.
Yogan slipped them on with a practiced ease, tightened the straps, and stepped in front of the bag.
He settled into a stance that was rusty at first—shoulders hunched, elbows a little too wide.
But after a few tentative jabs, something shifted.
Memories from another lifetime flooded back—hours spent drilling combinations, sparring, competing.
His hands began to move on their own, guided by instincts honed long ago.
His direct hits were quick and precise, his straight shots fluid.
Though his strikes lacked raw power—emitting only muted thump, thump sounds—the rhythm of his movements was unmistakably professional.
Zhang Lei, arms folded, watched closely.
His eyebrows drew together.
This kid… didn't look like a beginner at all.
"Go ahead, try the pads!" Zhang Lei called, curiosity creeping into his voice.
He picked up a pair of focus mitts and stood in front of Yogan.
Just after he spoke, the glove on his right hand gleamed under the overhead light.
"Blow up!"
A sharp, explosive sound cracked through the gym as Yogan's left fist slammed dead center into the mitt.
Zhang Lei's eyes widened.
He quickened his pace, switching his gloves left and right, changing rhythm and angle to test him.
"Shh! Shh! Shh-shh!"
The rapid pah-pah-pah of gloves echoed like a drumroll.
Other gym members began to glance over, curiosity replacing their own focus.
They saw something uncanny: no matter how unpredictable Coach Zhang's pads became, the tall, slender boy anticipated them—
landing every punch squarely in the middle.
He was reading Zhang Lei's movements before they happened.
Zhang Lei's heart shifted from mild surprise to genuine shock.
He felt a tingle in his arms from the impact, and a question formed unbidden.
"Son, have you ever had training?"
"I was just practicing by myself," Yogan said lightly.
"You practiced yourself into this?"
Zhang Lei frowned, interest rising.
"Let's get in the ring. Put on your protective gear. Let's fight a little," he said.
This would be a real test.
Without a word, Yogan shrugged off his school jacket and climbed through the ropes.
Zhang Lei laced up his headgear and gloves, his broad frame filling the opposite corner like a wall.
"Are you ready? I'm coming to you!" he warned in a deep voice.
He threw a left punch.
In Yogan's eyes, the punch unfolded in slow motion.
He tilted his head slightly, and the glove hissed past his cheek.
Zhang Lei followed instantly with a straight from the rear.
Yogan dipped again, his body bending like a reed in the wind, and escaped.
At the same time his left hand flicked out—a mere tap against Zhang Lei's ribs.
There was no power, but the timing and placement sent a jolt through the coach.
With a grunt, Zhang Lei escalated, launching combinations of hooks, uppercuts, low kicks, and high kicks.
His movements were heavy yet disciplined, like a bear striking with the wind behind it.
Inside the ring, the scene turned almost surreal.
Zhang Lei's fists and feet crashed forward with force and speed.
Yogan looked like a frail leaf tossed about—but a leaf that always slipped through the gaps in the storm.
Each punch brushed air against his skin, but none landed.
Worse for Zhang Lei, Yogan wasn't merely dodging.
He was counter-touching, tagging every opening with precise, controlled taps, again and again.
The coach's frustration mounted.
This wasn't normal reflex.
This was something else.
The more Yogan fought, the more a forgotten joy rose within him.
The feeling of controlling distance, timing, and rhythm—the sensation of being inside an Octagon with the world watching—came rushing back from his previous life.
Instinctively, he sidestepped Zhang Lei's hook.
His body twisted, momentum flowing through his hips, and his rear fist shot forward like a spear.
He stopped it one centimeter from Zhang Lei's chin.
The rush of air from the strike tickled the older man's beard.
Every hair on Zhang Lei's body stood on end.
He took a step back and raised both hands.
"Stop," he said, breathless.
He tore off his helmet; sweat glistened on his forehead.
He stared at Yogan—calm, cool, collected—as if seeing a monster.
This kid…
He's no rookie.
This reflex. This awareness.
He's a monster.
"I…" Zhang Lei began, then exhaled.
"You, kid, you're a natural-born warrior."
The words hung in the air.
---
Stepping out of the Zhenwei Martial Arts Gym, Yogan drew in a lungful of the cool night air.
The neon signs along the street flickered like restless spirits.
He felt the pulse of the sparring session still coursing through him.
That "little test" had confirmed everything he'd suspected:
Godlike reflexes plus top-tier technical knowledge from his previous life—together they formed the ultimate weapon for climbing to the very peak of fighting.
His current body was weak.
His muscles trembled from exertion.
But strength could be trained.
Endurance could be trained.
What no one could train—what no one else had—was this divine-level reaction speed.
He clenched his fists, the leather of the borrowed gloves still imprinting his palms.
A flame called ambition burned behind his eyes.
"UFC… Championship Belt… Triple Crown… even Quadruple, Quintuple Crown—"
His whisper merged with the city's hum.
"In this life," he vowed, "I, Yogan, have arrived."
"Financial freedom is the token I need to get a seat at the table;
the summit of challenge is my ultimate goal!"
He looked up at the deep, star-laden sky.
For a heartbeat, the constellations rearranged themselves in his vision, transforming into an Octagon lit by blinding spotlights.
And there he stood in the center, gloves raised, waiting for the world to cheer him on.
Tomorrow, he thought, he would start gathering his chips—
one by one, the resources to fuel his climb.
And someday soon, under real lights and a roaring crowd, he would stand undisputed at the pinnacle he had always dreamed of.
---