Chapter Two: The First Fight
The lunch bell rang like a starting bell, and Ethan's stomach churned—though whether from the cafeteria food or nerves, he couldn't tell. Word had spread fast. Too fast. By the time he and Guilbert made their way to the covered court, a crowd had already gathered.
"Last chance to back out," Guilbert muttered, but there was something in his voice that suggested he knew Ethan wouldn't.
"I'm good," Ethan said, rolling his shoulders. His hands felt empty without wraps, without gloves. This was going to be different from sanctioned matches back home. No referee. No rounds. Just him and this Red guy.
The covered court was exactly what it sounded like—a basketball court with a metal roof, the concrete floor cracked and stained from years of use. Students lined the edges, some sitting on the railings, others standing in clusters. The buzz of conversation died down as Ethan walked to the center.
Then he saw him.
Red was shorter than Ethan expected, maybe five-foot-seven, with a lean build that didn't look particularly intimidating. He wore the standard uniform—white polo, dark pants—but his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His face was calm, almost bored, as he stretched his legs in a way that made Ethan's hamstrings hurt just watching.
"You're the American?" Red asked. His voice was flat, unimpressed.
"Filipino-American," Ethan corrected for the second time that day. He raised his fists into his boxing stance—left foot forward, hands up, weight on the balls of his feet. "And yeah, I'm the guy who's about to show everyone that Taekwondo is overrated."
A few students in the crowd laughed. Others exchanged glances. Guilbert covered his face with his hand.
Red didn't react. He just looked at Ethan the way someone might look at a particularly interesting bug. Then he settled into his own stance—hands low, weight distributed evenly, one foot slightly behind the other.
"Whenever you're ready," someone from the crowd called out. Ethan wasn't sure who.
He didn't wait. He'd learned in boxing that confidence could win a fight before the first punch landed. He bounced on his toes, threw a quick jab to test Red's defenses—
And Red was gone.
Not gone-gone, but moved. One second he was three feet away, the next he was inside Ethan's guard, so close Ethan could smell whatever soap he used.
"Start!" someone shouted.
Ethan didn't even have time to process the command before pain exploded in his left side.
The kick came from nowhere—a bullet-fast strike that slammed into his ribs like a baseball bat. Ethan gasped, stumbled back, tried to get his guard up—
Thwack.
Another kick, right side this time. Same rib area. Same devastating speed.
"What the—" Ethan tried to say, but Red was already moving again.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Each kick landed with surgical precision, targeting the same spots on his ribs. Ethan had been hit before—plenty of times in the ring—but this was different. These weren't wild swings or telegraphed hooks. These were fast, technical, efficient. Red's leg snapped out and back like a piston, barely giving Ethan time to register one impact before the next came.
Ethan tried to back up, create distance, but Red flowed with him like water. The Taekwondo fighter's footwork was insane—light, quick, constantly shifting. Every time Ethan thought he had an angle to counter, Red had already moved to a new position.
"Fight back!" someone in the crowd yelled.
Ethan threw a jab, putting real power behind it this time. It was a good punch—fast, straight, the kind that had won him matches back home.
Red swiveled.
That was the only word for it. He didn't block, didn't dodge in any conventional sense. He just swiveled his body, and Ethan's fist cut through empty air. And then Red was spinning, his back to Ethan for a fraction of a second—
The spinning back kick caught Ethan square in the liver.
The world went white.
Ethan had been liver-shot once before, during a particularly brutal sparring session. He thought he remembered what it felt like. He was wrong. This was worse. So much worse. His body locked up, every muscle seizing at once. His knees buckled. He felt water—lunch, mostly—surge up his throat.
He hit the concrete hard, landing on his hands and knees, and vomited. The crowd erupted.
Laughter. Not cruel, exactly, but not kind either. The kind of laughter that came when someone talked big and got knocked down to size.
"That's the American boxer?"
"He didn't even land a hit!"
"Red didn't even break a sweat!"
Ethan's ribs screamed with every breath. He was pretty sure at least one was broken—maybe two. The pain in his liver was still radiating through his entire torso, a deep, nauseating ache that made him want to curl up and die.
Through watering eyes, he looked up. Red stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, not even breathing hard. He looked... disappointed.
"You talk about Taekwondo being weak," Red said quietly, though the crowd had gone silent enough that everyone heard. "But you don't even understand what you were fighting."
Ethan wanted to respond, wanted to say something—anything—to salvage his dignity. But all that came out was a weak cough.
"Red!" A new voice cut through the murmuring crowd. Ethan turned his head—painfully—to see another student approaching. This one was taller, built like an actual athlete, with the kind of casual confidence that came from real skill. "We've got practice for the saludo demonstration today. Coach is waiting."
Red nodded, already walking away. He didn't even glance back at Ethan. "Right. Let's go, Ali."
Ali. One of the boxers Guilbert had mentioned. He looked down at Ethan with something between pity and amusement. "Welcome to West Cluster, transfer student."
Then they were gone, and the crowd began to disperse, already moving on to the next piece of gossip. Guilbert pushed through the remaining students and crouched beside Ethan.
"Can you stand?"
"No," Ethan wheezed.
"Yeah, I figured." Guilbert sighed. "For what it's worth, you lasted longer than I thought you would."
"How... long?"
"About forty-five seconds."
Forty-five seconds. Ethan had been destroyed in less than a minute. By someone he'd called weak. By someone who moved so fast Ethan couldn't even track his attacks. By someone who was so far above his level it wasn't even a fight—it was a demonstration.
As Guilbert helped him to his feet—each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his broken ribs—Ethan finally understood what he'd gotten himself into.
This wasn't American high school boxing. This wasn't sanctioned matches with weight classes and rules.
This was something else entirely.
And Ethan Gonzales, former US nationals competitor, had just learned he was at the very bottom of a very tall ladder.
His Lola was definitely going to kill him. But first, he needed to figure out if Red had already done the job.