Chapter 96

Note:

I'm back. I sincerely apologize for not posting anything all this time.

The teachers at school suddenly decided all at once to bury us in work, so I was completely overwhelmed—assignments, projects, exams, one after another. I just burned out.

In fact, during these almost three weeks without posting, I couldn't write a single word. Only yesterday was I able to start, so I finished writing this chapter.

Thank you for all the comments asking about the novel. :D

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There were several comments regarding the improbability of participating in boxing training and fights without sustaining hand injuries.

I understand that, in the real world, there is certainly a great risk of suffering what is likely to be irreversible damage to the hands after years of training and fights. However, I want to assure everyone that I plan for the MC to be a doctor, so I'm telling you now that there will be no severe, irreparable damage to the MC's hands.

That's all.

Enjoy.

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After a rather heavy steak dinner, we returned to the motel, Case to his RV. It was quite impressive to see how Tim, just by hitting his pillow, immediately fell asleep.

Unlike my muscular friend, I preferred to properly prepare for sleep, pulling back the sheets and even changing into pajamas.

A short time after lying down in the, for some strange reason, extremely comfortable bed, all the fatigue from the day hit me at once, practically knocking me out.

Feeling as if I had only closed my eyes for a second, the alarm we had set in the room the night before woke me up immediately.

From his side of the room, "Ugh," Tim groaned.

"What, not a morning person?" I asked sarcastically, stretching my body.

"Shut up," Tim grumbled.

"Got it, I'll take that as a no," I muttered, exhaling.

Tim, getting up from his own bed, raised his arms, making his entire back sound like a bunch of dry branches snapping.

"That can't be good," I stated, frowning as I got up from my bed.

"This is how a hardworking back should sound," Tim responded while moving his neck, producing even more unhealthy noises. "And a neck," he added proudly.

"I can assure you it shouldn't," I said, joking.

"The bed was too soft, like some kind of evil marshmallow that sucks you in," Tim declared, frowning, strangely nervous. "I didn't sleep well at all," he added a second later, placing his hand on the side of his neck upon noticing the way I was looking at him.

What kind of dreams does he have?

"Really, you didn't sleep well?" I asked incredulously. I had seen the position in which my friend had slept and how quickly he had fallen asleep. He hadn't looked uncomfortable at all—on the contrary, he had slept like a log.

"Yeah, wasn't your bed uncomfortably soft?" Tim asked.

"No," I replied immediately. "In fact, surprisingly comfortable for a roadside motel," I added.

Without saying anything, Tim exhaled through his nose and walked toward the room's bathroom, mumbling something about soft beds and whatnot.

"Okay," I muttered, nodding, not really talking to anyone.

Not much later, once Tim was out of the bathroom and I had gone through my morning routine, we stepped into the fresh morning air.

"I'm going to return the key at the front desk. Check if Case is awake," Tim said, pointing toward the RV.

"Sure," I responded, walking toward the RV.

The RV, parked in one of the spots in front of the motel, had all its windows covered, but from what I could see from the outside, there were lights on.

After knocking on the door, only a few seconds passed before it opened. Case, dressed in a white apron, greeted me with a frown.

"Where's Tim?" Case asked seriously after a moment.

"He went to return the room key. He'll be back," I replied, pointing in the general direction of the motel reception. "Can we talk about—" I tried to add, gesturing toward the apron.

"No," Case responded immediately, his expression unchanged. "Come on," he added, motioning for me to enter the RV.

Inside the RV, there was a strong smell of eggs, which matched the surprisingly large mountain of scrambled eggs on the table. Beside it, on another plate, was an equally massive pile of sausages. From the amount of steam rising from the two food piles, it was obvious Case had just finished cooking.

"You guys have two fights today—one in a couple of hours and another at night. You'll need the energy," Case said, probably noticing my surprise at the sheer amount of food. He took off his apron and stored it in a small closet next to the RV's 'kitchen.'

"Okay," I murmured, approaching the table. "So, more boxing?" I asked as I took a seat on the bench next to the table.

"One of them," Case replied, sitting beside me and serving himself from both food piles. "You two are finally going to use your feet," he added sarcastically.

"What, karate?" I asked with interest, serving myself as well.

"That doesn't matter right now. You have a boxing match in a couple of hours," Case stated.

"Right," I murmured, nodding.

Before either of us could say anything else, from the RV's open door, Tim walked in with a small, friendly smile—much more like his usual self compared to how he had woken up minutes ago.

"Oh great, breakfast," Tim declared excitedly, immediately setting his sights on the food on the relatively small table. "Good morning," he added as he sat in the free spot, quickly focusing on the food with a big smile on his face.

The three of us ate practically in silence, serving ourselves multiple portions, totaling what was surely enough to feed an entire family—maybe two.

When we finished, we set off again for the next gym.

After a couple of hours, unlike Mr. Sánchez's gym, this one looked more like what most people would picture as a regular boxing gym—patched-up punching bags, a slightly uneven concrete floor, and poor ventilation, yet filled with people working hard to train in boxing.

"Now this is a boxing gym," Tim declared as we stepped inside, apparently thinking the same thing I was… in some way.

Just like in the previous gym, after Case introduced himself to the head trainer, we were given a section to prepare and warm up before the fights. And, just like before, the locals' attention immediately focused entirely on us.

Ignoring all the attention we were receiving, it didn't take long for the fights to begin. Unlike the previous day, the first to fight wasn't Tim, but me.

My opponent this time was a guy slightly taller than me, visibly several years older as well, and with obvious scars from previous injuries.

This time, there wasn't a 'referee' in the strict sense of the word—just one of the older people at the gym stepped into the ring to separate us if necessary.

Like the gyms, the difference in fighting style was immediately noticeable. From the polished, textbook technique that Mr. Sánchez taught to a much more visceral and aggressive style. The change in combat approach was so radical that, at least for part of the first round, I found it a bit difficult to adapt.

For the first time since I had started training, someone other than Case or Tim managed to land powerful blows on me—hits that quickly forced me to step back and focus on my guard.

"Don't let him dictate the fight," Case said at the end of the first round, looking me in the eye seriously. "You're being too nice. Adapt or lose," he added.

I nodded at Case's words, but I honestly had no idea what he meant.

At the start of the second round, deciding to be more aggressive—hoping that was what Case was referring to—I took advantage of my opponent's powerful but not particularly fast punches to slip past his guard and land shots to his side.

I stuck to my strategy until my opponent adapted. By then, I had managed to do enough damage to his side to force him against the ropes. There, when he lowered his guard for just a second, I was able to land a combo on his unprotected head. That was when the 'referee' stepped in for the first time in the entire fight, stopping it after seeing that my opponent wasn't raising his guard anymore.

"Don't expect in the future that someone will let you punish them like that. You need to find another way to dictate the fight on your own," Case told me immediately after I stepped down from the ring.

"Yeah, got it. Dictate the fight," I murmured, still not entirely sure what he meant.

"Good job, man," Tim said, patting my back.

After my fight, only a few minutes passed before Tim's match began. This time, surprisingly, it lasted more than two full rounds. My friend's opponent controlled his footwork impressively well, giving Tim a real fight—at least until just a few seconds into the third round.

Tim, breaking completely through his opponent's guard, landed a heavy punch on the guy's chin, securing the victory a few seconds later.

After saying our goodbyes to the people at that gym, we continued our journey, stopping to eat—this time, the food Case had prepared.

That night, finally in Dallas, we arrived at a new gym.

"Kickboxing?" I asked, confused as I saw a large sign above the entrance. "Are we only going to fight using kicks?" I added, remembering what Case had said earlier that day.

"Full contact," Case said with a frown. "Karate without so many rules," he added as he walked inside.

"Basically, the only illegal strikes are things like hits to the back of the head or groin, but you can use whatever else you want—elbows, knees, feet," Tim explained, leaning slightly toward me.

"Oh," I murmured, quickly nodding, mentally reviewing all the kick, elbow, and forearm techniques Case had taught me.

As soon as we stepped inside, I found myself in a place I could only describe as 'Asian.' Words in a dialect unknown to me were written on the walls, along with extremely old images of Asian men wearing only some kind of white shorts.

"Ah, Case Walker, it really is you," said an excited voice not long after we entered the gym. A stereotypically blonde man walked toward us.

"Yes, you must be Tanner," Case said, shaking the blonde man's hand. "Have we met before?" he asked, still holding the handshake, looking somewhat puzzled.

"Oh no, well, I know you," the man quickly clarified. "I saw your fight with Joe Lewis firsthand—amazing fight," he added, exhaling and patting Case's hand.

"That fight was, what, fifteen years ago?" Case said, smiling softly, seemingly reminiscing.

"No way, you fought Joe Lewis? The Joe Lewis?" Tim asked, amused.

"Who's Joe Lewis?" I whispered to my friend, feeling completely out of the conversation.

"Joe Lewis was the one who brought kickboxing to America," the blonde man answered with a wide smile.

"Oh," I said, nodding slightly, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"He's also an actor," Tim murmured, leaning slightly toward me.

"Ah," I murmured, surprised, looking at Case.

"When I got your call, I thought there was no way it was really you," the man said. "I remember your fight like it was yesterday. You and Lewis fought like it was one of his action movies," he added, shaking his head with a big smile still on his face.

"That was just an exhibition match," Case said modestly.

"That doesn't matter—things like that are hard to ignore," the blonde man said, tapping the side of his head with a finger. "After seeing that fight, I knew I wanted to reach your level, so I went to Thailand," he added.

"There's no better place to learn Muay Thai," Case declared, nodding with a slight frown.

"Yup. I studied there for two years, then came back and opened my own gym," the man said, gesturing toward the place.

"Looks good," Case murmured, nodding. "So, do you have a place where they can warm up?" he added, pointing at us.

"Oh yeah, of course, you can warm up in that area over there," Tanner immediately replied.

"Great, you two start warming up," Case ordered, moving his head.

Following Case's instructions, walking under Tanner's friendly smile, Tim and I walked to one of the corners of the gym.

"I had never heard of Case fighting Joe Lewis," Tim said as we walked. "The man is like a legend, he trained with Bruce Lee," he added.

"Bruce Lee?" I asked, surprised. I didn't know many names in the martial arts world, but after watching so many movies with Gabe, Bruce Lee was finally someone I recognized.

"Yeah, he also fought Chuck Norris and Bill Wallace," Tim added, amused.

"Really?" I murmured, surprised. Chuck Norris was another name I knew.

"Yeah, like Tanner said, Joe Lewis was basically one of the guys who brought full contact to the United States," Tim declared, looking at Case, who was talking seriously with Tanner in the distance.

It was strange that Case, being so familiar with such an apparently important figure in martial arts, lived in a trailer—until recently, parked on an empty lot next to metal containers in the middle of Texas.

"Let's start warming up," Tim said quickly when Case glanced our way for a second.

"Yeah, that's a good idea," I immediately replied.

A few minutes after Tim and I started warming up, Case, apparently finishing his conversation, walked over to us.

"All right, stop for a moment," Case ordered. "You're going to fight under Lethwei rules, so you need to be completely focused," he added.

I had no idea what Lethwei meant, but seeing the seriousness on Case's face, I knew better than to interrupt him.

"It means punches, elbows, knees, and kicks are allowed," Case said, focusing on me, seemingly aware of what was going through my mind at that moment. "Also headbutts, clinching, takedowns, and sweeps—basically, you can use everything I've taught you except ground fighting," he added, looking at both of us.

"No submissions, got it," I said, nodding.

"Yeah, no gloves, so be careful with your hands. It's very possible you'll get cut, but I won't allow the fight to continue if any cut is too severe," Case continued seriously.

Hearing what Case was saying, just like before, my nerves started resurfacing in my stomach—only this time, it sounded much, much more dangerous.

"Watch how they train," Case said, subtly nodding toward them. "They have a very Muay Thai-focused approach. It's not bad, but that gives you a bit of an advantage. They'll try to get close and clinch—use long kicks and footwork to control the rhythm," he added quietly. "If you need space, you know takedowns—use them."

Looking at Tim, I realized it definitely wasn't just me feeling strange pressure about this fight. My friend, usually relaxed with a smile, was now looking at Case with a serious expression.

"Use what I've taught you, and you'll be fine," Case declared firmly.

With a knot in the pit of my stomach, I continued warming up alongside Tim and now Case.

"All right, it's time. PJ, you're up first," Case said, nodding at Tanner, who had gotten his attention from across the gym.

As I approached Case to have my hands, arms, and feet wrapped, I focused on my breathing. In my mind, I could only think over and over about the mechanics of punches, kicks, and basically everything Case had taught me—with a slight fear of forgetting something once I was up there.

"Breathe," Case ordered. "You have to dictate the fight's rhythm. Don't let him advance or get too close. You have longer arms and legs—use that."

"Got it—dictate rhythm, longer arms and legs," I repeated, nodding, even though I wasn't entirely focused on what Case had said.

"All right, let's go," Case declared, slapping my arm with some force.

As I stepped into the ring, facing someone I'd never seen before in my life, mentally preparing to strike him, my ears seemed to stop working—or at least that's how it felt.

My opponent, again older than me but slightly shorter, wrapped up to his elbows and calves, was completely focused on me as he stretched his arms and legs.

Beside us, a man who would presumably act as the referee was saying things I could barely hear. Matching my opponent, my gaze locked onto his in a strange staring contest.

"Shake hands," the referee ordered, breaking my momentary concentration, making both my opponent and me lower our heads slightly.

Then the referee sent us to our starting positions, where he asked the final question before beginning.

"Fight," the referee ordered from the center of the ring.

Immediately, my opponent took his stance, palms open near his head, and began walking toward the center. Mimicking him with my own guard ready, I walked forward, breathing heavily, moving my head to shake off the nerves.

When we were close enough, my opponent, surprisingly fast, threw a kick at the side of my leg. Without thinking—even surprising myself for a split second—I blocked the kick by moving my knee almost instinctively.

And somehow, with just that block, all the nerves I'd been feeling up to that moment disappeared instantly.

I just need to fight.

Using my feet without waiting a second, as my opponent lowered his foot after his attempted kick, I quickly kicked the inside of his dominant leg, landing squarely on his calf, making him lose his balance for a moment. A moment long enough for me to step in and attempt to strike his face with my elbow.

Reacting quickly and ignoring what must have been a numb sensation in his inner leg, my opponent barely dodged my elbow, retreating as best he could.

Having taken a step back, I took advantage of his obvious distraction to kick his leg again—this time, the outside of his less dominant leg.

Feeling much looser and calmer, deciding to use Case's words, which for some reason now echoed much more clearly in my now-serener mind, I took a step back on my own, allowing my opponent to stabilize.

From the stance my opponent had adopted after regaining his stability, I could tell that my last kick had obviously done more damage than the first. Moving his leg, likely trying to regain sensation in the limb, my opponent kept his distance for a split second.

Not wanting to give the other side any more recovery time, I stepped in quickly, immediately feinting a low kick. When it startled my opponent, making him adjust his guard, I switched to a high kick that grazed his face by mere millimeters.

Taking advantage of my exposed guard due to the kick, my opponent seized the moment to lunge forward, landing a strong strike to my side.

With my opponent so close, remembering Case's words and ignoring the pain in my side, instead of trying to create distance, I stepped forward, sliding my leg between his and using my hip to throw him down in a fluid Judo motion.

With my opponent on the ground, I quickly took a few steps back to catch my breath after his hit. Unfortunately for me, my opponent got up fast, his brow furrowed, clearly annoyed by the takedown.

Positioning myself carefully, covering my injured side, I waited for my opponent to come closer so I could use front kicks to create some distance. After a couple of kicks, anticipating my move, my opponent dodged and closed the gap.

Luckily, I had expected that. The moment he was close enough, I extended my arm and struck his face squarely, making him lose his balance before dropping him with a knee to the ring. Before I could even think of moving in, the man acting as the referee stepped between us.

The referee pulled me away from my opponent, giving him a few seconds to recover while I stepped back, feeling the air burn in my lungs. The hit I'd taken to my side still echoed—a dull pain threatening to grow worse if I didn't control it.

At that moment, all I could think about was not letting my opponent recover, adjusting my guard as I watched him get up.

As soon as the referee signaled to continue, I closed the distance. My opponent, now with a bloody nose, didn't wait for me to attack. In a quick motion, he threw an elbow at my cheek.

The impact made me see stars for a moment. I felt the heat of blood running down my skin before the pain even registered. This was the first time I'd taken real damage—I'd been hurt in other fights, sure, but an elbow dangerously close to my eye? Never. I didn't let myself fall. Instead of retreating, I swallowed the pain and responded with a knee to the stomach, driving it in with all my weight.

My opponent gasped, bending slightly, but he didn't go down. Instead, he grabbed my neck with both hands and yanked me downward while driving his knee straight toward my face.

I turned my head to the side and at the last second barely managed to raise my arm enough to block part of the impact. Still, his knee partially connected with my temple, leaving me dazed. The pain exploded in my skull like a pressure cooker, but I couldn't afford to hesitate.

"Don't just stand there!" I heard Case's voice in the distance.

With a grunt, I broke free from the clinch and stepped back, raising my arms to guard myself. My vision blurred for a second, but I could still make out my opponent's silhouette charging again—this time with a liver shot I didn't fully block, only moving my body with the punch.

The blow knocked the wind out of me. It felt like someone had stabbed me with a red-hot iron. My legs wobbled, but I didn't fall. Instead, I instinctively closed the distance and drove an upward elbow under his chin. I felt his teeth clack against his mouthguard hard, but surprisingly, he didn't retreat. In a desperate move, he tried to grab me for another knee strike, but this time I was ready.

I pivoted my hips, dodging his knee, and with a quick motion, hooked his leg with mine, taking him down again. This time, however, I didn't back away. Acting purely on instinct and ignoring the referee, I immediately climbed on top, preparing to strike my opponent's face repeatedly, raising my arm for the first blow.

"STOP!" the referee shouted in my ear, wrapping his arms tightly around mine in a careless hold. Mentally, I knew I could break free without much effort by throwing myself backward. "He's on the ground, you can't keep going," he reminded me.

Mentally scolding myself for forgetting that I couldn't hit him on the ground, I stepped back, avoiding being pulled down.

The referee got up from the floor, leaning on the ropes while keeping an eye on my opponent, and positioned himself between us, raising his arms to block me from getting closer, shielding my opponent, who was breathing heavily on the mat.

"One!, Two!, Three!" the man shouted, counting for my opponent who was already getting up. And as if on cue, just before we got the go-ahead to continue fighting, the bell rang.

The sound of the bell echoed through the gym, cutting the tension instantly. My body, which had been completely tense until then, suddenly felt the weight of every strike, every kick, every drop of adrenaline now fading.

I stepped back toward my corner, where Case and Tim were already waiting with a bunch of things. My hands trembled slightly as I leaned on the ropes, and the pain in my left side was now a constant, throbbing presence.

"Good, good... not bad at all," Case murmured, surprisingly smiling as he wiped my face with a towel. I hadn't noticed—or maybe I'd ignored it—but as the towel passed over me, blood, obviously from my face, completely stained the fabric. I wasn't too worried; I had a general idea of where the cut was—it wasn't that serious.

I looked across the ring. My opponent was receiving attention from his corner, a cotton pad pressed against his nose, which now had a slightly crooked angle. His face, surely like mine, was completely smeared with blood that his corner was cleaning.

"Listen to me," Case grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. "You're letting him hit you too much. Control the distance, use your legs. He's slower, you just need one good hit and follow through—don't be afraid to knock him out or break his nose."

I nodded, though every movement of my head made the pain in my temple throb harder.

"And don't forget the rules," he added, frowning, throwing water on the towel and tossing it at my face. "If the referee stops you again for hitting on the ground, you'll lose. Understood?"

"Yes," I replied, pressing the cold towel against my cheek. The cold numbed the pain, but not enough.

Case leaned in, lowering his voice. "He's already messed up," he admitted seriously. "Those leg kicks are taking effect. In the second round, keep hammering his thighs. When he can't even walk, finish him."

I looked across the ring again. My opponent was now standing, stretching his right leg with a pained grimace.

Yeah, I got this.

The referee approached my corner. "Can you continue?" he asked, raising his hand.

Case looked at me, waiting for my answer.

"Yes," I said, spitting a little blood into the bucket Tim was holding.

The referee nodded and walked to the center of the ring—apparently, the break was over.

The bell rang again.

With Tim's help putting my mouthguard back in place, I nodded at some final words from Case before turning my attention back to the center of the ring.

My opponent and I cautiously approached the center, sizing each other up. He was trying to hide it, but I could easily see how his right leg limped slightly, while I kept my guard high, protecting my injured side. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and the rubber of the ring.

Once we were close enough, he immediately threw a quick jab; I deflected it with my forearm and responded with a low kick aimed as a test at his already damaged leg. He stepped back, avoiding the full impact.

Obviously, it wouldn't be that easy.

For a few seconds—which honestly felt like hours—the fight turned into a kind of mirror game: front kicks canceling each other out, feints of hooks, elbows grazing the air. Neither of us was really willing to move first.

At least until he lunged with a cross that was too wide. Without much trouble, I dodged by pivoting on my left foot and immediately drove a roundhouse kick into his temple.

The impact echoed throughout the place. His body staggered, almost falling, but miraculously, he didn't collapse. His eyes clouded over for a second, dazed. Without giving him time to recover, I rushed forward almost leaping, landing a straight shot to the liver that bent him forward.

And then, as if time slowed down, I saw my chance. I twisted my hip back and, with all my body's weight, drove my elbow into his face.

His head snapped violently, spitting blood onto the ring floor, and this time, there was no possible recovery. He fell sideways, unconscious before even hitting the ground.

The referee didn't even count. He knelt beside him, immediately pushing me away—apparently not wanting to risk me forgetting the rules again—and wrapped his arms around the guy on the ground. "It's over!" he shouted, and the bell rang a second later.

Seemingly caught up in the excitement, possibly forgetting that the one on the ground was one of their own, the gym erupted into excited cheers. I couldn't hear anything anymore. I just saw my opponent's blood staining the floor and my own hands trembling.

Finally, the pain and exhaustion caught up to my brain, and I collapsed to the ground, barely breathing properly.

"What a fine fucking fight," Tim said, suddenly appearing in front of me with a big grin.

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Author Thoughts:

As always, I'm not American, not a doctor, not a fighter, not Magnus Carlsen, not Michael Phelps, not Arsene Lupin and not McLovin.

As I said before, I'm sorry for the delay in publishing this chapter. We're back to our normal schedule. See you in the next chapter.

Without further ado.

Another chapter has passed, so new thanks are in order. I would like to especially thank:

11332223

RandomPasserby96

Victor_Venegas

I think that's all. As always, if you find any errors, please let me know, and I'll correct them immediately.

Thank you for reading! :D

PS: PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.