"He's wild. Don't play his game. Tighten the guard, go under, hit the ribs. You see that elbow?"
The voice sliced through the ringing in Marcus's ears like a blade through fog as he sat heavily on the corner stool, his chest burning with each breath, yet his eyes never wavered from Elroy's corner. That grin—cocky and predatory—said he'd gotten away with murder and planned to do it again.
Marcus nodded once, sharp and final.
His assistant coach crouched low, hands checking his gloves with the efficiency of a surgeon preparing for battle. Sweat dripped from Marcus's forehead onto the canvas below, each drop a tiny sacrifice to the coming violence.
"Good. Make it cost him."
The words sank into Marcus's bones like molten steel, reminding him that everything had a price in this ring, and it was time to collect Elroy's debts with interest.
The ref stepped toward Elroy's corner, his voice carrying the weight of law in a lawless place.
"That's your only warning. No elbows. I see it again, you're done."
Elroy's grin widened like a crack in broken glass, and he nodded with the enthusiasm of a man agreeing to breathe—an empty gesture, meaningless compliance.
The gym held its collective breath, and Marcus could feel it in the walls, the watching eyes, and the way conversations died mid-sentence. Everyone knew that warnings were just words when refs had human eyes and fighters had inhuman creativity, and when desperation turned good kids into devils. Trust was a luxury bleeding men couldn't afford.
Then the bell exploded through the tension.
Marcus rose from his stool like smoke becoming fire, transformed and ready; the patience was gone, burned away by dirty elbows and sneering taunts. His stance dropped lower, a coiled spring waiting for the perfect moment to unleash twenty-six years of accumulated rage.
Elroy charged forward with that same looping left hook—wild, powerful, and telegraphed from next Tuesday.
Marcus flowed under it like water, finding the path of least resistance, his body moving with mechanical precision as he closed the distance while Elroy's punch sliced through empty air. A short cross to the body landed with a meaty thud, ribs compressing and air rushing out in a surprised grunt, and he snapped his guard back up before the counter could come.
The rhythm shifted seismic; Marcus wasn't waiting anymore—he was hunting.
Another wild swing painted the air where Marcus's head had been, and he rolled left, then right, muscle memory from a thousand peek-a-boo drills flowing through his nervous system like electricity through copper wire. He stepped inside with surgical violence, delivering two short hooks to the body that folded Elroy slightly, followed by one clean shot to the chin that snapped his head back.
Elroy stumbled half a step, and the crowd erupted like a dam bursting.
Marcus felt the difference in his bones—this was real power, not the desperate flailing of his first life, but controlled destruction backed by technique and twenty-six years of hard-earned wisdom. Each punch carried intention, purpose, and the weight of a man who'd already died once and refused to do it again.
A system UI flickered at the edge of his vision like a digital angel whispering warnings, urging him to stay focused and alert.
──── SYSTEM ALERT ────
STAMINA: 63%
FOOT PRESSURE TOO HIGH – SHIFT BALANCE
RECOMMENDED: Guard Reset in 6s
─────────────────
Marcus adjusted without thinking; the system wasn't his master—it was his partner, an integral part of his rhythm now, a new Marcus who listened to wisdom instead of drowning it in teenage arrogance.
His legs burned like brands pressed against muscle, and his arms grew heavier with each exchange, gravity asserting its cruel dominance. Yet his shots were landing, finding their targets, and making Elroy's confidence bleed away drop by precious drop.
Then Elroy revealed his true colors again.
In the next clinch, his hands grabbed Marcus's arm with snake-quick malice, twisting and leveraging the illegal grip to drive a sneaky uppercut straight into Marcus's solar plexus—the kind of punch that stole breath, balance, and hope in one dirty motion.
Marcus grunted, the sound torn from his throat like paper ripping. He stumbled backward, pain radiating through his core like fire spreading through dry kindling.
The ref separated them with practiced efficiency, eyes scanning both fighters with the intensity of a man searching for sins he couldn't quite see. But he said nothing and saw nothing; the perfect crime executed in plain sight.
Elroy's grin stretched wider, and blood and saliva made it look like something from a nightmare.
"Didn't hear a whistle, did you?"
The words hit harder than the illegal punch. This wasn't heat-of-the-moment contact or accidental aggression; this was calculated cheating, professional rule-breaking—the kind of systematic corruption that turned sport into war by any means necessary.
Marcus had lived this before. In his first life, dirty fighting had shattered him, making him angry, sloppy, and desperate to prove something that couldn't be validated with clean punches and moral victories.
Now, it just made him cold.
The round continued, with Marcus absorbing education along with punishment. Every dirty trick was cataloged, filed away in the library of violence his experience had built: the arm twists, the subtle headbutts hidden in clinches, the way Elroy stepped on feet when officials weren't watching. All of it would come back to haunt him.
The bell rang like a funeral dirge.
Both fighters walked back slower this time. Elroy's grin cracked around the edges, replaced by something suspiciously like doubt. Marcus's jaw was tight, his breathing ragged, but his eyes held the steady fire of a man who'd found his purpose.
He sat without speaking, allowing his body to process the damage while his mind processed the opportunities opening like spring flowers.
The system kicked in again, a calm, mechanical voice cutting through the chaos in his skull.
──── POST-ROUND SCAN ────
Peek-a-Boo: +2
Body Recovery: 11s
Dirty Hit Memory: Logged
SUGGESTION:
• Conserve lateral movement
• Fake high, slip body
• Break rhythm every 4-count
────────────────────
Marcus closed his eyes and breathed through his nose with the discipline of a monk preparing for enlightenment. Deep, controlled breaths fed oxygen to the muscles, which needed every molecule for the coming reckoning.
He didn't speak to his coach this time; he didn't need tactical adjustments, emotional support, or clever strategies. Instead, he focused inward, embracing the crystalline clarity of a man who had already touched death and found it wanting.
"I'm not losing to someone like this."
Round three loomed over him like a hungry predator, and it was time to show Elroy Adams what happened when you tried to cheat someone who had already seen every dirty trick ever invented.
It was time to teach him that some debts could only be paid in blood and broken dreams.