Hey, look, it's a new piece by me. It's only been, like, a year? Not that long.

See if you can get all the things I'm off-branding.

Prologue | The Details of My Return are Not What I Expected.

…

Working with other people was inescapable. One's aptitude for such interactions didn't matter, if you were alive, you had to work with other people.

As a kid, I was eager to adhere to this rule of social interaction; as a teenager, I fought against it with all my might. Now, as a ten year veteran of adulthood, I found myself lodged firmly in the middle.

Dealing with people was still something I had trouble with, that very much carried over from my time as a teen, but I learned to not loathe it outright. At the least, I've gotten to the point where I can work with others without making my discomfort obvious. It was a lesson one had to learn at the risk of becoming a shut-in NEET, and while the life of a lazy degenerate spent entirely inside never sounded unappealing to me, it just wasn't realistic. One had to go through life relying on others to survive and that was a fact.

My current line of work, at the very least, kept it to all the stuff I didn't enjoy.

"Alright Eight, final round. You're doing great." My coach, Jared Del Tierra, spoke tersely as he knelt down in front of me. The tan, stockily-built man knelt down in front of me as two others did the same. Darrell Howard — the lanky, dark-skinned man to my coach's left — went to work on the small cut that had been opened up right under my right eye, pressing a cotton swab drenched in a liquid that stung on contact up to it. "Keep going with that pressure. You've drained the life out of him with your clinch work and movement, so now's the time to open up on him. Try for that finish, but watch that left hand of his. It's been the only thing that's been landing for him."

I nodded as the man to Jay's right, a pale man with a similar build to Darrell named Kevin Burrell, handed me a water bottle, which I snatched out of his hand.

Opening it and pouring its contents into my mouth, I swished the water in my mouth and spit it out to rid my mouth of the taste of iron. My body felt heavy, my lungs burned, my face was numb, and my heart was beating out of my chest. "All in a day's work" is probably what I would say if I wanted to sound cool, but life wasn't an action movie and unlike some of my peers, I wasn't a big enough masochist to pretend that this didn't feel awful.

Yet my legs bounced as my coaches did their work as I stared over to the other side of the ring, where my opponent sat. A physical oddity for our division, his name was Julio "The Carnivore" Cortez and he stood at 180 cm. A tall, lanky fighter who towered over essentially the entire division, he liked to use his extensive Muay Thai background to kick the legs out from underneath fighters and/or pick them off with his vastly superior reach.

From very recent experience, I knew that his left hand was both fast and accurate. Be it a jab to keep me at distance or a check left hook to catch me as I closed in, both caught me regularly. Thankfully, due to the nature of someone Cortez's height cutting down to 135, there was enough power taken off of them that I was able to tank through, get close, and press him up to the cage. A simple plan, really the only one I've ever deployed, but it was more than effective against Cortez.

Shoulders slumped, mouth hanging wide open, and head firmly locked onto his coach. I could see all that I had done to him. It was why I stood up from my stool, even though I still had ten more seconds until the final round started.

"There's no way you're not up on the cards." My eyes never left Cortez as Jay gave a bit of final advice. "Let's go get that belt, alright? You're almost there, kid."

I nodded and my cornermen quickly exited through the door where they came in, leaving the ring to be occupied by three people: me, Cortez, and the referee, Jean Planter. A dreadlocked, dark-skinned man dressed in the standard all-black garb mandated by our employer. He stood in the middle of the ring with one arm raised towards me and the other towards my opponent.

"Alright, final round, gentlemen," Planter called out looking over towards me. "You two ready?" I nodded once. He then looked over towards Cortez, who did the same. "Fight!"

At that, Planter threw his arms down towards the center of the ring and the round bell rung.

Almost immediately, Cortez walked over to the center of the ring with his lead hand, his right, raised in the air. My mind recognized the gesture immediately and I did the same, although begrudgingly. Not being one for niceties, I was naturally against outward shows of respect like glove touching and refrained from doing so unless the act was initiated by someone else. For that reason, I found myself being irritated by the smile on Cortez's face and the applause that came from the crowd of thousands that circled the cage.

'Oi, we're here to beat the shit out of one another. You all know that, right? Stop trying to incentivize friendliness and respect when all you really want to see is exactly the opposite! You're all bloodthirsty savages, start acting more like it!'

Pushing that prospective monologue to the side (to have later when I was alone), I returned my focus to my opponent who had already entered his fighting stance. Fairly conventional Muay Thai fare. Hands kept up high around head level, chin angled down into his chest, back straight and tall, pelvis pointed straight at me, and body weight shifting back and forth between his lead and front legs like a metronome.

My body reacted to the shift in stance before my mind did and got me into my own fighting stance. Standing on the balls of my feet, I pointed my left hip towards Cortez, crouched down so that my upper back was slightly curved, and made sure to keep most of my weight on my back leg.

Almost immediately, Cortez used his rocking to disguise him putting his weight onto his back leg and threw a kick at my own lead leg. All of this had been done in a practiced instant. It would've caught me on the inner thigh in the earlier rounds, when I didn't have its timing, but not now.

Pull left leg back and use momentum to quick switch into southpaw, Cortez's kick misses completely leaving him off-balance but I know that it won't be for long. Swing hips out to my right to bump while he is, duck down dramatically lower to avoid coming jab, misses as intended. Feign right hook and then throw left hook to the body. Feign works as intended, Cortez puts up left hand and leaves his body open. It's slower than usual but the follow-up hook still lands right under his ribcage. Back up out of kicking range in southpaw and gauge reaction. Not visibly hurt, but wincing. Good, but still can't let him breathe. He immediately got back into position in the middle of the cage. That was not so good.

Shuffle feet for a couple of seconds while moving my head back and forth. Cortez gets close enough to kick but doesn't throw. A few more seconds pass as we stare at one another.

Plant back leg off shuffle, lunge forward for test jab. Stop self when I see Cortez shift back onto his back leg again. When lead leg hits canvas, lean back. Just barely miss getting a knee into the ribs. Keep weight on back leg for any following strikes. Good idea. Cortez goes for a lunging right cross upon resetting from the knee, lean left to avoid and then start retreating as his punch throws him off balance.

Hop back and then swing right hip to switch back into orthodox, reset footing. Cortez takes moment to reset footing. Is visibly winded and is getting desperate to land. Is clear from how he loaded up on that cross. Most likely banking on winning by finish. Not gonna happen.

Get off centerline, alternate between pacing to my left and right. Occasionally lean in close to bait out strikes as I did earlier in the fight. Gets no reaction out of Cortez. Possibly waiting for me to commit to a strike, probably a jab or another straight punch. Gotta come in with something unexpected. Creep into striking distance, shuffle step, and throw a right leg kick but have right hook loaded up behind it for deterrent. Kick lands right above the knee, which buckles somewhat but regains balance almost an instant later. Right hook misses but that was expected, at least forces him back and keeps him from countering immediately.

'Hm… Probably didn't expect that. Probably shouldn't try that again—'

"Push! Push! Push!" Even among the general noise of the crowd around me, I could hear Jared call out to me. "You know what to do by now!"

I chided my coach for being redundant. My body had started moving the moment I heard the first 'push'.

Rush forward as Cortez backs up, hop in to keep feet in the right position. Pull left hand up to my head as I get into striking range. He throws a check left hook as expected. Slip into the hook to preemptively load hips, catch arm with left hand and throw it down. Slide lead foot forward to open stance and put all of my hips into a counter right hook. I feel my hand land clean on his chin before I see it.

The next instant, Cortez's body was crumpled down at my feet and my instincts took control.

Jump on Cortez, put left hand on his right shoulder and lean body weight onto it. Hook to the head, hook to the head, hook to the head, hook to the head, hook to the—

Before I could throw another punch at my downed opponent, my arm was intercepted mid-swing by something snaking itself under my right arm and across my chest. It pulled and I quickly found myself being lifted away from Cortez's limp body and up onto my feet. The force spun me up onto my feet, facing away from where I knew where Planter was checking on Cortez, but I was only able to take two steps away before my legs gave out under me. Somehow, my body still had enough self-preservation instincts left to make sure I did so in a way that wouldn't lead to me hurting myself.

Celebrating was never something I enjoyed doing, especially right after a finish victory. There was something about the thought of me running around the cage, screaming and pounding my chest like a lot of my other peers that filled me with great shame. Maybe it was the fact that it reminded me of my days as a chuunibyou, where I would often celebrate victories against make-believe enemies with boisterous JoJo-like poses. The cringe those memories elicited made me want to roll around on my couch and beg for a swift, merciful death. So, naturally, I kept any post-fight celebrations limited to a small pump of my right fist. Sometimes I would even raise it in the air whenever I felt extra good about a finishing sequence. I had gone into tonight's fight thinking that I'd do something similar, despite the higher stakes involved. That, however, did not happen.

Instead, I slapped at the ground under me twice and screamed. I couldn't hear myself over the crowd around me, but I could feel that it was probably the loudest I've ever been.

…

"Ladies and gentlemen, referee Jean Planter has called a stop to this contest at four minutes, one second in round number five. Declaring the winner by knockout! And the new, interim OFC bantamweight champion of the world! Hachiman "8-Man" Hikigaya!"

…

As I said, I'm not someone who enjoyed celebrating at all. That extended out to things like parties as well, though the reasoning for that was pretty obvious.

Years of being ignored by society made being the center of attention difficult. By the time I was in my teens, I learned to absolutely loathe all social gatherings and did my best to avoid them like the plague. If I didn't need to, I didn't go. Social obligation still existed, of course, but that only made me loathe parties even more. As an adult, I still hated them with all my heart, but I've learned to perceive them as more of a necessary evil. An unfortunate reality of my career was that being an OFC fighter had very little to do with actual fighting, and dealt more with currying fan interest and support.

Wait, huh? What? Are you, aka me, trying to say that your desired career choice wasn't all it was cracked up to be? That it was actually a quagmire of bullshit that has nothing to do with what you signed up for but have to deal with if you want to be successful? Wow, you're a real martyr there. I feel so bad. Lol.

On a less sarcastic note, that wasn't the case with me. Life was more often than not disappointing and if that wasn't the case now, it would find a way to disappoint you later. Source: me. So, just like all major life decisions, I made sure to weigh all the positives and negatives before committing to anything. That being said, I still hated all of them with a passion. Post-fight interviews were nerve-wracking, even though my relationships with all the commentary crew were at least amicable; press conferences were a little bit more so, but that depended on how much I was the focus; and I did my best to avoid media scrums and interviews because those were the worst.

Another example of the media playing into my job were things like after-parties. While they themselves were entirely optional, it was still a good idea to have them. On a micro-scale, it was a good reward for everyone on my team, since all wins in MMA were a team effort and they always got the least amount of credit. I, being ever the pragmatist, knew it was a good idea to keep those people happy since they were the primary reason why I've gotten so far.

On a macro-scale, after parties were also a good financial decision since we could open them up to the public and charge for entry/knick knacks/souvenirs. Why anyone would pay to meet a guy who beats up other people for a living, especially someone as wholly uninteresting outside of fighting as me, was baffling, but money was money. And I, like my corporate slave parents before me, thoroughly enjoyed making money. It may make me feel like a sideshow animal, but I couldn't say that the result didn't blunt the damage slightly.

With all that being said, I was happy to finally walk into my hotel room and find a space that was free of all people, even if it was only four by eight meters in size.

Letting the door swing close with a dull bang behind me, I switched on the lights and made my way over to the queen-sized bed that I called my own for the past week, which was still a mess. The top sheet was strewn all over, leaving an almost circular indent in the bottom layer that I knew only existed because of my tossing and turning. The hotel had provided me with two pillows and only the one on the right was where I originally found it. Although, it was now somewhat crooked. The other lay vertically facing and in the middle of the mattress.

Being unable to stand how stuffy my party clothes were any longer, I rid my pockets of their contents and moved to put them on my nightstand, but stopped when my phone's home screen lit up and showed that I had, at some point, received a text message. Well, actually, there were a lot of notifications on screen. Interim or not, I did just become a world champion and that was something people would talk about. However, those were all from Twitter and not my phone's text messaging app, which meant that it had to be somewhat important as I rarely gave out my number.

I unlocked my phone with my thumbprint and checked my messages, my eyebrow raising when I saw that it was from none other than my boss and president of the OFC, Daniel Wright.

'Hey champ, fucking great fight out there tonight. Can't believe anyone thought you were the underdog going into that fight.' My lips pursed at that. I could hear him loud talking at me. 'By the way, had an idea that I wanted to bounce your way. Already ran it by your agent and he approved, all we need is your approval. Call me up when you can and we'll flesh out all the details.'

A part of me wanted to chide my boss for his use of Western figurative language. I came from the exact opposite direction, so how was I supposed to know what 'fleshing out the details' means? What did it matter that I was already pretty well acquainted with a lot of Western idioms? That shouldn't mean anything! Respect my Eastern sensibilities, goddammit!

Letting out a sigh, I glanced over at my bed and stared at it for several moments, before turning back to my phone and navigating to my contacts.

…

'Chiba City, huh? Well, I guess I can't say it doesn't make any sense.'

All of a sudden my mouth tasted bitter as I threw myself back onto my bed. The mattress was somewhat stiff under me and caused my neck a lot of discomfort as it failed to sink into the hotel mattress. My arms were still far too tender from blocking to put any sort of weight on and my actual pillows were way too far away to get.

My phone felt warm and heavy in my hand as I continued to ponder the offer given to me by my boss.

Business wise, Wright proposed a simple but effective angle. My win tonight didn't just reward me with a fancy gold belt, it made me a technical world champion. This would give me certain privileges like a bigger base salary and pay-per-view points, which were basically a cut of the profits the company got from pay-per-views. The more your card was bought, the more money you received. A cruel but effective way to get the biggest fighters in the company to care about making marketable fights.

Being a champion in the OFC, the world's most famous MMA company, also got you a lot of renown. Win the title in any other promotion? No one would even blink. They'd say, "Oh, so you're a world champion? For what company? Oh. Isn't that, like, the minor leagues though?" People cared when you were an OFC champion, even those who wouldn't normally care because they've at least heard of the name before.

People like the government officials who ruled over Chiba City, my hometown, who just heard that a young man who was born and raised there just became a world champion. What exacerbated things even further was the fact that Japan, despite being the birthplace of many forms of martial arts essential to MMA and having a long history of enjoying the sport, never had a fighter become world champion in the OFC.

That was, however, before I knocked out Julio Cortez and got a piece of one. Now, all of a sudden, the world wanted a piece of me…. Wow, great job me. That sounded pretty cool! I should write that down somewhere and use it if the situation ever arises.

Anyways, it seemed that Chiba City was opening a major arena and they wanted a big opening event, and what would be a greater draw than Japan's first technical world champion chasing the real belt?

It all made sense and I wasn't one to turn down that sort of opportunity, so what's with this taste in my mouth?

Before I could contemplate the cause, my phone vibrating caught my attention. It being in my hand still, I angled it so that I could see my screen and stared at it. My eyes ran over the words and my mind just barely recognized that it was an email notification.

Absent-mindedly, I swiped on the notification to open it and read the message but stopped when I realized that it was written entirely in kanji. Eyes narrowing at that, I checked to see the subject, which read:

'Heya senpai~!'

…

Chapter End.

Hey, look the thing I made ended. Hope you enjoyed the thing I did. If it was not to your liking or if you had any questions, feel free to ask or wait until the next chapter comes out where I'll explain a lot more there. It will come out by the way, but it's a pretty ambitious idea, so it might take a while.

Also, follow my twitter CattySunz. I don't tweet at all, but I can be persuaded into doing that as I have a lot of shitty opinions and I also follow a bunch of porn/dank meme accounts. So, um, if you like porn and dank memes, you should follow me. I'm the one with Dante from Devil May Cry's distorted face as a profile picture. DM me your dank memes and/or questions about the chapter, I guess. It's whatever if you don't.