K-DAY

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A head filled with ambition, the drive needed to pursue it, and the body equipped to achieve it. My problem lies not in these requisites for fulfilment, but in the discernment to define my own path, and the courage in my heart to speak it. 

- Alex Zashin’s private journal 

Date: unknown—est. several months forward from K-League | Day One 

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PART ONE 

ALEX ZASHIN 

Fuuuck. I know this’ll sting. 

I wince slightly at the wet crunching sound my upturned fist makes as it connects with my opponent’s nose.  

His head rears back as tears flood the lines of his eyelids, threatening to drop and shatter his masculinity—and in front of so many people, too. I exhale sharply in appreciation of the shot, flashing an apologetic grin at him. 

He ignores me—understandably—rubbing the back of his fist across his face before advancing at me again. A fleck of spit flies out of his mouth and onto the floor between us. 

“You’re a changed man from last year, ‘cro. The Philus back then wouldn’t have been able to eat that one,” I offer, in an attempt at niceties amidst an otherwise hostile interaction.  

He hesitates, the middle of his lips curling upward in a reflexive gesture that reveals his appreciation of the comment, despite me just literally punching him in the face. 

A tiny trickle of blood lurks around his nostrils, but I purposefully didn’t hit him too hard. His undeniably chubby cheeks are red, and the straw-like hair hanging by his shoulders drips with sweat. 

Funnily enough, I’d faced Philus on K-Day (the opening day of K-League) last year too.  

I won that one pretty memorably.  

I’d dropped him—and his trousers—with a fist to the ribs, leaving his sprawled-out body a very sad sight. Which definitely wasn’t hilarious—like, at all. 

I watch as my opponent gathers himself, planning his next move. 

I have to give it to him, though; he’s clearly lost a few pounds in the weeks between last year’s league ending and this new one commencing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s still on the unhealthy side of the scales, but none of us are perfect, right? 

I sidestep as Philus fails to tackle me to the floor, spinning and landing a jab to his temple for good measure. 

Kudos, though; he definitely trained harder than I did over the break. Then again, I’m not the one getting repeatedly smacked in the face right now, so there’s got to be something said for my approach. That approach consisted largely of mucking around with Kai and Crystal, reading when I could be bothered and specifically avoiding the training I should have been doing. Hell yeah. 

I quickly readjust my feet to face my advancing opponent once again. 

It’s almost like I can feel the nighttime breeze on my face as I reminisce. I’m sitting with Kai and Crystal, just laughing the night away under a sky full of stars—it’s beautiful. I mean it was only yesterday, to be fair. And we’ll probably do the same tonight. But, still. 

“Oi—I know you’re just playing with me, ya’ bastard!” 

“Huh?” I grunt, as a flimsy fist connects with my face and scrapes the bottom of my jaw. “Sorry...” I mutter, realising that I’d actually forgotten to evade that punch after seeing it coming. 

“...And stop apologising!” he scoffs. 

“So—” I stop myself. All emotion falls from my face.

Fine. Let’s stop playing. 

Any emotion falls from my face.

I stop and stare into his eyes, my gaze unwavering. He falters. Maintaining eye contact and embodying intimidation, I grip the belt that hugs my waist and tug it, tossing it to the side as it falls away from me. I rip open the sides of my fighting gi, pulling it over my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, revealing the sculpture that is my upper body.  

I can feel the eyes of different audience members burning into the blue depths of my own, but I don’t bother checking for the individuals.  

There’s only one that I secretly hope is in the crowd, watching me now. The image of her silky black hair flowing down her tasteful figure as she walks away from me burns into my vision. I blink it away. Not now. 

I chuckle, before reaching for my face and wiping the sweat from my forehead, running my fingers down my protruding cheekbones and over the edges of my jawline. With the same hand, I push the short, black strands that have fallen over my eyes back through the rest of my hair and take a sharp inhale. My jaw clenches. 

Philus watches me reluctantly, blinking slowly as if fed up with my antics. 

Ignoring that, I flex, sharpening the rigid outline of my abdominals—all eight of them. They’re bordered by rows of ribbed obliques, which craft a stairway up to my pectoral shelf. A glaze of sweat hugs my skin, giving it a metallic shine that reflects the overhead lamps. I break eye contact to look down at my outstretched arms. Twisting them slightly, the colourful veins that weave their way down my arm ripple over the muscle beneath them.  

Hey, I’m allowed to show off sometimes—I worked hard for this build. And so did my genetics, but that’s less cool to brag about.  

I exhale, reluctantly aware of the elders who watch me from their pedestal. 

Watch all you like. Watch really close, if you like. There’s no way in hell I lose this one—might as well make it look good. 

I turn my attention back to the boy standing before me. Slowly, I extend my right hand toward him. With my closed fist turned toward the ceiling, I outstretch my index and middle fingers. I pause there, my pose the ultimate statue, before contracting them twice, quickly. It’s an utterly diabolical gesture that spells out just one thing: try me. 

Philus’ eyes widen as he looks at me, and then at the surroundings enveloping us, as if seeing them for the first time. 

∞ 

We stand in a hexagonal sand pit, its width three times my height. A low, dark brown fence seals us in. Thick wooden beams line the length of the walls, connected by pillars that snake their way through the middle of the indoor area. More wood criss-crosses its way over the ceiling, creating a striking look that simply embodies craftsmanship.  

Unlike Philus, I don’t see the glory in attacking a fellow daydreamer when I see one. So, seeing that he’s momentarily absent-minded, I take the opportunity to glance behind me, too.  

My gaze wanders to the very back of the room. Opposite the huge arched entrance, sits a grand, golden statue. Lord Kamen, the One Divine Ruler. An unmissable symbol of the martial level each fighter strives to achieve in this world. Reaching between the base of the statue and the sand pit in which we stand is a stretch of paved ground, where our training would normally take place. Today, though: it’s the audience’s territory. 

Some lean over the bar that separates us, others watch intently, and most shout indecipherable jeers. Their voices overlap, creating a constant hum that reverberates around the colossal, wooden interior of the building.  

This is the Kakuto Sanctum. The Sento Fighter Pit is where we stand. And we are the fighters. 

∞ 

“Finish it already!” I hear, and not for the first time in the last few minutes.  

Philus finally refocuses his attention on me, sizable beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

I relax, manifesting my composure. 

A look of resignation flashes across his face, followed by a short sigh. It’s gone as quickly as it came, though, and then a quiet but animalistic sound escapes his lungs as he shakes his head and launches himself at me. Pulling his arm back, he throws a wild right hand toward my face. I evade it with just neck movement, before parrying the left hand that swings towards my liver with the outside of my right arm. 

I retreat ever so slightly and he lunges again. 

He opts for his lower limbs this time, thrusting a right leg toward my obliques: the ones I’d so thoughtfully put on display for him. I anticipate the strike, inviting it in and seeing his clunky movements coming from a mile off.  

Waiting until the last feasible moment, I take a small step sideways, away from his oncoming leg, before trapping it between my biceps and upper body, taking the sting out of the swing as I do so. A look of fear shoots across his face. 

Now. It has to be now. 

May the might of Lord Kamen be mine. 

“Har-den!” I yell. I push the sound out of me as hard as I can. Physically. I try to give it form, manifesting it into the physical world. 

The strange, overwhelming sensation floods my nervous system, as if someone were tracing ten fingers across the entirety of my body in a soothing yet rapid and unpredictable motion. 

I home in on one part of my body. The upper right section of my torso. There. I feel it pulse. I chase the sensation across and down the vessels of my right arm. My strong arm. 

And then I try to stop it. 

On the cap of my knuckle, on the index finger of my right hand.  

There. 

I smirk. I switch hands, grasping his calf tightly with my right hand before sliding my left hand up his leg to the outside of his mid-thigh. Sorry ‘cro, no homo—I swear. 

I force him backwards, using his balance—which is entirely on his back leg—against him. His left leg remains firmly in my grip. In one swift move, I bring that leg outward—hell, I throw it out—sending his foot flying away from me in a clockwise direction. 

At the other end of the clock, his face comes hurtling towards mine, the picture of regret. 

I reverse the momentum I created by pushing his leg outward and draw my right hand back, leaning down into it. I coil my entire body until tight, and then I release it all in a full-body rotation. 

As if tracing a well-taken path, my fist whips outward, upward and then inward again, all in a single, slick motion.  

And it fucking smashes into Philus’ jaw. 

His eyes roll into the back of his head as his body crumples to the floor. 

He’s unconscious.  

... 

At least his pants stayed up this time. 

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K-LEAGUE | DAY ONE: RESULTS 

ALEX ZASHIN VS PHILUS ORAKAMON 

WINNER: ALEX ZASHIN 

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