Dead Man's Tales: HSOTD

Fighting in real life, especially in an official tournament, was far different than what most people envisioned. It wasn't just about throwing punches and kicks; it was about reading your opponent, managing your energy, and finding the right moment to strike—all while maintaining your own defense.

As the bell rang, I focused intently on Musashi. The crowd's roar faded into a background hum, my entire being honing in on the man before me. Darting in, I faked a jab toward his head, hoping to draw his guard up. As he reacted, I pulled back my fist and instead slammed an elbow into the side of his guard. His torso dipped in response, and his weight shifted onto his back leg.

Seizing the moment, I attempted a shoulder-check, aiming to unbalance him. It connected, but not with the force I had hoped; Musashi was steadfast, barely budging. The realization that he was far sturdier than I anticipated washed over me.

Regrouping, I circled him, watching as he reset his stance with practiced ease. Ironically Musashi was a fortress, calm and collected. He launched a swift leg kick, aiming for my thigh—a strike meant to slow me down as the fight progressed. I managed to check the kick with my shin, the impact sending a jolt of pain up my leg that I tried to ignore.

The dance continued, a strategic game of chess played with our bodies. 

I feinted left, then exploded forward with a combination of punches, trying to penetrate his defense. Musashi parried my first two punches but the third—a hook aimed at his jaw—made him stagger slightly. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He recovered quickly, countering with a rapid series of strikes that forced me to backpedal. Each punch of his was precise, calculated to chip away at my stamina and composure. I blocked most, but one slipped through, catching me just below the ribcage. The breath whooshed out of me, and I grimaced, the pain sharp and immediate.

Keep your guard up, Kozen.

I chided myself internally, shaking off the pain. I couldn't afford to show weakness, a fight was much a psychological battle as it was a physical.

As the round neared its end, I decided to try something risky. When Musashi advanced again, I ducked under his punch, closing the distance between us. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I lifted and threw him to the mat with all the strength I could muster—a takedown that finally put him on his back.

As he hit the ground, I quickly moved to establish control, trying to catch my breath as I prepared for the ground game. This was my domain, where I felt I could truly turn the tide.

'Stay focused. Control the fight,' I coached myself, aware that the few seconds after a takedown were critical. Musashi was already twisting, looking to escape or reverse the position. 

As I managed to pin Musashi on the mat, I started slipping in quick body blows, capitalizing on every opportunity to weaken his defenses. He struggled underneath, pushing at my chest with his hands, trying to create space and leverage to escape. Just as I was gaining momentum, a hot flash exploded across my face—his elbow had found its way too close, and the clunk of my jaws slamming together sent shudders up my head. Pain radiated across my nose, and I felt it begin to throb, a sure sign it wasn't going to look pretty later.

Blinking back tears that reflexively formed, my lead hand rose between us. It was half-open, ready to parry further blows or to defend against another unexpected strike. 

In the heat of the moment, my training with Rika kicked in. She was an SAT officer, and she'd taught me how to fight to stay alive, not just to score points. Her lessons weren't about playing by the rules; they were about survival. This mindset, however, wasn't suitable for a regulated match. As Musashi writhed under me, trying to buck me off, I found my hand inching towards a move I knew was illegal here—a chokehold that could seriously hurt him if applied with full force.

Just as I was about to slip into the dangerous territory, driven by instinct more than intent, the bell rang, loud and clear, signaling the end of the round. Relief washed over me, a stark reminder of where I was. That bell didn't just save Musashi from a potential visit to the ER; it saved me from a disqualification.

Breathing heavily, I backed off immediately, both of us panting and sweating as we returned to our corners. 

The referee's stern voice snapped me back to the present as I retreated to my corner. "Watch those close calls," he warned, his eyes sharp. I nodded, acknowledging the boundary I had nearly crossed. The realization that Rika had registered me in this tournament suddenly made more sense—she wanted me to learn how to adapt when restricted, how to fight within confines and still emerge victorious.

As the next round began, Musashi adjusted his approach. He adopted the stance of an out boxer, utilizing his reach to keep me at bay. His smirk was faint but visible, perhaps thinking he had deciphered my strategy, or maybe just confident in his adjustment.

I needed to switch tactics, and a memory of my capoeira training flashed through my mind. The Brazilian martial art was perfect for this moment—unpredictable, agile, and fluid. It would allow me to close the distance his out-boxing stance aimed to create.

Musashi came forward, jabbing, attempting to set the rhythm and keep me outside his effective range. I bobbed and weaved under his punches, my body low and ready. As he threw a right cross, I saw my opening. I spun into a capoeira esquiva, dodging his punch with a fluid movement that brought me closer.

The crowd's reaction was mixed—surprise at the unconventional move mixed with excitement. I didn't give them or Musashi time to think. From the esquiva, I transitioned into a meia lua de compasso, a spinning kick aimed high, which Musashi barely blocked. His arms took the brunt of the impact, and I could see him wince.

Musashi tried to regain his composure quickly, throwing a counter-hook, but I ducked under it, staying close, inside his comfort zone. My movements were rhythmic yet sharp, each step and turn calculated to keep him off-balance. Another armada, another spinning kick, forced him to step back further, his back nearing the ropes.

Musashi, recovering his stance, attempted to push forward, to reclaim the center of the ring. His jabs were more cautious now, respecting the unpredictability of my movements. I feinted a low move, then sprung up with a queixada, a round kick aimed at his torso. He blocked it, but the force pushed him back.

I could feel the rhythm of the fight now, the ebb and flow between offense and defense as Musashi and I tested each other's limits. Seizing a moment of opportunity, I decided to escalate—time for something dramatic, a move to potentially end it. Gathering my energy, I prepared for a 360° kick.

Planting my foot firmly, I launched into the spin. My body turned fluidly, a complete rotation that gathered momentum, my leg whipping through the air with controlled ferocity. I could see Musashi's eyes widen for a split second as he tracked the movement, a sign I had caught him off-guard.

The kick connected solidly with his side, the sound of the impact echoing slightly in the otherwise loud arena. The force of it pushed him sideways, his body twisting with the blow, a grimace flashing across his face. For a moment, I allowed myself to think that might have been the decider. He staggered, but then, to my astonishment and slight dismay, he righted himself.

Musashi was more resilient than I'd given him credit for—a real son of a gun. As I completed the spin, landing my foot back on the mat, I felt an unexpected sweep against my ankle. Musashi had recovered quicker than I anticipated and launched a counter low-kick that caught me just as I was unbalanced. 

I hit the mat hard, the back of my head just barely missing the canvas thanks to my quick hand support. But there I was, on the ground, looking up at Musashi who wasted no time. As he advanced, I scrambled to defend, bringing my arms up to guard my face and torso. 

Pinned beneath Musashi, the rough texture of the mat pressed uncomfortably against my back, I could feel every ounce of his weight bearing down on me. 

I needed to escape, needed to reverse our positions. 

First, I attempted a basic shrimp move—shifting my hips side to side, trying to create enough space to slip a knee between us. Musashi, feeling the shift, adjusted his weight, pressing down harder. It was like being trapped under a boulder that adjusted each time you moved.

Not one to give up, I then tried to hook one of his legs with mine, aiming to disrupt his balance. If I could off-balance him, even for a moment, it might give me the leverage I needed to escape. Musashi countered by tightening his grip, his forearm pressing down across my collar to pin me more securely. 

I managed a half-guard, finally getting one leg free and using it to create a barrier between us. 

This was better; it wasn't freedom, but it was a start. 

Musashi tried to pass the half-guard, his body shifting to apply pressure where he thought he could force an opening.

My muscles screamed in protest, the strain evident as I fought against his attempts. The mat felt like sandpaper against my skin, every attempted maneuver adding more scrapes and burns. 

As Musashi attempted to transition to full mount, I saw my chance. Using all the strength I had left, I bridged hard, thrusting my hips upward to unseat him. For a moment, he wobbled, and that was all I needed. Rolling to the side, I used his momentary instability to push him off, quickly scrambling to my feet as he tried to regain his own balance.

Enough playing around, I scolded myself, irritation boiling inside. I'd been holding back, wary of injuring Musashi, focusing on flashy, point-scoring maneuvers rather than finishing the fight. But now, frustration sharpened my focus—no more fancy footwork, just straightforward combat efficiency.

As Musashi squared up, reverting to his boxing roots with a confident jab-cross combination, I changed my approach radically. Instead of evading, I met his punches head-on, my fists rising in precise arcs to parry his blows. Each block was a direct challenge, knocking his fists aside with a force that was both defensive and subtly offensive, unsettling his rhythm.

Feeling the shift, I leaned into the fight, my body tensed for action. As he threw another jab, I parried it to the side and countered with a quick, sharp hook to his jaw. The impact was satisfying—my glove connecting with a thud that echoed slightly in the close atmosphere of the ring.

Musashi staggered back, shock written across his face, not expecting this sudden escalation. Seizing the moment, I pressed forward, my movements fluid yet brutally efficient. Another jab from him, another parry from me, followed by a punishing body shot that doubled him over.

I could feel the fight draining from him with each blow, but I couldn't—wouldn't—let up. My body moved with a mind of its own, years of training guiding my limbs as if they were honed for this very moment. 

Musashi tried to regain his footing, throwing a desperate uppercut, but it was sloppy, born of fatigue and pain rather than technique. I sidestepped easily, my counter a devastating right cross that caught him flush on the cheek. He spun, off-balance, and I followed up with a left hook that sent him crashing to the canvas.

Standing over him, watching as he struggled to rise, I felt a twinge of remorse for the brutality I had unleashed. But this was the reality of combat sports—sometimes, you had to be ruthless to affirm your resolve.

As he pushed himself up on shaky arms, the referee moved in, taking a close look at Musashi's battered condition. I stepped back, breathing heavily, sweat dripping into my eyes. The fight was clearly over, even if the bell hadn't rung yet.

With Musashi's coach noticeably refraining from intervening, the situation grew tense. The boy was struggling to even stand, let alone defend himself adequately. I glanced at the referee, hesitant. 

"Give up."

The kid had guts, but this was turning cruel.

"Champions only fall in the battlefield."

I snorted at his idealistic resolve, though a part of me admired his spirit. 

"Fine, I'll make it quick," I assured him as the referee took a cautious step back, giving us room to resume.

"Hey, I'll show you my actual strength if you agree to something," I proposed, capturing his attention despite the pain that clouded his eyes. Musashi motioned for me to continue.

"You'll remove that man as your coach. You're a good kid with a great future, but he'll destroy you." 

The coach looked absolutely furious but he wasn't going to shout at a punch of kids in front of everyone watching.

"I'll consider it."

As the fight resumed, I decided to end it with a decisive move, something that wouldn't just knock him out but would do so impressively, minimizing actual harm. 

I took a deep breath, centering myself.

My muscles tensed, then released as I executed a gyaku-zuki or reverse punch. But I didn't stop there; following the punch, I seamlessly transitioned into a spinning ura mawashi geri—a reverse roundhouse kick. The move was all about fluidity and precision, the twist of my body adding momentum to the strike aimed at a non-critical area on Musashi's torso.

As I spun, my foot connected with the boy's side. The impact was clean, the sound sharp in the tense air of the arena. Musashi's body recoiled from the force, and he crumpled to the mat.

As Musashi's mouthguard spiraled into the crowd, a brief hush fell over the arena, the collective intake of breath palpable. Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, a cacophony of cheers and admiration for the fight's dramatic conclusion.

Standing at the edge of the mat, I watched the medical team swarm around Musashi, their quick movements a blur of efficiency. Feeling a mix of relief and disquiet, I walked away from the ring, sensing the eyes of the other competitors on me. There was a tangible shift in the atmosphere; my victory had instilled a mix of awe and fear, and I knew the upcoming fights would likely feel anticlimactic in comparison. And indeed, as the matches unfolded, none carried the same intensity or fervor.

Before I knew it, the tournament was concluding, and I was standing on the podium with a gold medal being placed around my neck. The weight of the medal felt incongruent with the weight of my thoughts. Applause washed over me, but my mind was already churning, dissecting every moment of the fight.

 It wasn't just about winning; it was about mastering the process, controlling the flow of the fight with minimal effort. That I had to escalate to my highest skills so quickly was a glaring sign of my limitations.

"Yay! Kozen!" Najame's voice cut through my introspection, booming across the arena like an enthusiastic uncle. I couldn't help but smile, offering a wave back to the man who had become like family over the years. 

My gaze then shifted to Rika, whose expression was unreadable. She gave me a simple nod, but her eyes said it all—there would be discussions, likely critiques, once this was all over. Standing beside her was … Holy shit those are some big tits.

I shook my head out of those dirty thoughts.

'Oh, looks like Rika was serious about me getting into an actual high school… Well, can't wait,' I muttered to myself, a snort escaping me. In my previous life, high school was … Hell but I wonder what this new chapter of my life with a new me will entail.