"Round 3, start!" the referee yelled.
I stood in the octagon, facing my opponent. His once light skin was now marked with red bruises from our earlier exchanges—yet his piercing gaze remained as fierce as ever. He looked angry, bald, and dangerous. I wasn't in great shape either. Exhaustion weighed on me.
We met in the center of the ring for one last glove tap before slipping into our stances—both orthodox. We pawed at the air with small jabs, reading each other's striking range. My opponent, Morris Kenny, was known for his deadly combination of kickboxing and Brazilian jiu-jitsu submissions.
I stuck to my strategy: maintaining distance with front teep kicks to his stomach and keeping him at bay with straight punches. But this time, as I threw my left teep, he deflected through a downward parry with his left arm, trapping my ankle. My body turned involuntarily, exposing my back. I tried to recover, but a heavy low kick slammed into my left hamstring. Pain shot through my leg, forcing me to buckle slightly. I couldn't let him see that. I reset my stance, forcing a neutral expression as I circled to the right.
"What are you doing, Marcus!? You're down two rounds, and you only have three minutes left! You better fuckin' finish it!" my coach shouted.
Two rounds down? Shit. I thought I was ahead. I needed a plan, fast. What were Morris's habits? His mistakes?
Before I could strategize, a left high kick whipped toward my head. I barely blocked it with both arms, but the force sent shockwaves through my bones. I couldn't take too many more of those unless I wanted a broken arm.
I circled away, refocusing. I'd noticed a pattern—every time I threw a left jab, he countered with a right leg kick. No wonder my left leg was battered. Fine. If he wanted to cripple me, then I'll fucking take his consciousness with it.
I widened my stance, planting my left foot. I turtled up in a high guard, extending my left arm in a feint. The moment he reacted, I committed.
I leaned forward before pivoting with my back foot, throwing a right straight into the bruise on his stomach—just as his low kick smashed into my left thigh. Pain exploded through my leg, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. FUCK!
Morris folded forward in slow motion.
This was it!
A sloppy, diagonal left hook of mine crashed into his jaw, turning him to my right. I twisted my hips and unleashed a right high kick. My shin connected with his skull. The sickening impact echoed through the arena. The crowd erupted as Morris staggered, his back now completely exposed.
Adrenaline surged as I lunged, jumping onto his back, wrapping my left arm around his throat while my right clamped down. My legs coiled around his torso, locking in a rear naked choke. Gravity took over, sending us crashing to the mat. I squeezed with every ounce of strength I had left.
Darkness.
And then—hands prying me away. My eyes snapped open. The referee had broken my chokehold. Morris lay limp as the barbaric crowd cheered further.
I... won.
"And tonight's winner, by submission in Round 3, now with 13 wins and 7 losses—Marcus 'Demolidor' Pereira!" the announcer boomed.
—
"Damn, it feels good to watch that clip over and over again," I muttered, replaying the fight on my phone. My body ached. I just wanted to pass out.
Wait—had I done my dailies?
Sighing, I limped to my PC and booted up League Wars. Must... finish... daily quests.
Today's dailies were easy. Kill a dozen slimes, visit a vantage point in the jungle map, and participate in a world boss event. My greatsword-wielding warrior should make quick work of them.
Too tired for complex rotations, I switched to a longbow and picked off the slimes from a distance. One thing I like about League Wars is how you can change your skills with just a simple weapon change and have class-based utility skills to go along with it. However, certain weapons are locked into certain professions, and each profession had different skills with the weapon. For example, a warrior will fight up close with an axe at hand, but a ranger will throw them at mid-range instead... and a warrior cannot wield a scepter.
Then, I teleported to the jungle map, riding my dragon mount. A notification popped up in my mailbox.
A message from the GM?
I hit auto-walk and opened the letter: "Greetings, DemolidorXLV! We reviewed the survey results and found your answer—'MMA Fighter'—the most intriguing. We'll be hearing from you soon." – [GM] Anders.
Right, the game had sent out surveys asking about our real-life jobs. What did they mean by "hearing from me soon"?
I shrugged it off and continued. My dragon mount landed on a sturdy branch, and I activated the vantage point, giving a beautiful overhead view of the jungle along with its tall trees and wild vegetation. One quest left.
Checking the world boss schedule, I saw The Great Jungle Wurm was currently terrorizing the forest map. I teleported in through a waypoint and dashed toward the battlefield. The boss was at 25% health, but... my eyelids were getting heavy.
Just a little more...
—
A loud crash jolted me awake.
I turned, eyes widening. A boulder had obliterated the city's gates, sending soldiers flying. Screams rang out. A flaming vase crashed to the ground, spreading fire through nearby homes.
What the fuck just happened?
I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding. Four-legged creatures stormed through the gates, trampling the soldiers—centaurs!?
Wait... wasn't this the tutorial area for humans?
I sprinted to the side, searching for a weapon. A rack of arms caught my eye. I grabbed a spear—
"Weapon unusable by current profession!"
What!?
I grabbed a greatsword—same error. Desperation mounting, I tried an axe, sword, staff, scepter, pistol, rifle—
"Weapon unusable by current profession!"
"Then what the fuck is my profession!?" I shouted.
A new message box popped up:
"Profession: Brawler (MMA Fighter)."
Are you fucking serious!?
Before I could process it, galloping hooves thundered toward me. A centaur warrior closed the distance, spear raised.
I barely got my guard up before its spear slashed across my stomach. White-hot pain flared through my body. Blood gushed. I gasped, stumbling back—
Then a thrust to my throat sent me breathless on the floor.
Soon, the heat from my wounds faded. Cold seeped in. Darkness swallowed my vision.
A final message appeared:
"You have perished."
Below it, a single option:
"Return to previous checkpoint."