"Round 3, start!" the referee yelled.
There I was, standing in the octagon, facing my opponent. His once fair skin was now riddled with red marks and bruises from our earlier exchanges... yet he still had that same piercing gaze under his bald, furious visage. Sad to say, I was on the brink of exhaustion too.
We met in the center, exchanging one last glove tap before settling into our orthodox stances. Both of us pawed at the air with small jabs, testing our range. His name was Morris Kenny — a fighter known for his vicious kickboxing and nasty Brazilian jiu-jitsu submissions.
I opened the round sticking to the same strategy I'd used all fight: maintaining distance with left front teep kicks to his stomach and peppering him with straight punches.
But this time, as I threw my teep, he parried it down with his left hand, catching my ankle and twisting my balance. I spun awkwardly to my right, my back exposed. I tried to pull away- but a heavy low kick slammed into my left hamstring, sending a shockwave of pain through my leg and nearly making me buckle.
Can't show it... I forced a poker face, stutter-stepping around him, circling to reset.
"What are you doing, Marcus!? You're down two rounds and you've only got three minutes left! Better fuckin' finish it!" my coach screamed from the corner. I was down two!? I thought I was winning... I needed a plan—and fast. What mistakes does he make? What habits could I exploit?
My thoughts were cut off by a sudden left high kick, crashing into my guard and rattling my arms I reached to block it. My bones screamed in protest. I can't take many more of those.
I circled, trying to regain my composure. One thing I'd noticed: every time I jabbed with my left, he countered with a low kick. That's why my leg's wrecked.
Good. Let him.
If he wanted to cripple me, I'll take his fucking consciousness with it.
I widened my stance, planted my battered left foot, and tucked into a high guard. Extending my left hand, I feinted a jab— and as soon as I saw him bite, I committed to the gamble.
Leaning forward, I launched a right straight into the big bruise on his stomach— at the exact same time his shin smashed into my thigh.
FUCK!
Pain tore through my leg, but I grit my teeth and pushed forward. Through the haze, I saw him fold.
Now!
I swung a desperate, sloppy left hook that clipped his jaw, spinning him to my right. Without hesitation, I twisted my hips and whipped a right high kick, my shin crashing brutally against his face. The impact sounded disgusting.
The crowd erupted as Morris stumbled, his back turned to me.
Adrenaline surged. I lunged onto his back, locking my left arm around his throat, clamping my right over my left, and coiling my legs around his torso. We crashed to the mat as I squeezed with every ounce of strength, blocking off his carotid arteries.
Eyes squeezed shut, I held on until—
Someone pried me off.
Opening my eyes, I saw the referee checking on my limp opponent.
I... won.
"And tonight's winner, via submission in Round 3, now with 13 wins and 7 losses: Marcus 'Demolidor' Pereira!" the announcer roared.
...
"Damn, it feels good to watch that clip over and over," I muttered, lying back, phone in hand, watching my victory replay for what felt like the hundredth time. I could pass out right now...
Wait.
Did I do my dailies?
Groaning, I limped over to my PC and booted up League Wars. I yawned as my character loaded. Must... finish... daily quests.
Today's dailies were simple: kill a dozen slimes, visit a vantage point in the jungle, and participate in a world boss event. Easy enough with my badass greatsword-wielding warrior.
Too tired for complex rotations, I swapped to a longbow for easy range attacks. One thing I loved about League Wars was how a weapon change instantly shifted your skills and playstyle—depending on your profession. Warriors with axes fought up close; rangers threw them at mid-range. Different weapons, different classes, different moves. But warriors couldn't wield a scepter. That was for casters.
I mowed down slimes with a flurry of arrows and teleported to the jungle. Riding my dragon mount, I noticed a new mail notification. It was from a GM. Confused, I hit auto-walk and opened the message:
"Greetings, DemolidorXLV! We have reviewed the earlier survey results and found your answer, 'MMA Fighter,' the most intriguing. We'll be hearing from you soon." - [GM] Anders.
Right. There was that weird survey asking about our real-world jobs. I shrugged. Maybe I should reply?
I closed the mail and dismounted onto a giant tree branch. The vantage point revealed a breathtaking overhead view. Alright, one last quest.
Checking the boss schedule, I saw The Great Jungle Worm—a hulking green monstrosity—was at 25% health.
I teleported close and raced toward the battle atop my raptor mount, even as sleep threatened to overtake me.
Must... reach... boss...
I forced myself into the fray, spinning with my greatsword, carving into the worm with devastating attacks. Its health dwindled— and so did my consciousness.
Just a short nap...
...
A loud crash jolted me awake.
To my left, a boulder smashed through the city gates, scattering soldiers like bowling pins. Screams filled the air.
Flaming vases rained down from the sky, igniting homes.
What the fuck!?
Heart pounding, I stumbled to the side for cover.
Creatures—half-man, half-horse—flooded the broken gates. Centaurs!?
Wait— Isn't this the human tutorial area? Am I... in the game!?
Panic clawed at me, but I spotted a weapon rack nearby and sprinted toward it.
I grabbed a spear— but an invisible force ripped it from my hands. An error message flashed red: "Weapon unusable by current profession!"
I tried a greatsword. Same error. Frantically, I tried an axe, a sword, a staff, a scepter, even a pistol—
"Weapon unusable by current profession!"
"What the fuck is my profession!?" I shouted.
Another message box popped up: "Profession: Brawler (MMA Fighter)."
Are you fucking serious!?
I spun around as I heard a centaur charge at me, brandishing a spear.
I raised my arms to guard— but it slashed my stomach wide open.
A searing, unbearable pain wrapped around my gut, with hot and thick blood gushing out. Before I could react, the centaur struck again— this time, into my throat.
I crumpled to the ground, gasping like a fish out of water, my body growing colder by the second. Darkness closed in.
Am I... dying?
A final message appeared:
"You have perished."
Below it, an option appeared:
"Return to previous checkpoint."