Chapter 8 : Fallen Demon

April 2010. The countdown to the tournament began. Since I was signed up for Kumite, my Sensei put me on a strict "reconditioning" phase. No heavy lifting, no intense sparring. Just stretching, light cardio, and aggressive resting. It was boring, but necessary to keep my muscles fresh.

My track record was good—I took first place at the local tournament last year—so my Sensei was pushing me toward the Regional Tournament. My real goal was the US Open, which was happening this month, but he shut that down immediately. "You're not ready," he said. It stung. But he made me a deal: if I could reach the finals at Regionals, he’d green-light me for the US Nationals in July.

Two days before the fight, I was on mandatory house arrest for rest. The boys came over to keep me from going crazy.

"Why aren't you doing the US Open, though?" Tyson asked, lounging on my couch.

"Sensei blocked it," I said, throwing a tennis ball against the wall. "Says I’m not ready."

"Is it a ranking thing? Do you have to clear Regionals first?"

"No. I qualify. He just thinks I need the experience before the big stage."

"It’s because you’re a hot-head, bro," Alvin cut in, not looking up from his magazine.

"Hey... that’s not true!"

"Dude," Alvin lowered the magazine. "Did you forget you almost got disqualified last year? You threw a knee strike at a guy's face."

"Whoa," Tyson sat up. "You did what?"

"It didn't land!" I defended myself. "He slipped."

"You were lucky he slipped," Alvin corrected. "If that connected, you would've been disqualified."

"He was talking trash!" I snapped. "He deserved it."

"He was trash-talking you before the match, Daeron. You held a grudge and tried to take his head off in the second round. That's psycho behavior."

"Total psycho," Jones laughed, kicking my foot. "Mad Dog Daeron."

"Fuck. You. Clown!" I kicked him back. "You and your tiny dick aren't any better!"

Jones gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "FUCK YOU, MAN!!! MY DICK IS PERFECT!! IT IS WORSHIPPED BY MANY!"

"Worshipped by who? The geriatric ward? 80-year-old grandmas?"

"FUCK YOU!! I demand a Jalapeño Challenge! Right now, peasant! Let’s see if you have the balls for it!"

"BRING IT ON!!!!" I shouted, jumping up.

"Sigh," Tyson rubbed his temples. "Why are they like this?"

"Testosterone and stupidity," Alvin said, standing up and grabbing his keys. "I’m going to the store to buy a gallon of milk. I don't want those two dying on my watch."

We did the challenge. We ate the peppers. We regretted everything. By that evening, the only thing we were fighting was explosive diarrhea.

**

The day arrived. I was warming up with my Sensei’s team for the upcoming match. It was a one-day tournament consisting of four stages: First Round, Quarterfinals, Semifinals, and the Final.

I was a bit bummed that my parents couldn't come because they were still abroad, but I was happy the crew—and Jessica—came to support me. It was hilarious that the boys actually showed up cosplaying as Tekken characters. I could tell the only one who felt embarrassed was Tyson (who looked like a budget King), while Jones and Alvin (Eddie Gordo and Law) were acting like monkeys.

"Kid, remember," Sensei’s voice cut through the noise. "Stay focused. No showboating. Hit, get the point, and retreat (Zanshin). Stay calm."

"Osu!"

My first opponent stepped onto the mat. Same height as me, but built differently—long torso, shorter legs. That was my win condition. I had the reach advantage.

"Kamaete!"

We dropped into our stances. I kept mine loose, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

"Shobu Hajime!"

The fight started. He was aggressive, rushing in to jam me up with punches. I waited, watching the distance close. Just as he committed to a lunging punch, I slid to the right—a sharp side-step—and fired a side kick into his open ribs. Thwack.

"Yame!"

The referee stepped in. Waza-ari. Two points. Easy.

We reset. "Hajime!"

He was smarter now. He circled, keeping his guard high. No punches. But then I saw it—a subtle twitch in his right calf, his weight shifting back. He was winding up for a front kick to push me away.

I didn't retreat. I leaned into my lead leg, using it as a pivot point. Before his foot could leave the floor, my left leg whipped around in a high arc. A roundhouse kick. My foot pad tapped his cheek guard with surgical precision.

"Yame!"

Ippon. Three points. The score was 5-0. I glanced at Sensei. He didn't smile. He just held up three fingers and slashed the air. Finish it. If I got an 8-point lead, the match ended early.

We reset. The opponent was rattled now. His breathing was heavy, his eyes darting around. He was desperate.

"Hajime!"

He charged, abandoning technique for raw speed, swinging a wild fist. I floated back, creating the perfect gap, and snapped a high kick toward his head. My foot made light contact with the side of his neck—a perfectly controlled scoring blow.

Suddenly, he crumpled. He clutched his throat, wheezing, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.

Shit. My stomach dropped. If the referee bought the act, that was a Category 2 penalty for excessive contact. I could be disqualified right here.

"Yame!"

The referee looked at the groaning boy, then looked at me. He paused. He knew the difference between a hit and a tap.

He raised his hand toward my side. "Aka, Ippon!"

Relief washed over me. The ref knew he was faking. That was 3 points. Total score: 8-0. Technical Victory.

I bowed out, keeping my face stoic, and walked back to the coach's corner. In the stands, the "Tekken" crew was going wild.

"Sit. And breathe slowly. Don’t get too excited!" Sensei ordered me sternly.

"Osu." I sat down and controlled my breathing. Sensei was right. If I got too excited, it would only lead to mistakes later. I still had three matches to go to become the champion.

**

My second match began. This time, the opponent was very technical. I had watched his first match; he managed to get a clean technical win too. It seemed the Quarterfinals at the Regional level were the real deal.

In the first minute, the score was 4-3 in my favor. I got 4 points from two clean body kicks, while he managed to score 3 points after landing a calculated crescent kick to my forehead. The match was heavy on technique. I noticed my Sensei becoming tense, and the boys looked nervous too. I had to secure more points in the last minute. I couldn't afford a loss or a tie, because he had scored the first point (Senshu), meaning he would win if the time ran out on a draw.

"Hajime!"

The match resumed. His stance told me he would keep aiming high to steal 3 points. This time, I tried to close the range slowly so I could react faster if he launched a swift kick. He didn't act immediately; he lured me in further by stepping back a little.

Bam! Before I realized it, he launched a swift punch to my torso.

"Yame!"

Fuck. The score was 4-4.

I cursed under my breath. In WKF rules, a tie goes to the person who scored the first point (Senshu). He had the Senshu. If the clock ran out now, he won. I saw the smirk on his face. He knew it too. He was going to stall.

"Ato Shibaraku!" The referee shouted, reminding us that only 30 seconds remained. I was screwed if I didn't secure a clean hit.

"Hajime!"

I changed strategy. I switched to a loose, low stance. The opponent remained calm, observing my movements. I planned to distract him with a feint sweep to lower his guard. I launched the feint immediately, forcing him to drop his hands. In that split second, I rotated my feet and launched a spinning back kick (Ushiro Geri), grazing his cheek.

"Yame!"

"Aka, Ippon!"

The boys cheered loudly. I managed to get 3 points. With only a few seconds left, the opponent became restless. His stance told me he would go all out when the match resumed.

"Hajime!"

He aggressively stepped forward and launched a reverse roundhouse kick right away. I managed to parry it and side-stepped to waste the remaining time.

Buzz. The long buzzer sounded. I secured victory, 7-4. The crowd was loud; it was an intense match full of high-level technique.

I walked back to the coach’s corner. Sensei reviewed my performance and gave me advice for the Semifinal. The level had risen significantly, and the opponent I was about to meet was quite famous in the region.

After a while, the Semifinal match began.

This opponent was different. He was cocky. I had watched his previous match; he liked toying with his opponents, trapping them with sweeps or simple kicks to humiliate them.

"Don’t play his game. Force him to play yours," Sensei advised me.

"Osu!" I walked to the center of the mat.

For the first 30 seconds, he only circled around. He was dodging and parrying without throwing a single counter. He was dancing around just to mock me. Suddenly, a weak, nudging fist to my torso caught me by surprise.

"Yame!"

He got a simple 1 point while acting like he was fooling around. He smirked at me as he walked back to the starting line.

"Hajime!"

This time, I struck early to close down his movement. But he swiftly countered using a roundhouse kick, tapping his foot lightly against my mouth guard.

"Yame!" ... "Ippon!"

He had a total of 4 points. He tried to hide a giggle. And then, he made the gesture. He kissed his own hand, then tapped his foot. He was literally telling me, "Now kiss my feet again."

Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! HOW DARE HE!!

My effort to regain my composure vanished. His gesture successfully provoked me. When the referee shouted "Hajime!", I dropped my stance entirely. My mind was clouded by red rage. From the corner of my eye, I saw Sensei stand up, trying to throw the towel to stop me.

It was too late. I launched a full-power right side kick directly at the opponent’s head. He realized it too late and tried to block it with his left arm.

CRACK!!!

The opponent fell, unconscious, his left arm bent at a sickening angle. His left ear was red and bleeding. The crowd went silent.

The referee stood there, mouth open. I looked at the corner. Sensei had his eyes closed, head bowed in shame.

"Hansoku!" (Disqualification).

Disqualified. A long suspension. Risk of a permanent ban.

In that single moment of rage, my dream of being a Karate Athlete was buried.

**

The gym had turned into a chaotic scene. Medics were swarming the mat. The opposing coach was screaming, lunging at me, held back by two referees.

My Sensei walked over. He didn't look at my face. He just tapped my shoulder—a heavy, final touch. "Go home," he whispered. "Consider this my last gift to you. Don't come back to my Dojo again."

The words were plain, devoid of anger, which made them worse. I grabbed my bag from the locker room, head down, feeling the heavy stares of the crowd burning into my back.

I exited into the cool air of the parking lot. The crew was waiting. They looked rattled. Jones, usually the loudmouth, wouldn't meet my eyes; I saw his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Even Tyson looked wary. But Jessica? She was watching me with a strange, intense excitement.

"Ease up, man," Tyson stepped forward, hands raised. "You look like you’re ready to kill someone else. You’re scaring the crew."

"Sorry, guys," I muttered, unable to look them in the eye. "I’m going straight home. Thanks for coming."

I unlocked my car. Jessica was already moving.

"I’m coming with you," she said, sliding into the passenger seat.

"I just want to go home, Jess."

"I know. Your parents are still abroad, right? You shouldn't be alone."

"...." I didn't have the energy to argue. I started the engine and peeled out of the lot, leaving my terrified friends behind.

The drive was silent. When we got to my empty house, she went straight for the sofa.

"Come here, Tiger."

"...Nah. I need a shower. I stink of sweat and... other stuff."

"No." She patted the cushion. "Come here."

She grabbed my hand and pulled me down. Before I could protest, she climbed onto my lap, straddling me.

“I need to shower, Jess”

"Shut up," she whispered.

She kissed me—hard, messy, passionate. Her hands tangled in my hair, forcing my face closer. The scent of chocolate and vanilla enveloped me, drowning out the smell of the gym. I grabbed her waist, grounding myself as she ground against me. The rage that had been consuming me began to dissolve, replaced by a desperate, heavy lust.

I broke the kiss to bury my face in her neck. She let out a soft whimper, her movement snapping into a faster rhythm.

"I want you, Jess," I whispered against her skin. "Let’s take this further."

She pulled back, framing my face with her hands. Her green eyes bore into mine, intense and unblinking.

"I care about you, Daeron."

"What?"

"You’re not a bad guy."

"How can you say that?" My voice cracked. "Did you see what I did?"

"Don’t let their judgment define you. You made a mistake. You lost control. So what?" She leaned in closer. "Embrace it. Feel it. Understand it. You have to face the demon in your heart so you can control it, instead of letting it control you."

"I..."

"Don’t let that demon chain you down. Don’t let them strangle you with their rules."

"I don’t understand, Jess."

"You might not understand now, but you need to understand yourself first." She smiled, "I’m proud of you, you know. You were powerful today. Amazing. And I’m here to celebrate that with you. You’ll never be alone, Daeron."

The twisted validation broke me. It wasn't what I should have heard, but it was what I needed to hear. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed, burying my face in her chest. The tears came hot and fast. I sobbed, shaking in her arms, while she held me through the dark night.