K, what are you doing? In vain I tried to attract her stare.

Wyshnewski, Kentaro’s fighter who fought at Yokohama, the one, who had sent his opponent into oblivion with the spinning heel kick and did the same to me at our first encounter in the Tenko club. I didn’t want him to be my next sparring partner.

“You want Yan san?” asked Kentaro, his voice betraying surprise. K nodded, a wicked smile lingered on her lips.

“So desuka, mmm…Yan san?” His eyebrows raised, Kentaro turned towards the Caucasian fighter, who answered his proxy’s call with a step forward from the line. He tilted his head sideways, his neck bones making ominous cracking sounds. Eagerness to fight showed on his face.

Yan Wyshnewski was a fighter from Poland. His eyes, embedded in a fair, slightly freckled face, were such a light shade of blue that looked almost artificial. With the front strands of his chin-length, light-brown hair tied into a small knot on the back of his head, and an abstract tattoo that spread on the sides of his neck he brought upon the image of a warrior from some medieval Slavic tribe. He rarely spoke, which set him apart from the other boastful, trash-talking Kentaro’s fighters. When he did speak he limited his heavily-accented and slow pronunciation to very short sentences, usually only in reply to Kentaro.

The first time we’d met at Tenko he looked in much better shape than me. Now, at least in that regard, we were equal. The intense training program reshaped my body too. We were more or less of the same weight, but he had one big advantage on his side. He’d been a fighter for Yamato Damashi for much longer than I and had real fighting experience at the YD events. Without a doubt Wyshnewski was a fighter, who was above my league, more so today when just a minute ago I was ready to go to my room and fall on the bed from exhaustion.

K must have been well aware of this fact. Yet all my attempts to make her notice the desperation in my eyes and withdraw her proposition or at least change her request for a fighter failed. Prevented by my pride, and knowing the price I’d pay for showing such weakness, I couldn’t refuse the fight on my own.

A grin worthy of a villain from a Bond movie appeared on Kentaro’s face. “I thought for Nik’s sake to start with a less experienced fighter, but you must know better how good your fighter is,” he told K. “Well, I’m sure Wyshnewski san will be more than happy to have some practice, won’t you?” The question was obviously rhetorical, but Wyshnewski felt the need to respond, his deep voice resonating with a heavy Slavic accent: “No practice for me. More like taking small kid to school.”

K ignored the ill-timed and poorly constructed bravado from the Polish and clasped her hands together. “Good, we’re all on the same page then.”

Fuck no! We’re not!

Kentaro shot a look at me and smirked. He must have noticed my anguish, probably everybody did.

“Let’s get ready,” K pressed.

Her hand grasped my arm and pulled me towards the closest ring corner, while Kentaro and his guys moved toward the one on the opposite side of the ring.

The second we were far enough from the others, I confronted my proxy: “What the hell, K?”

Her eyes widened and her eyebrows lifted as she answered with a shrug. She dangled two wraps in front of my face, then placed one of them on the edge of the ring floor and took my left hand. She pulled it towards her and began wrapping the blue bandage around it. With my fingers spread I stared down at my hand, mesmerized by K’s accurate and smooth work. She passed the wraps a few times around my wrist, across my thumb, then between the fingers and covering the knuckles, now and then pulling slightly to tighten the bandage. She had never wrapped my hands before.

“Listen, K…” I said in a low voice as the loud laugh of the guys came from the opposite corner; “I can’t fight Whyshenwski, not today. I’m exhausted. I just finished a two-hour wrestling session and had a longer one before that in the morning. The whole week was…I can barely stand on my feet. ”

“Mh-mmm….” she said continuing with the wrapping. When she finished she took the second roll and took my other hand. After a few initial wraps, I pulled my hand away from her. “K, do you understand what I’m saying? I can’t fight him today.”

Her eyes lifted from my hand and pierced mine. “Can’t or won’t?”

“W-what?” I frowned. “I can’t. I told you, I’m dead tired, I won’t last a minute. He’s all fresh… and experienced.”

“You’re afraid of him.” She dropped her stare and her hand reached for mine again.

My frustration growing, I didn’t let her grab me. “You’re not listening. I’m not fucking afraid. I want to smash that bastard’s face badly, I swear it. But to send me into the ring in my current state is just foolish. I’ll be made a joke, and so will you. Kentaro will have his laugh.”

She chuckled, caught my hand, and with mild force drew it toward her.

“You’re making too much of it. It’s just sparring, you know, a practice, a friendly fight. You said so about your previous two opponents” She pulled the wrap tightly across the back of my hand and fastened the Velcro strap.

“You and I both know this is different.”

“Huh, sokka….How’s so?”

“That guy will go for a kill.” My eyes searched hers for understanding.

“Then you go for a kill too.”

“But—“

“There will never be ideal circumstances. It’s always going to be something… a bad sleep, or some wrong food, upsetting news…. or just… not feeling in the mood, you know… Fights don’t happen according to your preferences. You need to be able to perform regardless, at any time, when the need arises.”

She took the gloves and pulled them over my hands, while I watched her helplessly.

“Go into the ring and fight the best you can. That’s all I ask from you.”

“Hey, K san, do we begin? Are you ready, or your boy needs more time?” The annoying, jeering voice of Kentaro came from the other side of the ring.

K’s stare lingered on me, her unrevealing eyes leaving me in uncertainty. Then she yelled out: “We’re ready!”

Wyshnewski entered in the ring and performed a short shadow boxing, adding a few high jumps. He looked pumped with energy.

I climbed in the ring with a heaviness of a man walking up to the firing wall. I tried not to look toward my opponent, whose intimidating pre-fight routine now changed to kicks. Grasping with his hands on the ropes, Kentaro pulled himself up on the outer edge of the ring and beckoned Yan to come closer. The gold earring glittered on his ear as he spoke to his fighter, his mouth sneering at me across the ring.

I averted my eyes at K. She stood below my corner, playing with the remote for the round-timer. With the wrestling coach gone, there was nobody else but us in the hall.

“Hey, K!” Kentaro called out. “Instead of having rounds let’s leave the boys to fight it out without any interruptions… until one of them gives up. Or he’s knocked out. My fighter is up for it. What do you say?”

K made a thoughtful face and tilted her head toward me. I knew better than to assume she sought my opinion. It was more like an assessment of me and had nothing to do with my wishes.

“Sure, why not…it will make things more interesting. Right, Nik san?”

Another purely rhetorical question. I knew Yan had nothing to do with the matter either, it was all between the two proxies.

I shrugged as if it was all the same to me and if I considered it deeply enough, it was. Time in this situation didn’t matter much. It wasn’t going to be the type of fight where some time-relevant strategy would pay off. To just make it till the end of the last round would be humiliating for either fighter and it wasn’t really an option in the first place. The shouts for K.O. that accompanied the ring walk of Kentaro and Wyshenwski at Yokohama resonated in my memory.

My body still warm from the training, I felt no need to warm up. Watching Wyshnewski hopping from one leg to another, Kentaro stepping down from the ring, and other fighters noisy with their banter, I was overcome with a kind of numbness.

“Nik san, you ready?”

I heard K’s words, but I didn’t reply. I was as ready as I would ever be.

The sound of the electronic timer announcing the beginning of the endless round prompted Wyshnewski from his corner in my direction. I made only a few steps forward and was still far from the center of the ring when Wyshnewski, without any glove touch, confronted me with his jabs. I put up my arms in front of my face and made a quick step sideways to avoid him. Through my raised forearms I peeked at my energetic opponent, whose arms were only half-way up in guard.

He was coming at me carelessly and seemed confident I wouldn’t be able to touch him. With several feigns he tried to elicit a reaction from me and when it didn’t work, he taunted me to come at him. He barred his teeth and growled like a dog before he laughed. I didn’t respond to his provocation, all my attention was on the distance. I had to keep out of his reach, not only of his hands but also his legs. It wasn’t a question of if, but when his kick would come and I had to be ready, so I was observing him in full focus.

Did he just bend his knee? Why is he leaning on his back foot? Shit, shit He changed his legs…why did he do that?

Thoughts and doubts began twirling in my mind, making me twitch at his every move.

What’s he doing now? I saw it…he hopped…It’s his stance for the kick…fuck…Is he coming in?

A tinkling sensation pestered my jaw. I wanted to touch it badly, but that would mean opening my guard.

Wyshnewski lowered his arms completely and began jumping around me as if he wasn’t taking me seriously. He didn’t even break a sweat, whereas I could feel my eyes burning from the salty droplets that slid over my forehead.

Why doesn’t he stand in guard? He’s all open….Shall I go in? No….It’s just a provocation… a trick… he’ll turn around and kick me…

My leg work got messy. I became restless, my mind caught in a vortex of ceaseless thoughts, my body reacting in panic.

All of a sudden, he came in. He must have sensed my weakness. No kick, but a combination of punches. Despite my disrupted mental state somehow my hands remained up, my guard never wavered, and none of his strikes did much damage.

He backed away, grinning maliciously. He soon resumed his attack, this time with low kicks. Again without the help of my mind, my leg reacted and deflected his away.

Then a combination came, two punches and a low kick. I pressed my arms together, moved back, my leg kicked his away. I marvelled that I managed to block that.

His blue eyes watched me with the coldness of a machine. Kentaro was shouting something, but only the sound of his words reached my ears, my brain didn’t process their meaning.

It made me think of my proxy and as I stepped aside to move away from Yan once more, I saw her face below the ropes across the ring. She was looking directly at me, her mouth was opening, yelling something. I slowed down my movement, almost stopped it, straining my ears until her voice finally reached me: “Attack!”

An obvious command, yet it felt as if I had completely forgotten about this option and had to be reminded of it. Attack! I have to attack. K told me to attack!

I stepped into my reach, threw a counter punch, then a combination, then a low kick, and backed off closing my guard. I knew my hits connected but only when I peeked through my guard, I saw the damage I caused.

Wyshnewski, his eyes watery, had that dazzled look left by an unexpected direct punch. His nose was bloody and a red mark started showing on his right thigh, where my leg struck. He stumbled, having a hard time stepping on his right leg.

I couldn’t remember how exactly I started this attack, it just happened. K’s voice pushed through my brain and shattered the vortex of paranoid thoughts that made me so damn jumpy and then my body acted on its own. My exhaustion, mental and physical, brought upon a certain relaxedness, which was incredibly effective. My feet suddenly felt lighter, the sense of coordination came back, my confidence returned and my focus grew.

I was standing a different fighter. And Wyshnewski realized that too. His inhuman eyes revealed a gleam of emotion, frustration and anger, his arms rose and closed into the guard.

I thought this newly acquired awareness would make him more careful, but it was the opposite. He came at me without holding back in the slightest. His punches stronger than before. I should have expected it, he was Kentaro’s fighter after all. It seemed like part of proxy’s personality, reflected in their fighters too, me being the very exception to this rule, for K hardly gave me anything in that regard.

“K.O. Whyshni! K.O.!” The guys shouted from the corner of my opponent.

Wyshnewski certainly tried, but I stood my ground, and more than that -- I countered successfully. I ate a few of his strikes sure, but mine were more precise and cleaner and I knew they hurt more.

The fight equalized. I lost a track of time but my punches and kicks became more and more effective. With satisfaction, I noticed signs of weariness in my opponent, his punches becoming wider, his feet slowing, while nothing changed for me as if I was beyond that. Like in too tired to sleep kind of way. All those hours of training that were behind me shaped my body movements into the most effective and economical ones. I didn’t have to think to put my hands up, they already were, I didn’t have to consider moving this or that way, my legs simply moved. It felt natural and easy, as if I was driving a car.

My mindset changed too. After that initial panic, it became flexible, unburdened. My focus was there, taking in the whole picture, so the movements of Wyshnewski stopped being a surprise. I noticed his tells before his attacks, the twitch of his lip, an unwanted look at the target, the small step forward before the kick, I deciphered them all, and then avoided them, blocked or countered.

I took risks, I admit. But this was how the game on this level was played and my risks paid off. I gave a powerful right that sent him backwards. I pressured, pushed him against the ropes, and continued with heavy body shots. Kentaro’s shouts and those of his fellow fighters only fuelled my determination.

Be that due to Slavic tenacity or the fear of loss in front of Kentaro and his pals, Yan Wyshnewski somehow endured my heavy head and body shots and slipped away from the ropes. He stumbled sideways, looking like he was barely holding up on his feet. To regain his balance he made a small jump from one leg to another. A tempting opening.

He’s mine, I thought. At that moment, K’s voice burst across the ring, my ears singling it out amongst the shouts of Kentaro and the other fighters.

“Go back!”

Her female voice so distinct, I reacted promptly. I’d lie if I was to say it was due to some sense of obedience or out of trust. It was simply because it happened so rarely, I’d almost feel ungrateful if I didn’t do as she said.

At the same time I stepped back the hill of Wyshnewski grazed the side of my face. Fortunately, only grazed and sent me stumbling back onto the ropes, from surprise more than from the actual impact.

I comprehended with delay the action that had just gone down. If it wasn’t for K I’d fall into Yan’s trap and get K.O. ed in the worst possible way. The dead silence that took over the hall added to my feeling of awe. I stood up, rubbed my chin, and with a sense of relief and gratefulness that my worst nightmare didn’t repeat, chuckled inwardly. Momentarily, I even forgot about fighting, feeling almost as if avoiding the deadly hill kick was enough and I had already won.

With a smirk, I looked at the Polish. The spinning hill kick was his signature technique, the last resort he turned to after the pressure I put on him, and it failed. We both knew he wouldn’t be able to use it on me again in this fight.

My smirk increased. Desperation brought Wyshnewski’s blue eyes to life, he was on the verge of losing everything. In my arrogance, I forgot how dangerous such sentiment could be and was wrong to think this hopeless state diminished Yan’s will to fight.

My eyes made a brief connection with K’s, just before my opponent turned into a beast and attacked with wild abandon as if he was charging not against a single man but an army.

We both smashed onto the ground. His focus sharper than mine, he stood up before me. Still on all four I looked up at him and received a powerful soccer kick in my face, which sent me on my back. My mistake -- I didn’t expect such nasty moves in the sparring practice. Everything was spinning, the only thing I managed to do was to put up my hands to protect my head from his stomping foot. Punches, kicks, I couldn’t even tell which was it, were raining down on me, on my arms, head, torso. I was on my back, exposed, unable to do anything.

“Nik! Defend!” K’s voice reverberated with a note of desperation. “Defend dammit! Put your hands up!”

I lifted my head and saw her, her upper body extended over the ring floor below the ropes as if she wanted to reach me.

“I can’t…” my lips whispered. My head jerked back from the punch. I lifted it up again, feeling the pain in my nose. K… I had no strength to voice my words. I saw her mouth opening, yelling. I didn’t hear her anymore, and her image began disappearing within the cloud of darkness that encroached into my field of vision. Or was it blood…

A sharp knee dug into the left side of my ribs. I gasped and curled into a fetal position. My air was taken away.

It can’t end in this way…I can’t let it….

I looked at her as long as I could, keeping myself conscious in this way. Don’t stop the fight, K...please don’t….

The darkness pressed in from all sides.

In that madness, a coldly scornful voice echoed from the edge of my consciousness: “Don’t defend, attack! Kill the motherfucker!” Somewhere far above a crow cawed.