The crowd roared. It was a tidal wave of sound that pressed against the walls of the small MMA gym. “The best in the state,” if you were to believe the ads. But Jude knew better.

It wasn’t a glamorous venue, just a cramped octagon surrounded by folding chairs and dim fluorescent lights.

But tonight, it felt like an arena.

Jude stood in the corner, his hands gripping the towel that hung around his neck. His knuckles were white, his jaw tight. Across the ring, his fighter—his son—was struggling.

Tyler’s movements were sluggish now, his feet heavy and uneven. He was barely keeping his hands up. His defenses were showing a lot of cracks.

“Come on, Ty!” Jude shouted. “Stick and move! Don’t let him corner you!”

Tyler stumbled, his opponent—a wiry southpaw with a killer hook—closing in with a predatory gleam in his eye. Another punch slammed into Tyler’s ribs, the sound like a hammer on wet wood.

He grunted, doubling over, but somehow managed to stay upright.

“Throw it!” someone yelled from the audience. “End it, coach!”

Jude’s hand hovered over the towel. His gut screamed at him to stop the fight, but… something else rooted him in place.

His pride? His stubbornness? Jude couldn’t tell what it was.

Tyler straightened. His eyes met Jude’s across the ring.

“I’ve got this,” Tyler mouthed, barely audible. He wobbled forward, throwing a weak jab that grazed his opponent’s shoulder.

Jude swallowed hard. Throwing the towel meant admitting defeat—not just for Tyler, but for himself.

And Jude Mason never quit.

Tyler threw another sluggish right hook. The counter came immediately—an explosive overhand left that slammed into Tyler’s temple. Like a hammer hitting a watermelon.

Tyler fell down with a terrible sound. The crowd roared, sensing the end. His opponent pounced, grabbing Tyler’s head and locking him in a tight guillotine choke.

Jude’s jaw tightened, his nails digging into his palms. He’d taught Tyler that move. He’d drilled him on how to escape it a thousand times.

But Tyler wasn’t moving. His arms flailed weakly, his legs kicking out in slow, desperate motions.

“Fight it, Ty!” Jude shouted, his voice hoarse. “Don’t let him have it! Hand on the wrist! Fight the hands!”

The ref knelt closer, watching Tyler’s struggle with sharp, practiced eyes. Jude’s hand hovered over the towel again.

“Come on, kid!” he screamed. “You can do this!”

But Tyler’s movements slowed. His hands went limp, his legs stilled. His opponent held the choke a second too long before releasing it, and Tyler crumpled to the canvas like a broken doll.

He wasn’t moving.

The referee dove in, waving his arms to stop the fight. The crowd erupted, some in cheers, others in groans of disappointment.

Jude barely heard them. He was already moving, shoving the gate open and rushing into the cage as the medics swarmed his son.

Blood pooled beneath Tyler’s head where it had struck the canvas on the way down.

Jude dropped the towel, already too late.

“You’re okay, Ty,” he lied. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

The sounds of the crowd faded into a dull hum, and the world blurred around Jude. All he could see was his broken son, lying still, too far gone to hear the words Jude had waited too long to say.

“I’m sorry.”

* * * * *

“Hey, newbie! Don’t sleep on the job. Wake up!”

Jude jolted upright. The world around him came into focus. A grinning man in a tattered coat leaned over him, his voice cutting through the roar of a crowd. “You’re up next! Don’t keep ‘em waiting.”

The haze of sleep cleared, and Jude remembered where he was. Not Earth. Not the gym.

This was a different world, and he was a different Jude. He clenched his blue-skinned hands into fists with an empty look on his face.

A different world.

It’s only been a month. Surely it should take longer than that to get accustomed to new rules?

And this world had rules a plenty.

When he first found himself here, he was forced to start anew. Jude stuck to what little he knew, so when it came to choosing a class, he picked something called a [Pugilist].

Unarmed fighting.

“You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” the man asked him again.

“Sure I’m sure.”

“How should we present you?”

“Huh?” Jude was still drowsy.

“A nickname. Every fighter needs a nickname. A Big Belly Ben, or a Brick Fist Sam, or a—”

“Old Man.”

That was his nickname back in his old life. Back in the old world.

“Oh, because of your white hair? I get it.” The announcer didn’t sound too impressed. “By the way, where’s your gear? Sword? Axe? Dagger? We’re not lending anything, you know that, right?”

Jude stretched, rolling his neck until it popped. “Don’t need any.”

“We don’t allow magic, either.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Okay,” Jude said plainly. He didn’t know any magic, anyway.

“You’re serious?” The announcer laughed nervously. “Well, it’s your funeral. Good luck, bare knuckle. You’ll need it.”

Jude didn’t reply. He stood, his bare feet scraping the dirt floor, and stepped out into the arena.

The crowd erupted, their cheers washing over him like a tide as they sized him up. Above his head, glowing letters displayed his stats:

Jude ‘Old Man’ Mason Level 5 Pugilist HP: 500/500

Only level 5…

Levelling up proved to be a much harder task than Jude first anticipated. He wasn’t much for video games back in the old world, but he was slowly learning the ropes.

Tyler would have known what to do. His son always liked playing in his free time.

The memory stung. Jude shook his head.

Across the arena, a much larger figure awaited. His opponent’s name hovered in bold script:

Silas ‘Boom ‘n Doom’ Redgrave Level 12 Fighter HP: 950/950

Silas towered over Jude, his broad shoulders and scarred torso a testament to years of battle. His skin was the color of fresh mud.

The man grinned, showing two rows of razor teeth, and cracked his knuckles. “Seems like you forgot your weapon, champ.” Silas had a two-handed mace at his side.

Jude ignored his opponent, his focus narrowing to a razor’s edge. He crouched low, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

He was reborn into a younger, much more resilient body. He only prayed that his instincts hadn’t dulled over the years.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead:

“Ladies and gentlemen! A classic mismatch for your viewing displeasure! In one corner, the undefeated fighting wonder, Silas ‘Boom ‘n Doom’ Redgrave!”

When Silas waved to the crowd, some woman fainted.

“And in the other,” the announcer continued, “A weaponless nobody! Place your bets, and let the carnage begin!”

Why ask me for a name if you don’t have the decency to announce me? Jude thought angrily. The crowd barely acknowledged him, too.

But it was best not to think about unimportant things right now.

A glowing countdown appeared in the air:

3... 2... 1... FIGHT!

Silas charged, his two-handed war mace raised high. The weapon gleamed in the arena lights, its heavy head bristling with spikes.

Now that's a first. I've never fought against a mace-wielder before.

Jude’s eyes locked on the incoming blow, his muscles tensing as his mind processed the trajectory. The crowd roared in anticipation.

Jude sidestepped at the last second. The mace crashed into the ground with a deafening thud. Splinters of wood flew from the arena floor as Silas overcommitted, his momentum carrying him forward.

Jude capitalized immediately, darting in to land a sharp jab to Silas’s ribs. The impact reverberated up his arm, but Silas barely flinched.

I guess he didn’t skip on his conditioning.

The crowd’s cheers rose as Silas spun, swinging the mace in a wide arc. Jude ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as the weapon whistled over his head.

The follow-up strike was quicker than expected, a horizontal slash aimed at his legs. Jude leapt backward, narrowly avoiding the mace’s brutal head.

Each movement felt natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm—but there was no denying the reality of the level gap.

Silas adjusted his stance, moving faster than a man his size had any right to. He closed the distance with two quick hops, the mace coming down in a crushing overhead swing.

Jude rolled to the side as the weapon smashed into the ground again, sending vibrations through the floor. Before he could regain his footing, Silas’s backhand strike caught him on the shoulder.

Pain flared like a live wire.

HP: 380/500

Jude staggered, gritting his teeth against the pain.

This isn’t sparring, old man. One wrong move, and you’ll be flattened.

“All right, big guy,” he muttered under his breath, his lips quirking into a wry grin. “Two mistakes: mine for getting hit, yours for leaving yourself open.”

Jude had a habit of talking too much inside the octagon. Despite what his critics believed, it wasn’t a way to get on his enemies’ nerves.

It was a way to calm his.

Even with over 40 professional MMA bouts under his belt, Jude couldn’t help but feel shivers whenever he stepped into a ring.

He let Silas charge again, this time allowing the blows to land. The mace struck his side, the impact radiating through his body, followed by a sharp hit to his ribs. Jude’s vision blurred, his HP draining rapidly:

HP: 250/500… 150/500… 90/500

The crowd gasped at the beating he was taking, but Jude’s mind remained razor-sharp. He could feel the fire in his chest stoking hotter with every hit.

Then, as his HP dipped below 20%, a notification flashed in his vision:

Passive Ability Activated: Last Stand

Strength and Agility +50% when HP is below 20%

Jude straightened. His muscles were tightening, his senses sharper than ever. The pain dulled to a manageable hum.

This may be the only chance I get.

He took a steadying breath, then darted forward, closing the distance before Silas could wind up another swing.

The mace came down in a desperate arc, but Jude was already inside its range. He ducked under the strike and delivered a devastating uppercut to Silas’s chin. The crowd gasped as Silas staggered, his health dipping sharply.

Silas HP: 950 → 850

Jude didn’t let up. He slipped around Silas, grabbing the haft of the mace with both hands and yanking it downward. The move forced Silas off-balance, his grip faltering for just a moment. Jude capitalized immediately, slamming his knee into Silas’s midsection.

The larger man grunted, stumbling back as the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Stay on him, Jude!” someone shouted.

Oh, I have fans now?

Jude advanced with relentless precision. His fists became a blur—a jab-cross-hook combination that hammered Silas’s torso. Blood sprayed from Silas’s mouth as his HP bar plummeted:

Silas HP: 850 → 500 → 300

The war mace clattered to the ground as Silas raised his arms defensively, his footing unsteady. Jude circled him, his breath coming hard and fast but his movements deliberate. His body screamed for rest, but he ignored the pain. Years of experience had taught him how to push through.

“You’re in my territory now,” Jude said. “Show me what you’ve got left.”

Silas roared, lunging forward with a desperate haymaker. Jude stepped inside the arc of the punch, grabbing Silas’s wrist and twisting it downward. Using the momentum, he pivoted, slamming his shoulder into Silas’s chest and driving the larger man into the ground.

The impact shook the arena floor.

Silas groaned, trying to push himself up, but Jude was already on him. He mounted Silas, trapping his arms beneath his knees, and began raining down punches.

Each strike landed with bone-jarring force, whittling away what remained of Silas’s HP:

Silas HP: 200 → 100 → 50

“Enough!” Silas gasped, his voice ragged. His arms flailed weakly, his massive frame pinned and defenseless.

Jude paused for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving. “You done?”

Silas glared at him but nodded. The fire in his eyes dimmed. Jude stood, rolling his shoulders as the announcer’s voice boomed through the arena.

“Unbelievable! The rookie takes down Silas Redgrave!”

The crowd erupted into chaos—a mix of cheers, boos, and the sound of coins exchanging hands. Jude raised his fists briefly, but the adrenaline was already fading, replaced by the familiar ache of exhaustion.

As the announcer grabbed his wrist and held it high, Jude glanced at Silas, who was sitting up, his expression unreadable.

Jude’s vision swam, and his body felt like it might collapse at any moment.

But a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

I won.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a new contender to watch! Let’s hear it for Jude ‘the Old Man’ Mason!”

The crowd roared again.