Marcus gasped awake, the rough canvas digging into his back. Sweat slicked his forehead, but the air... it smelled wrong. Not the sterile tang of antiseptic and blood he knew so well, but the musty scent of old leather and chalk dust. A rhythmic thud echoed through the space, the sound of heavy bags being pummeled, punctuated by the sharp *crack* of speed bags and the occasional grunt.
Boxing gloves weighed down his hands, but the weight felt off, lighter, almost... new.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat as he tried deciphering the sounds around him. Sneakers squeaking on the canvas floor. The rapid *pop-pop-pop* of someone working the double-end bag. A distant timer bell, followed by a smattering of applause.
This wasn't the dingy arena where Brian "The Ox" had nearly beaten him to death.
"You done already, new kid?"
The voice, young and laced with cocky arrogance, sent a shiver down his spine. It was familiar, in a way that made his skin crawl.
He blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the harsh glare of the ring lights, old fluorescents that flickered like dying stars. A face swam into view, grinning with the self-assuredness a teenager could possess. Thin features, sharp cheekbones, eyes that danced with mischief.
Jamal "Lightning" van Beek.
Impossible. Jamal was thirty-two now, retired after a moderately successful pro career. This kid couldn't be a day over fifteen.
Marcus shot up, his head swimming. His hands flew up instinctively to steady himself, and he froze, a jolt of pure shock coursing through him.
These weren't his hands.
No calluses on the knuckles, earned from years of relentless bag work. No scars crisscrossing his fingers, souvenirs from countless sparring sessions. The wrists were thin, almost delicate. These were the hands of someone who'd never thrown a real punch.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a deafening roar. The echo of those impossible words—SYSTEM ACTIVATING—ricocheted around his skull like a stray bullet.
"Get up, Marcus! You want a spot here, show us what you've got!"
That voice stopped him cold.
Coach Ruud stood outside the ropes, hands planted on his hips, but everything about him was wrong. His gray hair was a rich, vibrant brown. The deep lines etched around his eyes had vanished. The slight stoop in his shoulders, the result of decades spent training fighters, was gone.
This was Ruud twenty years ago—young Ruud, before Marcus had broken his heart with mediocrity and failure.
The realization slammed into him like a physical blow, a sledgehammer to the gut.
He was sixteen again.
Jamal bounced on the balls of his feet, shadowboxing with exaggerated movements. "Come on, new boy. Let's see what you can do."
The gym buzzed with activity around them. Kids his age—his age again—worked the bags and practiced combinations. A few had stopped to watch the sparring session, snickering behind their gloves.
"Fresh meat," someone whispered.
"Ten euros says he doesn't last two minutes."
"Look at those noodle arms."
Marcus struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His body felt alien, like wearing a suit several sizes too small. Muscle memory screamed at him to keep his guard up, watch Jamal's feet, and stay light on his toes. But this young body didn't seem to know how to listen.
Jamal rushed in without warning, a blur of youthful energy.
A fast jab snapped toward Marcus's face. Instinct took over—twenty-six years of hard-earned experience compressed into a split-second reaction. He parried the punch, slipping to the left, just like Ruud had taught him.
Would teach him.
Had taught him?
The left hook caught him flush on the temple.
Stars exploded behind his eyes, a blinding supernova. His legs buckled, betraying him. The canvas rushed up to meet him, and he hit hard, the impact sending a jolt of pain through his spine.
The gym erupted in laughter, a wave of sound that washed over him.
"Two seconds! That's gotta be a record!"
"Maybe boxing ain't for you, mate!"
Marcus lay on his back, staring up at the flickering lights. The ringing in his ears mingled with the jeering teenage voices, creating a symphony of humiliation that felt sickeningly, achingly familiar.
Am I dreaming?
The thought surfaced, unbidden and desperate: *Maybe this is what dying feels like.* His brain's last-ditch effort to make sense of the void. Maybe he was still lying in that arena, medics swarming over his broken body while his mind conjured impossible fantasies to soften the blow.
But the throbbing ache in his skull felt undeniably real. The metallic tang of blood on his tongue, real. The cold, rough canvas beneath him was real.
"Regression…?"
The word slipped out before he could stop it, a fragile whisper. Regression. The voice in the darkness had mentioned something about regression. About fatal trauma and second chances and—
"Coach… Why do you look so young?"
The question came out as a croak, barely audible. Ruud chuckled, the sound rich, warm, and brimming with a youthful energy Marcus couldn't recall ever hearing.
"What, you been drinking? On your first day, are you already seeing things?"
The other kids erupted in laughter, a chorus of amusement. Ever the showman, Jamal offered him a hand up, his grin unwavering.
"Don't worry, mate. Everyone gets rocked their first time. You'll get used to it."
Marcus ignored the outstretched hand and pushed himself to his feet, his muscles protesting with a dull ache. His head pounded with each frantic heartbeat. The world felt tilted, as if reality had been nudged a few degrees off its axis.
"Can I use the bathroom?"
Ruud frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Bathroom's down the hall—but why do you want to use the bathroom, eh? Didn't you just get here? or was it because of the punch?"
The question hung in the air like a thick cloud of smoke, heavy with unspoken implications. Marcus felt the weight of every kid's gaze in the gym boring into him. Some were curious, their eyes wide with innocent wonder. Others were suspicious, their expressions tight and guarded. A few looked ready to burst into laughter again, their faces flushed with suppressed mirth.
"I told you he was weird," someone whispered, his words laced with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
Marcus didn't wait for more questions; he didn't want to give them satisfaction. He ducked under the ropes and hurried toward the exit, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him like shadows. His legs felt unsteady, as if he were walking on the deck of a ship in rough seas, each step a precarious balancing act.
The hallway was precisely as he remembered it—narrow and dimly lit, lined with faded fight posters and photographs of champions who'd honed their skills here decades ago, their faces frozen in moments of triumph and determination. The bathroom door, painted a drab green, had a brass handle worn smooth by countless hands, a testament to the passage of time.
He slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing in the small space, and flicked on the light, the sudden brightness momentarily blinding.
The mirror was cracked down the middle, the same jagged line bisecting the reflection, as always. But the face staring back at him made his knees buckle, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
Sixteen years old. Baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, a reminder of an unlived life. Eyes that hadn't yet learned to expect disappointment, still bright with naive hope. Hair that wasn't thinning from stress and too many blows to the head, thick and full of youthful vitality.
Before everything went wrong, this was him before the world's weight had settled on his shoulders.
"This isn't possible," he whispered to his reflection, his voice barely audible above the pounding in his ears. "I'm... young? Why?"
The voice that answered him came from inside his skull. It was clear and emotionless, like a computer program executing a command.
You have been granted another chance, User. After a fatal trauma, your wish was acknowledged. Regression complete.
Marcus reached up, his fingers trembling as he touched his face. The skin was smooth, unmarked by scars, a blank canvas. His nose was straight, unbroken, a testament to a life unmarred by violence. The permanent ache in his left shoulder—the legacy of a dislocation that never healed properly—vanished as if it had never existed.
"What are you?" he whispered, his voice filled with fear and awe.
Instead of an answer, something impossible appeared in his vision, defying all logic and reason.
Text. Glowing blue letters hung in the air like holograms, superimposed over his reflection in the cracked mirror, a digital intrusion into the physical world.
───────SYSTEM INTERFACE─────────
User: Marcus Dorsey
Status: Regression Complete
Age: 16
Rank: Unranked
PHYSICAL STATS
Power: 7
Speed: 8
Reflexes: 6
Stamina: 9
Footwork: 5
Ring IQ: 6
Discipline: 6
SKILLS
Jab: Level 1
Cross: Level 1
Guard: Level 1
Hooks: Locked
Counter: Locked
MISSIONS
[Daily] Complete 3 rounds of shadow boxing – Reward: Footwork +1
[Penalty] Failure: Numbness in dominant arm (5 hours)
MANUALS
No style manual selected.
Please select a training manual to access focused progression.
───────────────────────────────
Marcus stared at the impossible display, his mind reeling. The numbers swam before his eyes, like something ripped straight from a video game. But this wasn't a game. A knot of unease tightened in his stomach.
"This interface tracks your progress," the voice explained, devoid of warmth. "Complete training missions daily. Only one manual may be learned at a time. Select now to proceed."
A new panel shimmered into existence, offering three options in crisp, glowing text:
PEEK-A-BOO: Tight guard, aggressive pressure. Developed for close-range fighters. Rewards high stamina and reflexes.
OUT-BOXER: Uses reach, movement, and speed to control distance. Favors technical, agile fighters.
SWARMER: Overwhelms opponents with high volume. Demands a relentless pace and a strong chin.
Marcus recognized these styles instantly. Throughout his career, he'd faced fighters who embodied each one: Tyson's peek-a-boo, Ali's out-boxing, and Armstrong's relentless swarming.
But which one was his style?
He had been a mediocre heavyweight, a journeyman with no defining characteristic in his old life. He could absorb punishment, but dishing it out? That was another story. Maybe that was the problem, he mused. Maybe he had never truly found his fighting identity.
His finger hovered over the options, indecision gnawing at him. Peek-a-boo played to his stamina, but demanded a speed he wasn't sure he possessed. Out-boxing required a technique and ring IQ he'd never cultivated. Swarming... swarming was pure heart and grit, something he'd never lacked.
He touched the Swarmer option, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him.
The bathroom vanished.
One moment, he stared at his younger self in a cracked mirror; the next, he stood in an endless void. There were no walls, no ceiling, no floor, just empty space stretching into infinity.
Then, ring ropes materialized, forming a perfect square around him. The canvas felt solid beneath his feet, grounding him. But everything else was colorless, silent as a tomb.
"Welcome to the spatial simulation," the voice intoned. "Here you will learn the fundamentals of the selected manual. Say 'Cancel' to exit at any time."
Marcus turned slowly, taking in the impossible space. "Where am I?" he wondered aloud, a tremor of apprehension in his voice.
Silence. But then, in the distance, he saw movement. A figure approaches through the void, its features sharpening with each step.
Another boxer. Gloves raised, feet moving with a practiced rhythm, ready to teach him the brutal art of the swarm.
Marcus stepped forward into the simulation ring, his heart pounding frantically against his ribs, a potent cocktail of fear and anticipation bubbling within him.
He was sixteen again, brimming with untapped potential. And this time, he vowed, he wouldn't squander it.
This time, he would become everything he'd never dared to dream of.
The figure in the void raised its gloves, waiting.
Marcus mirrored the gesture, his own gloves rising as he stepped forward to meet his destiny, a fierce determination blazing in his eyes.