Young Master's PoV: Woke Up As A Villain In A Game One Day

Chapter 440: Chivalry Is Dead, I Guess

Hey, remember that thing I said about me being confident enough in my combat skills to handle a teenage girl?

Yeah, you can go ahead and forget that now.

“You’re cheating! Cheating!” I whined out like a dying lamb, whipping my head out of the way of a spinning bird kick that surely would’ve taken it off. “What even was that move?!”

Alexia either didn’t have the breath to answer me, or, more likely, just didn’t think a target actively begging for his life deserved a verbal response.

Instead, the moment her foot missed my ear, she used the momentum to plant her hands on the floor.

Dropping low and twisting her entire body with a fluid elasticity that was outright terrifying in that moment, she rounded in with a sweeping kick aimed directly at my shin.

Okay, no problem.

I figured I’d just channel Essence into my entire lower half and absorb the impact. Then, before giving her a chance to slip away, I’d catch her ankle and flip her over.

From there, putting her in a submission hold would be a cakewalk. I was thinking maybe a single-leg Boston crab lock? Or maybe a sharp toe-hold to force a quick tap-out.

Regardless. It was a beautiful plan. Flawless, even.

A textbook showcase of CQC (close-quarters combat) theory that would have made all the Academy’s combat Instructors weep in pure joy.

…Too bad reality didn’t give a solitary fuck about my textbooks.

The great wisdom of Mike Tyson dawned on me too late: Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.

Or, in my current predicament, until a five-foot-something ginger ball of pure malice slams into me.

The second her leg connected with mine, my knee bent sideways. Yes, knee. At the last possible moment, she had subtly shifted the angle of her strike.

And while I did ensure my lower half was reinforced with a healthy layer of Essence, I didn’t account for her kick to bang into my knee.

It only hurt as much as being struck by a thick rubber bat. But that much was still enough to make the joint click. The structural integrity of my left leg gave way.

I crumpled forward.

And before I could surrender (both the fight and my dignity after this twentieth loss), Alexia sprang up from the floor and twisted her body the other way around, driving her foot to my chin.

The impact rattled through my jaw before my brain even had the courtesy to register the pain.

My vision blurred into a trippy kaleidoscope of gym floorboards below and fluorescent lights above as I went airborne for a brief, deeply humiliating second.

Then I hit the padded mats with a groan, sprawling flat on my back like a squashed bug.

“Twenty,” an innocently sweet voice chirped from somewhere above my ringing ears.

“You… fucking… cheater!” I blinked against the stars dancing in my eyes, slowly bringing the world back into focus. When Alexia came into view, I swatted at her. But the effort was so pathetic she didn’t even bother to dodge. “You said no feints!”

“Yeah. For you,” she tilted her head like it should’ve been obvious from the start. “You need to learn to trust your technique. I don’t need to learn anything except how to pick your teeth out of the floor by the time I’m done.”

Have you ever felt so angry at how toxic someone was but had to keep your mouth shut because they could rip your arms off and shove them up your ass?

Yeah, that was my life right now.

“Okay, enough resting, lazy bones,” she drawled, tapping the toe of her sneaker against my aching ribs. “We still have forty-five minutes before Michael brings back the takeout. Let’s go for… three more?”

Fuck me.

•••

All jokes aside, the more I sparred with Alexia, the more I realized how humble she was.

No, really. She was kind enough to fold my laundry for me at one point. Only… she did that while I was still in it.

…Yes, I’m being sarcastic.

Yes, ‘folding my laundry’ is a euphemism for turning my spine into an origami swan before she locked me in an arm-bar.

Gods, she was a demon.

I had fought men bigger than her. I had fought monsters scarier than her. But even in the face of existential horror, I never felt so hopeless as I did when calculating a simple path of defense against her.

I don’t care who you are or where you’ve trained. I could say this one thing with utter certainty — if you engage Alexia in a straight fistfight, you are dead.

Her spatial sense was absolute. Her technique was so close to perfect that it might as well have been flawless.

But the most frightening thing about her was how quickly and seamlessly she could adapt to anything.

It’s like her mind was programmed to find the most violent, most efficient outcome to any given scenario.

Her go-to martial art was a blend of Hung Gar and Southern Praying Mantis kung fu — elbows tucked, heavy but agile footwork, low stances, explosive stomps, and palm strikes.

Her favorite trick was getting up close and personal with her opponent, then generating an absurd amount of power to back her strikes with virtually no room to accelerate.

I didn’t know how she did it, but she didn’t need a massive wind-up or a running start to shatter a ribcage.

She could stand completely still, her palm resting flat against my chest, and then casually blast me backward with a single twitch of her hips and spine.

It was infuriating.

So naturally, smart as I was, I thought about going on the offensive.

I mean, if her close-range game was unparalleled, the logical solution was to keep her at arm’s length, right?

Use my superior reach, maintain a tight jab, and force her to wade through a storm of long-range strikes before she could get into her preferred shredder zone.

Yeah. No.

Whenever I tried that, she’d change her martial style to execute fluid, continuous spinning, constant evasion, and open-palm deflections.

Eventually, frustration would settle in, and I’d start making mistakes.

They forced me to adopt a new plan.

Since offense was obviously not the answer, it had to be defense! Right?!

If I couldn’t out-punch her, I’d just outmaneuver her. I’d use my agility, dance around the edges of the mat, and let her burn through her stamina chasing me.

I’d go on my heels, use light-footed sidesteps, and turn the sparring ring into a frustrating game of tag.

Brilliant idea, wasn’t it?

…That lasted for all of four seconds.

Every time I began to backpedal, Alexia would close in, using aggressive kicks, wide sweeping extensions, and acrobatics to get under my guard.

And once that gremlin of destruction slipped underneath my reach, it was over.

This one time when I almost got away, she performed a cartwheel-style axe kick that forced me to turtle up just to save my collarbones.

The moment I froze to block, she dropped like a stone, slid right into my blind spot, and swept the footing out from under me before I could scream for help.

In short, it was a tactical checkmate, no matter which way I sliced it.

So, and I’m not proud of it, I thought about using my size to overwhelm her. More size equals more mass, right?

If I couldn’t kick better, punch better, or run better, then I would just throw my entire fucking body on her and pin her down.

Yes! Wrestling and grappling were the answer.

I’d use my weight advantage, bum-rush her into the mats, and employ leverage to smother her offense.

It was a dirty, ungraceful, and unmanly strategy against a girl who barely came up to my chest, but desperate times called for absolutely shameless measures.

I waited for her to step forward, timed her low stance, and lunged, fully expecting my superior mass to plow her into the ground like a freight train hitting a cardboard box.

You know what the bitch did?

She changed her fighting style. Again. This time using graceful, looping movements to flip my own momentum against me.

My hands closed on empty air before her palms slapped against my ribs.

Using some sort of Tai Chi deflection, she redirected my entire center of gravity down and out.

Suddenly, my own forward momentum was my worst enemy.

But in her kindness, Alexia decided to help me. She grabbed my wrist, stepped under my arm, and used her hip as a fulcrum to teach me the workings of a shoulder throw.

The world turned over. The ceiling lights flashed. I hit the mat so hard the wind packed up and moved out of my lungs permanently.

I was gasping and choking, feeling as if a hydraulic press had just crushed my entire torso like a soda can. My vision was going dark.

“And that makes twenty-six,” Alexia’s angelic voice drifted down from the heavens. “But seriously, Sam. Trying to tackle a small, helpless girl?” She crossed her arms over her chest, drooping and pretending to be sad. “Chivalry is dead, I say.”

Believe it or not, I had to endure that abuse for another week. By the time Friday rolled around, I was regretting finding her crying in that alleyway in the first place.