by Sunniva Dee
“And then find someone who can help you investigate, find solid evidence of what that Gunther dude has done to your palace.”
I can’t help smiling. “My home, you mean.”
“Yeah, whatever you wanna call it. Looks like a palace to me. I looked up Kyria Castle on the internet just now, and damn, girl,” she says. “I want to say you’re lucky, but I don’t even know anymore. It’s so fucked up.”
I’m hesitant when I draw the curtains of the bed. Fragile, they rustle in ways they should not rustle, and usually, I don’t draw them because of this. But hope has lit a glow in me. It stems from my chat with Cass, and it might be why I alter my bedtime routine.
Through the window, the moon stares pale and round. A dark branch waves its leaves out there, an endless motion that challenges my wish for stillness.
I know it as I fall asleep: it’s time I involve my father.
VICTOR
Flanked by guards, we walk through the gates of the summer palace. I can’t decode the language spoken in hushed tones around me. It’s fine. I’m better off feeling disconnected from a country where all I did was suffer.
My father once asked me if I ever thought about my biological parents. The answer was no, because how can you think about someone you don’t remember meeting? Even the street kids I spent time with are blurry in my mind.
The only memories not blurry are the Muay Thai rings, the fighter with the monster tattoo, and my momma dog. I’m not sure I knew of the existence of royalty back then. I do recall pictures of the king and queen in stores I couldn’t enter. I saw them through the windows, but I don’t think we spoke of them. To me, they were paintings, the colors bright and strong and solidifying how their reality was different than mine.
Now, I walk between their guards, Dawson on one side and Jaden on the other. I’ve been places. I’ve seen things. But I’m not prepared for the onslaught of lacquered red and expensive gold enclosing us.
We’re not to meet the king and the queen, but their daughter, the crown princess, who’s giving us the night-before audience. She isn’t married, the bellboy at the hotel whispered to us. It’s the people’s secret belief that she’s in love with her fighter and wants to immortalize him through his winning streak.
“Remember, it’s your job to mess up Miss Majesty’s plan,” Zeke reminds me as we breach the threshold of the throne hall. In silver and midnight blue, hand-painted lotuses climb endless walls until they meet golden beams and an arched ceiling. A red carpet leads us forward, the guards by our side until we’re midways to a small, dark-haired woman sitting on a… She actually sits on a throne.
“Who before me is Victor Arquette, the great fighter of mixed martial arts?” she asks in the tone of someone not used to asking. I let my gaze run over her feather size and the European clothes she wears in such a traditional, opulent setting. She has makeup on, but only a little. Pale lips part as she speaks, showing a hint of straight, ivory teeth.
The lackey who drove us here asked that we turn our eyes down when speaking with the crown princess, but it’s not practical. She peers at me, and I keep her stare as I approach.
“That would be me,” I say. My voice carries through the room and flings back at me, sounding deeper and richer than it is. It doesn’t have the same effect on hers.
“Please sit at my feet. I would like to speak with you.” Her eyes slit as she studies me. I instantly understand that this is a woman so used to getting her will she’d never consider others’ wishes. She turns to a guard and speaks rapidly in what’s supposed to be my mother tongue. He sinks his head in a reverent bow before moving backward, away from her, and gesturing for my team to follow.
Soon, I’m alone in this huge, ornate, expensive museum with a small lady dressed like an American socialite. There is a bench by her, a low bench with a cushion on top. I accommodate myself on it, legs crossed and hands in my lap.
Some sort of greeting is required, so finally, I bow my head.
“Tea?” she asks.
“No thank you, Your Majesty.”
Her brow arches at my rejection.
“Unless there is green tea without sugar?”
A small smile teases the corners of her mouth, and she lifts a single finger. A servant I didn’t notice emerges. She doesn’t look at him as she gives him my order in Thai.
“I wanted to meet you before tomorrow’s fight,” she says. I let her trail over my features, her gaze moving over each shoulder and down my chest. I’m wearing formal clothes, a suit and a tie for the occasion, so I’m not sure what she’s looking for.
Finally, she stills on the clenched fist in my lap.
“You have good hands,” she states, her words cautiously spooned out. I imagine years in the hands of phonetic experts until her pronunciation became this, a perfect Oxford English with no accent that can place her on a map.
“Do you move as fast as they say?”
I wonder if she has seen me fight. Royalty probably doesn’t watch videos of random fighters. “I do.”
“Then this will be good. The dragon fighter has remained undefeated for ten years. Are you aware what you’re taking on?”
“Yes, I am. I believe that I can change his luck.”
The crown princess doesn’t seem pleased. She tips her head up in what must be the international language of aristocrats, because I’ve got a soft spot beneath my sternum at the memory of Helena making the same move when she’s insecure.
“Don’t be cocky. I’ve spoken to fighters before you. They all think they can defeat him.”
“Why am I here?” I ask. It is probably not how one speaks to royalty, but she doesn’t appear surprised.
“You, Victor Arquette from The United States of America, are here because we have run out of legitimate challengers in our country. The dragon fighter only lacks one win to become the most winning fighter in the history of Thailand. You are his last steppingstone.”
The crown princess is sure again. I could let it rock my concentration, but a decade and a half of mental training leaves me calm. “What does it mean to become the most undefeated warrior in all of your country?”
The crown princess’ eyes are dark as coal, but for a second I think there’s a shard of light in them before her regal veil returns. “It means that once he wins, he will be celebrated tirelessly. Already, he is renowned, but his fame will swell and gifts will be bestowed upon him.” Impossibly, her posture straightens further as she steadies her back against the throne without resting. “Then, he will be knighted.”
VICTOR
The mesh of this cage is gilded, and the stairs leading up to it a deep velvety red. When I bounce up the last step, I don’t see them anymore. A song I don’t recognize pours from musicians in a corner, my customary walk-on tune absent. Such a simple thing, to control your theme song, isn’t it? Now agitation vibrates through me, shooting energy into my muscles.
The king and queen of Thailand are seated on thrones at the upper end of the room. Around them sit other surely prominent guests draped in gold and silver. Everywhere there’s that deep red color I used to think of as Chinese.
The venue is small, exclusive and not for the masses. No tickets can be bought for this fight, and only court journalists and the biggest newspapers are allowed in.
Dawson waits below my corner. Standing tall, he exudes the quiet reassurance we’ve all come to expect from him. Jaden and Zeke are pumped, maybe more so than me, but there’s a fairy-sized little woman I miss in this picture.
I wish Maiko were here.
I can’t let her absence psych me out, so I strangle my need for her guidance and let focus, pure and unbreakable, be my drug. Oh I’ll still demolish my opponent.
The drums start up as the crown princess strides into the room. She finds her seat to the left of her parents. Eyes trained on me, she awaits the seating of her posse.
The rhythmic thumps from drumsticks on skin intensify at the entrance of my challenger. I clench my fists, wat
ching the preparations below the cage. They’re the same as in the U.S, and yet somehow they’re different. There’s more reverence as they handle this fighter, and when they let him go, they bow like he’s important. The princess’ hands clasp together in a discrete display of tension.
This scene is a dream, a scent of flowers and incense surrounding me instead of sweat and agitation. The audience too is quiet, respectfully awaiting our show. For a single moment, I allow myself nerves, cortisol filling my veins with stress. So I bounce, shake it off. I’m here to do a job, to bash this man, the hope of Thailand, into the ground.
My plan is a knockout. There will be filming, so if I can, I’ll keep us going for two or three rounds. If he’s too hard—I do expect a battle—I’ll have to take whichever chance I can to put him to sleep quickly.
The commentator doesn’t announce his ascent into the ring in English. It’s okay. Markeston will probably put a translator to work on our video anyway.
I breathe out. Stand still as he slowly walks to the center of the ring. Finally, he lifts his gaze from the path in front of him, a display of humility I’m not accustomed to from my opponents. His face angles upward and doesn’t stop its smooth shift until his eyes meet mine in the stare-down.
Tall and slender like me. Muscular and over-trained like me. With black hair oiled back like me, he pierces me with a fierce promise of destruction.
I blink.
It’s the stare-down I learned at the age of four by the Surat Hin rings. I studied the fighters, and one in particular made it into a game to teach me how to intimidate. But now I falter. After innumerable fights, I hesitate, and I feel my fists sink just the tiniest bit as I assess the turn of events.
His stare-down wasn’t accentuated by a frown, but suddenly it is, sinking low over his gaze, and his eyes have the shape of a fox’s. They’re the color of amber, of accidentally burned noodles, the sort you can lift out of trash bins behind food stands, the color of kindness and compassion, the shade of saviors of little boys.
But I’m a professional, and so is he, even when my stare falls to the monster biting its tail around his arm.
Monster.
Dragon.
Recognition tightens his pupils, but then we’re back, instantly, fists lifted against each other for life and death.
Dragon Fighter.
As I ram my fist into his temple for the first time, I whisper to him, “You saved my life.”
Of everyone at Alliance Cage Warriors, I rule at keeping my single-minded attention on the goal, on the plan, on the techniques we’ve settled on. I don’t fail. I follow through, and yet here I am.
My attention is divided between the match, the warrior I’m up against, and the crown princess of Thailand, whose vibe screams love for the man I’m fighting.
He’s sly. The fastest fighter I’ve ever met, flying through kicks and backhanded punches I’ve never before had to block. They’re insane, transport me to choreography for films, because who the hell is fast enough to get an effect out of these in an actual battle?
The dragon fighter is.
In this room, war is an art. It’s beautiful, unexpected, and breathtaking. Each shift my savior makes, each lethal blow, I’ve learned from Maiko, my father… or from him. By the end of the second round, the pain from his strikes have curled me in over myself twice—it’s a no-no—you don’t want to inspire your opponent, but what can you do when you’re fighting a legend?
On the third round, I get in a few knees, and a solid punch to his temple coincides with the end of the round. He’s not a wrestler, which is what Dawson observes too while he trickles water into my mouth during the break before round four.
Point-wise, we must be close. This man commits art, and he’s extracting it from me too. My early childhood was filled with this art in a less distilled form. But since I started working with Dawson as my coach, I’ve deepened my knowledge of rawer, efficient moves.
The dragon fighter doesn’t use Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He doesn’t want to wrestle on the ground. Ground work isn’t a favorite choice of mine either, but I realize it’s the best way to make him submit.
As I rise, shaking my hands and lifting them for the next session, I send a glance in the direction of the crown princess. Composed, with the imperviousness of alabaster, those small, white hands of hers twist within the sleeves of her dress. For a second, our stares lock, and there is absolute terror flashing through hers before she looks away.
I’m so confused. This situation is new to me. Punch after punch, I deliver, and kick after kick I take. In my shins, in my head—the pain permeates every muscle, every bone, but I keep going, because that’s what I’m here to do.
This fight could be what sends me to Vegas. His nose bleeds. Mine does too. One fox eye is closing from a good punch, and he’s being iced down on the break before round five. The crown princess has a hand in her lap—her friend’s hand. It squeezes hers.
He’ll be knighted.
Shit, it dawns on me what’s going on.
I’m here to fight him though. It’s what they wanted me to do. It’s great for my career.
The surroundings seep back in with Jaden shouting at me to hit harder. “Don’t be a fucking pussy!”
I listen, press the dragon fighter against the railing and pound him to the ground. I throw myself on him.
I pound, pound, pound.
He’s out of his element, ripped out of his legend, stripped of the graceful techniques he’s perfected so well I want to cry. God, he’s amazing, and here I am down and dirty, terminating him.
This situation is fucking off!
I get him in a guillotine. I squeeze. It’s over. The dragon fighter’s only chance is to tap out. He squirms under me, writhing with a strength that’s superhuman. There’s a suppressed squeal from the audience, and I can’t help myself. I look up.
There she is. The princess’ despair brims thick over her irises. He bounces under me, fighting the submission with a ferocity I’ve never before experienced.
She sobs.
I’m losing my concentration.
I twist enough to see her parents.
Contentment. The queen is pure delight. The king has leaned forward, into the fight, and on his face I read that he roots for me, not, not for his own contender!
I squeeze as hard as I can. The dragon fighter, he who kept me alive all those years ago, stops breathing. He has no access to air anymore, and I hear the cartilages in his throat give to my hold.
There’s a light wheeze as he tries, but no oxygen enlivens his lungs. He needs to tap out now, so that I don’t become a murderer. Either that, or I have to tap for him.
I can’t. I need this win.
The room is muffled. Orders shoot at me from Dawson and Jaden, but all I hear is a grief-stricken sob from the princess. I wait for the referee to jump in, to cut this fight short and hand me the win.
He doesn’t.
I don’t tap out for him. But when the muscles in his fist slacken, I loosen my grip before he faints.
This win isn’t mine.
This win cannot be mine, because gratitude, love, and justice mean more than a small steppingstone toward ambition.
For Aat Mung Korn, this is not a steppingstone. It is the ultimate goal, love, and life. It could be death and absolute failure.
Together, we stumble to our feet. I grapple with him as I do, but really, I’m not. We separate briefly, the referee yelling in Thai and starting us again, and there, right there, I catch his eye. Then I close mine as his fist flies at the speed of gods straight at my face.
“What the fuck was that?” Zeke screams at me. He’s got his arms stretched taut by his sides like he’s never seen someone throw a fight before. “You fucking whispered to him. What did you tell him before you let him knock you out?”
At the corner of an eye, I catch Markeston rushing out of the locale. I can’t blame him for being beside himself.
“Jesus, Victor,” Zeke continues. “Th
at was for no damn reason. You hardly lifted your arms in that block. What a goddamn beginner’s move!”
My room at the palace is blurry, and my friends sway in and out of focus. I lift the corner of my lip in a half smile, then pucker my mouth in a fake kiss.
“You prick. Can’t believe I came here for this,” Jaden mutters. By the feel of it, I’ve got a raccoon mask swelling across my eyes. Dawson responds to my unspoken thought by handing me a fresh icepack.
“Guys,” Dawson says, silencing my friends. I narrow my eyes to focus on his expression. He’s not surprised. Then again, is he ever?
“You had him. You want to talk about what occurred back there?” I know Dawson, and this is all he’s going to say until I open up. I shrug noncommittally.
He crosses his arms. “All right. The crown princess wants us to attend a banquet in the champion’s honor. We just need to give them an answer. You want to return to the hotel?”
“No,” I say, surprising them all. “I’d like to attend.”
I took a shower, got my eyes iced down and my lip stitched up. I even got in a half-hour nap before the banquet. The fight occurred earlier than any American fights I’ve been to, so I feel pretty good, blurry vision or not, by the time we enter yet another palace in this conglomerate of opulent luxury.
Servants bow us in, showing us with gestures where to continue. Intricately carved doors open until we’re in a room that’s smaller than any other I’ve been to here.
The walls glow with golden sculptures of fighters and embracing lovers. At its center awaits the dining area, a rectangular table with settings for twelve. Plates and cutlery, adorned glasses that remind me of chalices have my attention for a moment, until my stare goes to the crown princess at the end of the table.
The king and the queen are noticeably absent. Then again, why would they eat with a winner they never rooted for?
There’s quiet joy in the princess’ eyes as she nods solemnly. I bow deep. It feels natural now that I understand her game; everything changes with love.
“Be seated,” she says. “Do you enjoy pheasant?”
“I think we all appreciate good food no matter what it is,” I offer for all of us. Zeke is remarkably low-spoken when he agrees, and Jaden just commits something that sounds a hell of a lot like, “Hear, hear.” They make me want to smile.