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12 Rounds in Morium

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Synopsis
A poor underground boxer falls in the world championship finals after a devastating punch. But when he awakens, the arena is gone. He finds himself in an ancient land of deserts, curses, and unseen powers — a world his grandfather once called Morium. As kingdoms bargain with jinn and hidden forces shape history from the shadows, Fang Yiger must fight not for money… but for survival in a realm where strength is law and knowledge is power. To return home, he must enter Morium — the hidden world that devours the weak and crowns the ruthless. And in Morium… every victory has a price.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter One — The Arena

Chapter One — The Arena

Fang Yiger awoke on the arena floor at the climax of the championship final.

The blinding white spotlight above him burned like a merciless sun.

The last thing he had heard was the roar of the crowd dissolving into a sharp, endless ringing inside his skull.

The punch had not merely struck him.

It had been a violent cerebral shock — as if his consciousness itself had been torn from its roots.

In the gray void between absence and awakening, his grandfather's voice returned.

The old man sat beside a clay hearth, speaking of an ancient history he called Morium — of dynasties that ruled with iron and flame, and kings who forged covenants with the unseen.

He always told him:

> "History is not what happened…

but what remains alive in the chests of men."

Then the world overturned.

He opened his eyes to the clamor of a crowded market — the scent of spices, the snort of a beast, a vendor's bargaining cry.

The ground beneath his palms was dirt, not rubber.

He lifted his head and saw faces that were not Asian: Arab features, turbans, cloaks, coarse dialects.

Disoriented, he surged up in an instinctive fighter's motion.

A hand seized his shoulder from behind.

He spun with a snapping hook — clean, precise, arena-perfect.

The man stumbled back in surprise.

Broad-shouldered. Sharp-eyed.

He said,

"What's wrong with you, Chinaman? Throwing childish moves like that? Follow me. The cart that carried people broke its wheel — as payment, I'll take you wherever you want."

His name was Hammam.

Fang Yiger hesitated.

Everything in the scene screamed temporal rupture: clothing, coins passing between hands, swords hanging where firearms should have been.

He walked behind Hammam, eyes scanning details with the analytical calm of a boxer reading an opponent.

He asked, measured:

"Where is this land? Who rules it?"

Hammam stopped. Looked around. Lowered his voice.

"This is the Kingdom of the Arabian Peninsula.

As for the ruler… his name is not spoken."

"Why?"

Hammam leaned closer until his voice nearly dissolved into dust.

"A great king who burned his enemies to ash in the sky. He is called Adwan… though none know if that is his name or merely a title."

Then he froze — as if his tongue had struck an invisible wall.

His eyes widened.

"Do not speak it whole. In these lands, jinn hear the name when uttered fully. The king was cursed years ago by a lord among them. Whoever speaks his name complete… they enter his body. I saw a man babble, then fall. His eyes turned white."

Fang Yiger went still.

His grandfather's voice echoed again:

> "Beings of the underworld do not curse without cause.

A curse is a door opened by greed… or blood."

He asked,

"What form of rule?"

Hammam said,

"Absolute king. But tribes circle him in contested loyalty. And there is a Shadow Council unseen by common folk. They bargain with jinn as they bargain with men."

"And if I wish to return to my homeland?"

Hammam gave a slanted smile.

"China? If you mean the far eastern lands — ships sail from the southern port. But the road is thick with taxes, collectors… and eyes that watch strangers."

Fang Yiger fell silent.

Inside him, the modern arena and the ancient market still swung like a pendulum.

He touched his temple. The pain remained — but altered.

He thought:

If this is hallucination, it is exquisitely built.

If it is real… then Grandfather's history was no lie.

As they approached a broken-wheeled cart, an old man passed, muttering the king's full name.

He did not finish it.

His body convulsed violently.

A voice emerged — not his own, deep and hoarse.

Then he collapsed.

Hammam and Fang Yiger exchanged a heavy look.

And in that moment, the poor boxer understood:

His next battle would not be decided by fist or foot —

but by his grasp of a world where power intertwined with the unseen,

and history with blood.