The story begins in 2050, in a small town of ten thousand inhabitants not far from London, between the sea and the hills. We find ourselves in the living room of a perfectly ordinary family.
On the television, the news is playing. A dark-haired woman in her forties announces:
"A new sport has officially been recognized, and it appears to be the most ruthless and dangerous ever acknowledged as such. It is called OpenCombat, meaning open combat. Why is it considered so dangerous? There are no rounds, no breaks, and above all, no rules."
As the woman speaks, a compilation of videos and images scrolls across the screen: highlights of many fighters, clips of matches featuring Floyd Mayweather, Canelo Álvarez, and Mike Tyson… then other disciplines: Conor McGregor, Khabib Nurmagomedov for MMA, Buakaw for Muay Thai, Riner for judo, and more footage of various fighters in their peak moments.
The journalist continues:
"The fight only ends when one of the two fighters surrenders or loses consciousness. The referee cannot intervene unless one of these two situations occurs. Now let's look at why this new chapter in the world of sports has emerged. It seems that in recent years people have grown tired of watching most martial arts: boxing, MMA, Muay Thai, judo, and practically all other combat sports. According to fans, this is due to excessive statistical thinking. Let's hear what they have to say."
A video starts with a reporter holding a microphone, about to interview a young German fighter in his mid-twenties. He is blond, shirtless, and completely soaked in sweat. As he wipes his forehead with a blue cloth, he is clearly out of breath, yet attentive to the interviewer's words. With evident curiosity, the reporter asks:
"Tell me, why do you think a sport like OpenCombat has been officially recognized? It is undoubtedly far more dangerous than all the others. Why do you think people wanted it? And do you believe that once the first tournaments and rankings are introduced, it will generate more hype than other sports?"
As soon as he finishes his question, he hands over the microphone, eager to hear the answer.
"Well, let's see… I'd say that today's fighters rely too much on their minds and don't enjoy the moment anymore, also because of the many rounds available and the breaks in between.
Due to excessive strategic planning, fights end up becoming slow and predictable, almost mathematical—more… statistical. The charm of this noble art has been lost, and now neither fighters nor fans are having fun anymore. We want to see improvisation, art, genius… hunger to win. We don't want to see fights written on paper anymore; referees stopping matches every thirty seconds and all the interruptions in between. We want to see fights to the very end, passion, the true art of combat in its purest form, without rules—because rules ruin it. I believe this will give much more voice and far less marketing to fighters. We won't see famous people stepping in just to make easy money anymore, but real warriors. I can't wait to start."
The interview ends. The journalist appears again on screen:
"What you have just heard is the testimony of the young German kickboxing champion, Franz Becker."
She continues the report:
"For these very reasons, the American entrepreneur Charles Costa, who owns several companies in the sports industry, has managed to finance this massive project, making it possible and accessible to everyone. We have a correspondent who will allow us to speak live with Mr. Costa. Let's connect…"
A close-up shows a young woman holding a microphone, standing next to Mr. Costa himself—an elderly man who continues to run numerous businesses in the world of sports despite being seventy-five years old. He is bald, with some white hair on the sides and back of his head, a roundish face, and a noticeable smile.
The journalist speaks:
"We are here live with Mr. Costa, who will share his vision for this new project, one that aims to change the world of martial arts. He also mentioned that he has important news to announce. I'll hand him the microphone…"
The elderly man begins, his tone blunt and rough:
"Good morning, everyone. Honestly, I don't have any nonsense to share about ideals and things like that.
What I want to say is that humanity has grown soft—extremely soft. We have evolved, sure, but we now have so many rules that we are psychologically forced to look for the safest path, driven by an unconscious fear of doing something wrong or illegal. Short-sighted politicians allow these rules and prevent us from expressing ourselves fully. There is a Russian writer from the nineteenth century named Dostoevsky who summed this up perfectly with a quote:
'A time will come when fools will rule over the intelligent, because they will be the majority.'
Well, ladies and gentlemen, that time has arrived… and quite some time ago, I would add. It's time to wake up and start taking risks. You have no idea how many narrow-minded moralists I had to argue with to make this project a reality, because the truth is that these people believe they can make decisions for everyone. I strongly disagree…"
Mr. Costa becomes increasingly energized by his own speech. He pauses to catch his breath, then raises his voice even more:
"That's why I'm telling you now: young people and fighters watching from all over the world—fight however you want. Do it in OpenCombat. In one year, the biggest true combat tournament ever seen will take place. It will be held in Italy, in Rome.
Before that, each country will independently choose its own champion. Selections will be up to them, but at that tournament the champion—and therefore the best fighter in the world—will be decided, along with the rankings. After that, it will continue like any other sport.
So if this art truly inspires you, pursue it. Don't listen to anyone. Don't listen to judgment."
A remote control turns off the television in the living room.
"Listen to the ridiculous things they come up with just to create hype," says a middle-aged man, a typical family father on a Friday afternoon at lunchtime.
He is sitting lazily in his armchair while listening to the news. He wears a standard office outfit, having just returned from work. He is in his late forties, of average build, with a slight belly from a sedentary lifestyle. His face is ordinary, with a soft jawline and a neutral expression. His short, neatly kept brown hair is beginning to thin at the temples. He wears prescription glasses that give him a respectable yet tired look. A modern office body, more accustomed to a desk than to movement.
He stands up from the chair and says disapprovingly:
"Did you hear that, Barb?! Can you believe that just to make some money they send thousands of young people into a cage to beat each other up? Some people have truly lost their minds!"
An adult female voice replies from the nearby dining room:
"The cruel thing is that they brainwash them…"
A woman appears in the dining room while setting the table for dinner. She is in her forties, of average height with a soft build, faint wrinkles on her face. Her black hair is slightly messy, tied back in a ponytail. Her face is clean but visibly stressed, especially around her tired eyes. A typical neighborhood mom. She wears jeans and a sweater, the kind you put on during quiet moments at home.
She continues:
"And they convince them they have a future by fighting like hooligans."
The man replies:
"By the way, I heard from our neighbor that Meredith's son—what was his name? Um… Ethan? No, maybe Samuel? Ryan? Nathan?"
He pauses, thinking.
Barb interrupts:
"Alex."
"Oh right, Alex. The kid who practices that Chinese sport."
He thinks again.
"Muay… Muay…"
Then, more confidently:
"Muay Thai."
"Yes, I know who you mean. What did he do?"
"Well, practicing a sport like that, last week he broke another kid's nose with an elbow straight to the face."
"Oh my God, I remember Alex when he was little. He was so lively, but kind… how did he turn out like this?"
"I'll tell you how: he probably saw people on social media making money with violent sports, and now he thinks he'll become a millionaire by beating up other kids."
"Maybe you're right."
"Of course I am. It's because of this kind of garbage that teenagers get fooled and—"
"Paul, how many times have I told you not to use bad language?" the woman replies irritably.
"Sorry, love," he says in a calmer, conciliatory tone. "Anyway… at least our son is calm and intelligent and doesn't do those things. He turned out well."
"Yes, but remember that he only recently came out of depression, so it's perfectly normal for him to be more fragile than his peers."
"Speaking of which, where is our son right now?"
"I think he had an appointment with the psychologist today."
At that very moment, a few blocks away, Liam is sitting in the psychologist's office. The room is wrapped in muffled silence, broken only by the discreet ticking of a clock on the wall. The windows are covered with ivory-colored curtains, thick enough to isolate the room from outside traffic. The furnishings are minimal: a tidy bookshelf, a green plant in the corner, two padded armchairs facing each other. Nothing unnecessary, nothing demanding attention.
Liam sits in one of the armchairs. Just eighteen years old, thin, almost frail, with narrow shoulders and a slightly closed posture, as if taking up space is still a habit to avoid. He wears an oversized dark hoodie and simple jeans, worn at the knees. His hands rest on his thighs, still but not rigid.
His face is young and clean, with features not yet fully defined. His light brown-and-green eyes are alert; the dullness of the worst months is gone, but a constant caution remains. The suffocating weight of depression is no longer there, but neither is enthusiasm. Only a fragile, recent calm. Liam has simple black hair, short but not too short, with a small fringe falling forward.
Across from him sits the psychologist. A woman in her forties, brown hair tied back practically, a few gray strands barely visible at her temples. Her face is clean, free of noticeable makeup, marked by a professional yet approachable expression. She wears sober clothing in neutral colors. She speaks little and listens a lot. On her notepad, the notes are brief and essential.
The doctor breaks the silence:
"So tell me, Liam, have you found an answer to last time's question?"
She pauses briefly.
"Why do you feel like you are nobody?"