The gold medal didn't feel real. Not at first. Kyon would wake on his cot in the storage room, the boiler's familiar rumble his alarm, and for a disorienting second, the world was as it had always been: the smell of old leather, the promise of dawn training, the hollow that was now a quiet chamber of purpose instead of hunger. Then his fingers would brush the cold metal disc on the crate beside his bed, and the memory would crash in—the roar, the flashing lights, Morales falling, the weight of the trophy in his arms.
It was proof. Tangible, irrefutable. But it felt like it belonged to someone else. To "The Phantom," the spectral figure who had danced through hellfire and won. Kyon Wilson, the kid who slept next to a boiler, wasn't sure he'd met that guy yet.
The morning after the victory, Thorne let him sleep until seven—an unprecedented luxury. The gym was quiet when Kyon emerged, the usual cacophony replaced by a respectful, almost reverent silence from the few early birds. They nodded, a new deference in their eyes. "Morning, Champ." The word echoed in the vast space.
Thorne was in the office, the state championship trophy taking up a quarter of his cluttered desk. He was on the phone, his voice a low growl. "…yeah, he won. No, he's not giving interviews today. Or tomorrow. I'll let you know… Yeah, the packet came. We'll look it over."
He hung up and looked at Kyon. "The world wants a piece of you. Local news, boxing websites, that university coach who won't quit calling. My answer is no. For now. You need to come down from the mountain before you can even think about climbing the next one."
"What's the next one?" Kyon asked, though he knew.
Thorne tapped a thick envelope with the USA Boxing logo. "Nationals. Las Vegas. Eight weeks. The qualifiers are done; you're in as state champ. This is the rulebook, the schedule, the medical forms. It's a different universe."
The scale of it was paralyzing. Las Vegas. The entire country. The dream he'd whispered to himself in the dark—"greatest of all time"—suddenly had a map, and the next stop was a glittering, terrifying desert oasis.
"We don't start training for it today," Thorne said, reading his face. "Today, we debrief. We digest. And we fix what was broken."
They spent the morning not in the ring, but in the office, watching the Morales fight on Thorne's small TV. It was a surreal experience. Kyon watched himself move with a calm he hadn't felt, slip punches by margins that seemed impossible. He saw the moments of brilliance: the step-in sternum shot, the pivots that left Morales swinging at ghosts. But Thorne was merciless in pointing out the flaws.
"See here?" Thorne paused the tape after a Morales flurry. "You got caught on the ropes. Not because he cut you off, but because you got lazy. You circled the same direction three times in a row. He's a bull, not an idiot; he started leading you. Against a smarter fighter, that's a death sentence."
He rewound. "And here. After you stunned him with the uppercut. You stood and watched for a full second. Admiring your work. In that second, a recovered fighter could have clinched, could have fired back. You got lucky he was more hurt than you thought."
It was a necessary cold shower. The medal was proof of success, not perfection. The Phantom had won, but he was still under construction.
"Your defense is world-class," Thorne said, switching off the TV. "Your ring IQ is growing faster than any fighter I've seen. But your offense, outside of that one killer instinct counter, is still… polite. You score points. You don't punish. At the national level, point-scoring isn't enough. You need to break wills. We need to add layers to your attack. The body work was a good start. Now we need to build a true finishing arsenal."
The next week was designated "Active Rest." No sparring. No heavy bag punishment. But the training didn't stop; it transformed. Thorne introduced him to the intricacies of angle punching—throwing shots not from a static position, but while moving laterally or pivoting, creating power from torque and surprise. They worked on combination punching off the defense—slipping a jab and immediately firing a three-punch combination to the head and body, so the offense and defense were a single, seamless action.
Kyon also began the tedious, essential process of scouting. Thorne got his hands on grainy tapes of the other state champions and top-ranked national amateurs they might face in Vegas. They spent evenings in the office, the glow of the screen illuminating their faces as they dissected the country's best.
There was Jordan "Quickdraw" Phillips from Texas, a lightning-fast switch-hitter with handspeed that looked like a film glitch. Alexi "The Siberian" Volkov from New York, a cold, mechanical pressure fighter from the former Soviet amateur system, with a piston-like jab and crushing body attack. Marcus "Shield" Washington from D.C., a defensive counter-puncher in the Mayweather mold, elusive and frustrating.
Each presented a unique nightmare. "You see?" Thorne said as they watched Volkov methodically break down an opponent. "He doesn't have Morales's one-punch power. He has accumulative power. He breaks you down brick by brick. You can't just make him miss; you have to disrupt his rhythm, make him reset. He hates chaos."
The gold medal began to feel less like an alien artifact and more like a key. It unlocked this new level of the game—a game of preparation, of strategic depth far beyond "stick and move."
Ten days after the state championship, the first real ripple from the outside world reached the gym's shores. A sleek, black sedan pulled up outside. A man in a crisp, expensive-looking tracksuit emerged, followed by a younger assistant carrying a tablet. He had the groomed look of money and the assessing eyes of a predator. It was the manager from the locker room, Lionel Hayes.
Thorne met him at the door, arms crossed. "Hayes. I said I'd call you."
"Marcus! You're a hard man to pin down. Just wanted to congratulate the young champion in person. Bring a little gift." Hayes smiled, a practiced, white expanse. He gestured, and his assistant produced a large, gift-wrapped box.
Thorne didn't move to take it. "He's training."
"Of course, of course. Nationals bound! A tremendous opportunity. And that's what I'm here to talk about. The opportunity around the nationals." Hayes peeked past Thorne into the gym, his eyes finding Kyon, who was shadowboxing in the ring. "My God, look at him move. It's like watching smoke. Can we talk? Inside? Five minutes."
Reluctantly, Thorne stepped aside. Hayes entered The Last Round as if walking onto a used car lot, his smile never slipping as he took in the peeling paint, the rusty equipment. He made his way to the ring.
"Kyon! Magnificent performance. Truly historic." Hayes extended a hand over the ropes. Kyon, wary, touched gloves with him.
"Mr. Hayes is a manager," Thorne said, his voice neutral.
"An advocate," Hayes corrected smoothly. "What you did, son, it's a story. The orphan from Detroit, trained in a… a classic gym like this, defeating the unbeatable Hammer. It's Rocky, but real. The media eats that up. The public loves it. But stories need to be told. Right now, you're a local legend. With the right guidance, you could be a national story before you even throw a punch in Vegas."
He leaned on the ropes. "I'm talking sponsorship. Apparel, maybe a local car dealership. A proper website, social media management. We build the 'Phantom' brand. It insulates you. Provides resources. Better training facilities, nutritionists, sports psychologists. All the things that can give you an edge at nationals and, more importantly, set you up for the real prize." He let the word hang. "The pros."
Kyon listened, the words washing over him. Sponsorship. Brand. Psychologists. It was a language from another planet. His world was the river stone, the jump rope, Thorne's growl, the smell of this gym.
"He's an amateur," Thorne said, his tone final. "His focus is Vegas. Nothing else."
"And I want to help him focus!" Hayes spread his hands. "By taking the distractions away. The media calls, the paperwork, the noise. I handle that. You," he pointed to Thorne, "handle the boxing. He," he pointed to Kyon, "handles the winning. It's a partnership."
He opened the gift box. Inside was not just merch, but high-end gear: custom-made boxing boots from a famous brand, a sleek hoodie with a minimalist phantom logo, premium hand wraps. "A token. No strings. Just think about the future. The road to the Olympics, to world titles, is paved with more than just talent. It's paved with smart decisions." He placed a embossed business card on the ring apron. "Talk it over. I'll be in touch."
After Hayes left, the gym felt different. The ghost of his cologne lingered, a scent of ambition and money that didn't belong. Kyon looked at the gear, then at Thorne.
"He's not wrong," Thorne said finally, picking up the boots and examining them. "About the resources. About the path. But managers… they're salesmen. They sell your future for a percentage. Once you sign, you're a business. The boxing becomes part of the business. It changes things."
"Do I need him?" Kyon asked.
"Need? No. He needs you. You're a hot commodity. But could he help? Maybe. At the right time." Thorne tossed the boots back in the box. "Right now, your only job is to get better. Hayes sees a story. I see a fighter who's one-eighth of the way to his potential. We don't put a for-sale sign on a construction site. Not yet."
He pushed the box into a corner with his foot. "We'll keep the gear. Consider it a tribute. But the card?" He picked it up, looked at it, then tucked it into his own pocket. "I'll hold onto this. When you're ready—if you're ready—we'll talk. For now, your world is this gym, that ring, and the fighters on those tapes. Nothing else exists."
Kyon nodded, relieved. The gold medal was weight enough. The idea of a "brand" felt like another, heavier chain. He picked up the river stone from his pocket and squeezed it. This was his reality. Simple. Solid.
The following days settled into a new, deeper rhythm. The awe from the gym mates faded into a normalcy of heightened respect. They pushed him harder in sparring, knowing they were helping prepare a national contender. Miguel, in particular, became a crucial piece, using his own elite speed and technique to simulate the kinds of fighters Kyon would face.
One afternoon, after a grueling session where Miguel had successfully trapped him against the ropes and unleashed a blistering combination, Kyon sat on the ring apron, frustrated.
"You're still fighting like a state champion," Miguel said, leaning on the ropes beside him. "That's your past. The guys in Vegas are national champions, Olympic alternates. They've seen movement like yours. Not as good, but they've seen it. They'll have plans. You can't just be elusive. You have to be dominantly elusive. You have to make them afraid to throw."
"How?" Kyon asked, wiping sweat from his eyes.
Miguel's face grew serious. "You have to punish every single attempt. Not just with a jab. You hurt Morales to the body, right? Against these technical guys, you have to hurt their pride. Every time they miss, you make them pay with something sharp, something that stings, something that makes them think, 'Why did I even try?' You have to become a punishment for aggression."
It was a subtle shift in mindset. From defender to predator who used the opponent's offense as bait. Kyon began working on it. In sparring, he focused less on making people miss and more on inviting punches into specific, vulnerable lanes so he could counter them with pre-meditated violence.
Weeks blurred into a cycle of sweat, film, and strategy. The gold medal sat on Thorne's desk, a paperweight holding down the dreams and plans for Las Vegas. It no longer felt alien. It felt like a mile marker. The first of many.
One evening, as Kyon was doing his nightly visualization—now picturing the bright lights of a Vegas ballroom, the unique tension of a national tournament—Thorne walked into the storage room. He held a small, flat box.
"Open it."
Inside, on a bed of velvet, was a necklace. A simple, sturdy silver chain. And hanging from it was not a cross or a medallion, but a small, perfect, polished replica of a river stone.
Kyon looked up, stunned.
"Every king needs his crown," Thorne said, his voice uncharacteristically rough. "Or in your case, his stone. A reminder. No matter how bright the lights get, no matter how many people are screaming your name, you're still that kid who found his power in the dark. You're still solid. You're still real."
Kyon put it on. The cool metal rested against his collarbone, the tiny stone a familiar, comforting weight. It was better than any medal, any trophy. It was a piece of his soul, made permanent.
He looked at Thorne, the man who had pulled him from the abyss and was now guiding him toward the stars. Words failed him. He just nodded.
Thorne nodded back. "Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start building the fighter for Vegas. The Phantom's done playing in Michigan. It's time to haunt the whole country."
The weight of the gold was lifting, transforming into the thrust of a launching rocket. The unseen boxer had a crown, a kingdom to defend, and an empire to win. The journey was just beginning.