The silver chain was a new constant. Kyon felt its weight during the predawn runs, a cool counterpoint to the burning in his lungs. He felt it tap against his collarbone during the intricate footwork drills, a metronome for his movements. It was a tether, a reminder that the polished stone at its end was the same as the one worn smooth in his pocket. No matter how high he climbed, his foundation was that simple, unyielding density.
Training for the nationals was a different beast entirely. The goal was no longer to win a local trophy; it was to survive and conquer a gauntlet of the country's most refined fighting machines. Thorne's approach became less about building a fighter and more about engineering a system—a set of adaptable, redundant responses to any conceivable problem.
The Laboratory. Thorne converted a corner of the gym into what he called "The Problem Corner." He pinned up photos and notes on the three primary threats they'd identified: Phillips (Speed), Volkov (Pressure), Washington (Defense). Under each, he listed key attributes and hypothesized game plans. It looked like a detective's murder board, but the victims were yet to be determined.
For "Quickdraw" Phillips, the focus was on rhythm disruption. Phillips thrived on establishing a high-paced, syncopated beat. Thorne worked with Kyon on changing speeds within exchanges—throwing a slow, prodding jab followed by a lightning-fast double jab; using deliberate, almost lazy footwork to draw Phillips in, then exploding with a lateral shift and counter. They drilled catching and parrying at an obsessive level, learning to blunt the very first strike of Phillips's blinding combinations.
"You can't match his handspeed," Thorne said, holding mitts as Kyon practiced slapping down simulated lightning-fast jabs. "So you don't try. You interrupt the circuit before the current flows. You beat him to the spot. You make his speed a liability because he's overcommitting to a space you've already vacated."
For "The Siberian" Volkov, the keyword was chaos. Volkov was a metronome of efficient violence. Thorne's strategy was to "grease the gears." This meant unorthodox, unpredictable movement. They practiced lunging at odd angles, feinting falls, using exaggerated, almost awkward defensive moves that broke the predictable geometry Volkov relied on. They also worked on fighting off the ropes—not as a last resort, but as a trap. Kyon learned to use the ropes to absorb and spring back, to pivot and spin in the corner, to turn Volkov's greatest weapon (his ability to pin an opponent) into a disadvantage.
"He wants you against the ropes so he can unload his textbook combinations," Thorne explained, putting Kyon in the corner and throwing body shots at him. "So you let him think he's got you there. Then you disappear. You make the ropes your ally. He'll follow you in, expecting a stationary target, and find a whirlwind."
For "Shield" Washington, the most frustrating style, the strategy was calculated pressure. Washington was a mirror; he reflected aggression back with interest. You couldn't chase him. Thorne devised a tactic of "jabbing him into a corner." Using a piston-like, relentless jab—not to score, but to herd—Kyon would learn to cut off Washington's escape routes, using feints to freeze him, slowly shrinking his real estate until the elusive defender had nowhere to run and was forced to engage on Kyon's terms.
"He'll try to make you lead so he can counter," Thorne said. "So you lead with something he can't counter: inevitability. You don't throw big power shots. You throw annoying, accumulating, controlling punches that back him up. You make the ring feel like it's shrinking around him."
The Forge. Sparring partners were imported from across the Midwest. Thorne called in favors, paying in case money and promises of future round time. A whip-thin lightweight from Chicago with handspeed that approximated Phillips. A stout, plodding Polish cruiserweight who could mimic Volkov's crushing, forward-leaning style. A slick defensive specialist from Cleveland who lived to counter.
Kyon fought them all, one after another, in the Gauntlet format. Some days he dominated, his new strategies clicking into place. Other days, he got schooled. The lightweight from Chicago tagged him repeatedly early on, until Kyon stopped trying to react and started pre-empting, using foot feints to make the kid throw at air. The Cleveland counter-puncher frustrated him for two rounds, until Kyon remembered the plan and began jabbing him relentlessly, backing him into the ropes where his elusiveness evaporated.
Each session was logged, analyzed on Thorne's increasingly cluttered whiteboard. Strengths were underlined. Weaknesses were circled in red, becoming the focus of the next day's technical work.
The Body as Temple. A wiry, intense woman named Dr. Anya Kozlov started appearing twice a week. She was a sports rehabilitation specialist and nutritionist, a friend of Thorne's from the old days. She put Kyon through a battery of movement assessments, identifying muscular imbalances from years of defensive, evasive movement. She prescribed specific corrective exercises—resistance band work for his rotator cuffs, mobility drills for his hips.
"You move like water," she said in her sharp, accented English, watching him perform a deep squat. "But water flows around obstacles. Sometimes, you must become the obstacle. You need the strength to hold the line, not just flow away." She overhauled his diet again, introducing more specific micronutrients for tendon and ligament health, for cognitive function. Meals became precise equations of fuel and repair.
The Mind as Fortress. The mental warfare escalated. Thorne, during exhausting late-night bag sessions, would verbally assault him.
"You think you're special because of one state medal? In Vegas, you're just another face. Another body for them to break."
"Washington is going to make you look stupid. He's going to clown you in front of the whole country."
"What happens when Phillips's speed is too much? When you can't see the punches? You gonna quit? Go back to that alley?"
At first, the words sparked anger. Then, Kyon learned to let them wash over him. He built a mental chamber, soundproofed and cold, where only the tactical problems existed. The insults were just noise from outside the walls. He began to anticipate Thorne's barbs, disarming them with pre-planned, internal responses. I am not that kid. I am the problem they cannot solve.
One rainy Tuesday, six weeks out from Vegas, the grind broke him. It was a cumulative fracture. A sparring session had gone badly. He'd been tired, sluggish, and the imported pressure fighter had bullied him, landing thudding shots to the body that left him breathless and humiliated. Afterward, during film study, Thorne was merciless in his critique. Every flaw was magnified. The final straw was a comment about his footwork being "amateurish" in the third round.
Kyon didn't yell. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly on the concrete floor, and walked out of the office. He didn't go to the storage room. He walked out of the gym entirely, into the cold, needle-like rain. He just started walking, with no destination, the chain and stone a cold lump against his skin.
He walked for an hour, through rundown neighborhoods he didn't know, the rain soaking through his sweatshirt. The frustration wasn't about Thorne's words; it was about the sheer, immense weight of it all. The endless studying, the physical punishment, the pressure of the looming, distant stage. The hollow inside, so long filled with purpose, felt strained, like a vessel holding too much.
He found himself at a bus stop, sitting on the wet bench, watching the blurred headlights of cars hiss by on the slick street. He was just a kid from a broken home, sitting in the rain. The Phantom felt like a costume that didn't fit.
He didn't know how long he sat there before a familiar, rattling pickup truck pulled over. Thorne rolled down the passenger window, his face unreadable. "Get in."
Silently, Kyon did. The heater was blasting, thawing his chilled bones. They drove for a few minutes in silence.
"You walked out," Thorne finally said, his voice flat.
"I needed air."
"You got it. Now you're wet and off-schedule." Thorne pulled into the parking lot of an all-night diner. "Come on. My treat."
They sat in a sticky vinyl booth. Thorne ordered two coffees and a plate of fries. When the coffee came, Thorne spoke, his eyes on the steaming mug. "I push you harder than anyone because I see what you can't see yet. I see the fighter who doesn't just win nationals, but dominates them. I see the man who can stand across from world champions and make them doubt their own hands. That vision… it's heavy. For me, too."
He looked up, his gaze direct. "The day you walked into this gym, you were a ghost. Now, you're becoming something solid. But becoming solid means you have to withstand pressure. Not just from opponents. From expectations. From doubt. From the grind itself. What you felt today? That's the grind winning a round. It happens. The question is, what do you do in the corner before the next round?"
Kyon stirred his coffee, the warmth seeping into his hands. "I don't know."
"You remember why you're doing it. Not for me. Not for a medal. For that kid in the alley who punched a wall. For the promise you made to yourself. Never lose again." Thorne leaned forward. "But listen to me, Kyon. That promise… it's not about an undefeated record. It's about never losing to the doubt. Never losing to the grind. Never losing to the fear. The fights in the ring? Those are just the tests. The real fight is in here." He tapped his own temple, then pointed at Kyon's chest. "And in there."
The fries arrived. Thorne shoved the plate toward him. "Eat. Then we go back. The grind doesn't care if you're tired. It just waits for you to come back and conquer it."
They drove back to The Last Round in silence, but it was a different silence. Not tense, but thoughtful. Kyon realized Thorne wasn't just a trainer; he was a fellow soldier in the same war. The war against mediocrity, against the past, against the limits of the possible.
The next day, everything was the same, and everything was different. The drills, the sparring, the criticism. But Kyon met it from within his fortified mental chamber. The frustration was acknowledged, then filed away as data. The fatigue was a condition to be managed, not a verdict.
A week later, a package arrived for Kyon. Not from Lionel Hayes, but from USA Boxing. Inside was his official invitation to the National Championships, on elegant letterhead. Along with it was a credential badge, a schedule, and—most meaningfully—a custom-fitted USA Boxing team robe. It was simple, red and white with blue trim, but it had his last name stitched on the back. WILSON.
Holding it, feeling the slick fabric, the reality of Vegas solidified. This wasn't a local show anymore. He was representing Michigan. He was part of a national team, even if only for a tournament.
That evening, Thorne gathered everyone in the gym. Miguel, Ben, Dr. Kozlov, the regulars. He had Kyon put on the robe over his gear. "Look at this," Thorne said, his voice thick with pride he couldn't fully hide. "This is what we do here. We don't make fighters. We make champions. This kid walked in here with nothing. Now he's wearing the colors of his country to fight for a national title. Remember this. This is what the grind is for."
The gym erupted in applause, in cheers. Ben clapped him on the back hard enough to stagger him. Miguel grinned. "Looking official, Fantasma!"
It was a moment of pure, unadulterated recognition. Not from the outside world, but from his tribe. The people in this smelly, rusty gym were his foundation. The robe was just fabric. Their belief was the armor.
The final weeks became a countdown of refined sharpening. The technical work was done. Now it was about polish, timing, and peak conditioning. Sparring became less frequent but more intense, focused on specific, high-intensity scenarios. The film study shifted from opponents to Kyon himself—perfecting his own techniques, eliminating the last microscopic tells.
The night before they were to fly to Las Vegas, Thorne didn't give a speech. He handed Kyon a small, flat whetstone.
"For your stone," he said, pointing to the necklace. "Even the strongest things need sharpening. Remember to sharpen your will out there. Remember who you are. Remember where you came from. And remember," he added, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "that you're a nightmare dressed in a USA robe. Go give the rest of the country the same sleepless nights you've given me."
Kyon packed his bag: the gear, the robe, the necklace, the river stone from his pocket, and the new whetstone. He looked around the storage room, his home. The cot, the boiler's rumble, the scent of effort embedded in the walls. This was his forge. He was its finest product, soon to be tested in the hottest fire the amateur world could produce.
He lay down, the chain cool against his skin. He wasn't thinking of Phillips, Volkov, or Washington. He was thinking of the feel of the canvas, the sound of the bell, the void of the ring where only movement and will mattered. The Phantom was ready to leave the shadows of Detroit and step into the dazzling, unforgiving light of a national stage. The grind had forged him. Now, it was time to see if he could cut.