Las Vegas didn't just appear; it erupted over the horizon. One moment it was endless, scrub-brushed desert, a monochrome expanse under a pitiless sun. The next, a fever dream of glass, neon, and impossible architecture clawed at the sky, shimmering in the heat haze like a mirage of avarice and excess. To Kyon, gazing out the window of Thorne's aging SUV, it looked less like a city and more like a nervous system laid bare, pulsing with frantic, artificial light.
"Welcome to the belly of the beast," Thorne grunted, navigating the sudden flood of traffic on the I-15. "Remember, none of this is for you. The lights, the noise, the casinos… it's all background radiation. Your world is the hotel and the convention center. Everything else is a distraction designed to drain your focus and your wallet."
They were staying not on the glittering Strip, but in a functional, no-frills hotel a mile away, chosen by Thorne for its proximity to the tournament venue and its lack of tempting amenities. The lobby was populated by grim-faced coaches, wiry athletes lugging gear bags, and the pervasive smell of cheap carpet cleaner and ambition. This was the real Vegas for their kind—a world of weight checks, medical screenings, and sleepless nights spent visualizing violence.
Check-in was a bureaucratic gauntlet. USA Boxing officials verified Kyon's paperwork, took his picture for his credential, and issued a thick packet of rules. He was assigned to the "Champions" bracket pool, his state champion status granting him a first-round bye. The draw would happen tomorrow. The scale of the operation was staggering. Hundreds of fighters from fifty states and territories, each with their own entourage, their own dreams, their own style.
Their room was a double with two stiff beds. Thorne immediately set about creating a "command center," clearing the small desk and pinning up the pool sheets and schedule. Kyon unpacked methodically: his gear, the USA robe hanging proudly in the closet, his two stones placed side-by-side on the nightstand.
That evening, they attended the mandatory pre-tournament meeting in a vast, fluorescent-lit ballroom at the convention center. It was a sea of young men and a few women, a low hum of anxious energy buzzing beneath the drone of the tournament director's voice. Rules were reviewed: no creams or greases on fight night, strict weight management, anti-doping protocols. The director, a former Olympic coach with a voice like gravel, ended with a warning. "You are all champions in your own right. But here, only one per weight class leaves as the champion. Respect your opponents, respect the officials, and most of all, respect the sport. Now get some rest. The war starts tomorrow."
Walking back through the maze of the convention center, Kyon felt the eyes. The assessing glances of other fighters, the longer stares from coaches. Whispers followed them. "That's the kid from Detroit… 'The Phantom'... beat Hector Morales…" The state championship victory had sent ripples through the national amateur grapevine. He was no longer an unknown. He was a curiosity, a potential dark horse.
Back in the room, Thorne was already on his laptop, scrolling through freshly uploaded profiles of fighters who had won their preliminary bouts that day. "Lot of talent. Lot of hype. Don't believe any of it until you see them in the ring." He looked up. "How you feeling?"
"Ready," Kyon said. It was the truth. The months of grinding preparation had built a reservoir of calm readiness. The surreal surroundings were just a new set for the same play.
The next morning was the draw. In a smaller meeting room, the coaches and top-seeded fighters from the 165-pound division gathered around a large bracket board. The atmosphere was tense, a silent poker game of hopes and fears. Kyon stood beside Thorne, his credential hanging around his neck.
The official pulled names from a tumbler, slotting them into the bracket. Kyon watched as "Jordan 'Quickdraw' Phillips (TX)" was placed in the opposite half of the draw. A murmur went through the room. Phillips was many people's favorite. Then "Alexi 'The Siberian' Volkov (NY)" was slotted into the top quarter. More murmurs. Thorne's jaw tightened slightly.
Then, the official pulled the next name. "Kyon 'The Phantom' Wilson (MI)." He placed Kyon's name in the third quarter of the draw. And then he pulled the name that would fill the slot opposite him for his first fight, his first step into the national arena.
"DeShawn 'The Prophet' Jones (GA)."
Thorne let out a slow, controlled breath. Kyon saw a coach from a Georgia club nod to himself, a small, confident smile on his face.
Back in the room, Thorne pulled up everything he could find on Jones. The footage was limited, but telling. Jones was 18-3, a two-time regional Golden Gloves winner. He was tall, almost 6'4", with a reach that rivaled Kyon's. His style was unorthodox, even awkward—he fought out of a low, wide stance, throwing looping, slapping punches from odd angles. He wasn't a classic boxer; he was a disruptor. His nickname came from his habit of talking to opponents during fights, whispering taunts, predicting his own punches.
"He's a clown," Thorne said, analyzing the jerky footage. "But a dangerous clown. He uses that awkwardness to hide his timing. Those looping shots, if they land, can knock you off balance, cut you up. And the talking… it's gamesmanship. He wants to get in your head, make you fight angry. Your job is to treat him like a technical problem. Ignore the noise. Literally and figuratively. Use your jab to keep him at the end of your reach. Don't try to match his awkwardness. Impose your geometry on his chaos."
Kyon's first fight was scheduled for that evening, Session 3. The day was a lesson in controlled waiting. They ate a prescribed meal at the hotel restaurant, surrounded by other fighters picking at chicken and rice. They took a walk away from the Strip, Thorne pointing out the stark beauty of the desert mountains in the distance, a silent reminder of a world beyond the neon. They returned to the room, and Kyon went through his visualization routine, now picturing the long-limbed, jerky movements of DeShawn Jones, seeing himself piercing the odd rhythms with straight, hard shots.
As evening approached, the atmosphere at the convention center transformed. The clinical brightness of the day gave way to dramatic lighting focused on the single ring erected on a raised stage in the main hall. Bleachers were packed with hundreds of spectators—families, scouts, hardcore fans. The air crackled with a different energy: showtime.
In the stark, crowded locker room, Thorne taped Kyon's hands. The routine was a familiar comfort amidst the foreign chaos. The sounds were the same: the tear of tape, the rustle of gloves being pulled on. The smells were the same: sweat, liniment, fear. Kyon put in his mouthguard, feeling its familiar shape. He pulled the USA robe over his shoulders. The red and white fabric felt like a mantle of responsibility.
"Wilson vs. Jones! 165-pound bracket! Fighters to the staging area!"
The walk from the locker room, down a long, curtained corridor, felt like a passage into another dimension. The crowd noise grew from a rumble to a roar. He could see the blinding halo of light around the ring at the end of the tunnel.
And then he was there, climbing the steps, the ropes parting for him. The lights were hotter, more intense than any he'd faced. They bleached color, turning the crowd into a dark, murmuring mass. The ring felt smaller, the canvas tighter.
Across the ring, DeShawn Jones was already dancing, his long limbs moving in a loose, almost comical shuffle. He saw Kyon and grinned, a flash of gold in his mouth. "Ooooh, the Phantom!" he called out, his voice carrying over the din. "Come to disappear, ghost? I'm a exorcist, baby!"
Kyon ignored him, going through his final stretches, his eyes fixed on a point on the canvas.
The referee, a grizzled veteran with a military haircut, called them to the center. "Clean fight, listen to my commands, protect yourselves at all times. Touch gloves."
Jones touched gloves, leaning in. "I see you, ghost. I prophesy… pain," he whispered, his breath hot.
The bell rang.
Round 1. Jones came out exactly as advertised: awkward and aggressive. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his hands low, throwing wide, slapping lead right hands that were difficult to time. They weren't powerful, but they were annoying, like swatting flies. He kept up a constant, low stream of chatter. "Missed me! Too slow, ghost! I see your moves!"
Kyon focused on his jab. It was the antidote to chaos. A straight line against a squiggle. He popped it out, catching Jones in the chest, the face. But Jones's unorthodox head movement made him a slippery target. He'd dip and roll under the jab and come up with a slapping hook that grazed Kyon's shoulder.
It was frustrating. Kyon was used to fighters with defined patterns. Jones was randomness incarnate. A minute in, Kyon over-committed on a right hand. Jones, with surprising speed, ducked under it and lunged forward, wrapping Kyon in a clumsy clinch. As the referee moved to break them, Jones put his mouth next to Kyon's ear. "You tight, ghost. Scared of the lights? Don't worry, I'll put you to sleep."
Kyon shoved him off with a forearm, a spike of anger flashing through his calm. The referee gave him a warning look.
Thorne's voice cut through from the corner. "Jab and move! Don't wrestle him! He wants you frustrated!"
Kyon took a breath, re-centering. He went back to basics. Jab, move right. Jab, move left. He stopped trying to knock Jones out and started just scoring. A stiff jab to the nose stopped Jones's forward momentum. A straight right to the body as Jones lunged made him grunt. Kyon began to find the timing, seeing the slight hitch in Jones's shoulder before his wide hooks.
In the final thirty seconds, Kyon feinted a jab. Jones bit, dipping his head. Kyon stepped in with a short, compact right uppercut that clipped Jones squarely on the chin.
Crack.
Jones's head snapped back, his gold-capped tooth flying from his mouth in a spray of spittle and blood. He stumbled back, his eyes glazing over, his chatter finally silenced. The bell rang before Kyon could follow up.
Jones wobbled to his corner, his cornermen frantically searching for the tooth on the canvas.
In his corner, Thorne was all business. "Good. You found him. He's not a clown anymore; he's a hurt fighter. That mouth is shut. Now, break him down. Go to the body. He's tall, his torso is a big target. Take his legs out from under that awkward stance."
Round 2. The transformation was stark. Jones came out silent, his face a mask of grim concentration. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a desperate urgency. He was still awkward, but now it was the awkwardness of a wounded animal. He tried to press, but his movements were stiffer, more predictable.
Kyon went to work. He started digging left hooks to Jones's ribs. Thud. Thud. Jones's arms dropped to protect his body. Kyon immediately shifted attack, firing a one-two to the now-exposed head. Snap, crack.
He was imposing his reality. The ring was no longer a playground for Jones's antics; it was a laboratory where Kyon conducted a painful dissection. He used his footwork to cut off Jones's escape routes, forcing him to fight in the center where Kyon's straight-line technique dominated Jones's looping, inefficient punches.
With a minute left, Kyon backed Jones to the ropes. He feinted a right to the head. Jones raised his guard. Kyon ripped a left hook to the liver with every ounce of rotational force he could muster.
The sound was a sickening, wet thump.
Jones let out a choked, guttural cry. He folded over, his arms clutching his side, his face a rictus of agony. He sank to his knees, then onto his side, curling into a tight ball.
The referee didn't even start a count. He waved his arms immediately, calling the doctors into the ring.
Technical knockout. Body shot. Round 2.
The crowd roared, a mix of awe and sympathy for the crumpled Jones. Kyon watched as the medics attended to him, the earlier anger completely dissipated, replaced by that cold, clinical satisfaction of a problem solved. He hadn't just won; he'd silenced the prophet, permanently.
Back in the locker room, the victory was met with quiet nods from other fighters. It had been a statement win. Not a flashy one-punch KO, but a systematic breaking of a tricky opponent. Kyon felt a surge of confidence, tempered immediately by Thorne.
"Good adjustment. You listened. But you let him get to you in the first round. That clinch, that shove… against a better ref, that could be a point deduction. Against a better fighter, that moment of anger gets you countered and hurt. Control. Always." Thorne iced Kyon's left hand. "Now, recover. The bracket updates tonight. We see who's next."
The next morning, the updated bracket was posted. Kyon had advanced to the Round of 16. His next opponent: Carlos "El Rayo" Mendez (CA). A quick look at his record showed 24-5, a California state champion known for blistering hand speed and flashy, crowd-pleasing combinations. He was the opposite of Jones—a classical, high-volume speed boxer.
"He's a poor man's Jordan Phillips," Thorne said, studying the limited tape they could find online. "But a very talented poor man. He throws in bunches, likes to flurry then get out. He's fast, but he's straight up and down. Not a lot of head movement. His defense is his offense—he tries to overwhelm you before you can fire back."
The strategy session was focused. "You can't out-speed him in exchanges. So you don't exchange. You make him pay for every entry. You use your jab to stop his forward momentum. You time him coming in. He's a rhythm fighter; you break the rhythm with hard, single counters. A straight right when he jabs. A left hook when he throws his right. You make him gun-shy."
Kyon's fight was the following evening. The day passed in a blur of light activity, hydration, and mental rehearsal. He was finding his tournament rhythm: the wait, the focus, the storm of the fight, the recovery.
When he walked out for the Mendez fight, the crowd reaction was noticeably louder. The word was spreading. The Phantom from Detroit was must-see TV. Mendez, a handsome kid with a confident swagger, acknowledged his fans, blowing kisses. Kyon remained a silent, hooded figure until he entered the ring.
The bell rang, and El Rayo lived up to his name. He came out firing lightning-fast jabs and double hooks, a blizzard of punches. Kyon was immediately on the defensive, slipping and parrying, feeling the speed difference. Mendez was faster than anyone he'd faced. A combination slipped through, a jab and a cross landing on Kyon's high guard, the force staggering him back a step.
The crowd roared for Mendez.
Kyon reset, his heart hammering. This was the national level. The speed was real. He remembered the plan: don't exchange, time the entry.
Mendez, encouraged, came forward again, looking to unleash another flurry.
This time, Kyon didn't retreat. He took a half-step forward, meeting Mendez's aggression. As Mendez threw his lightning jab, Kyon parried it outward with his right glove and simultaneously fired his own jab over the top. It landed square on Mendez's nose, stopping him in his tracks.
Mendez blinked, surprised. He reset, feinted, and threw a right hand. Kyon pulled back, letting it miss by a millimeter, and immediately fired a straight right counter down the pipe. It smashed into Mendez's mouth.
Mendez's head snapped back, his lips split. He stumbled, his rapid-fire offense halted.
Kyon didn't swarm. He took a step back, reset. He was the matador again. Let the bull charge, then punish it with precision.
The round continued as a masterclass in counter-punching. Mendez, his speed neutralized by Kyon's timing and longer reach, grew frustrated. He started loading up on his punches, trying to knock Kyon out with one shot, which made him even more predictable. Kyon picked him apart: jabs to the bloody nose, right hands to the body, sharp left hooks when Mendez over-extended.
By the end of the second round, Mendez's face was a mask of blood and frustration, his flashy offense reduced to desperate, single shots. His corner was screaming at him to box, but he was emotionally broken.
The third round was a formality. Kyon controlled every second, circling, jabbing, landing the occasional power shot at will. Mendez, exhausted and demoralized, had no answer. The final bell rang to a standing ovation. It wasn't for a knockout; it was for a complete, dominant, tactical dismantling.
Unanimous decision. 30-27 on all cards.
In the locker room, Thorne was practically beaming. "That. That is the blueprint. You took a faster, flashier opponent and made him look ordinary. You solved him in three rounds. That's what we brought to Vegas."
Kyon felt a deeper validation than after the Jones fight. This wasn't about beating a clown; it was about out-thinking and out-fighting a genuinely talented, highly-ranked national contender. The Phantom wasn't just a spoiler; he was a contender.
The bracket updated again. The Quarter-Finals. The Elite Eight. His opponent was the winner of a bruising match between a Midwestern brawler and a slick technician from Florida. The technician had won. His name: Dante "The Silencer" Sharpe (FL). His record: 27-4. His style: a pure, frustrating, safety-first defensive specialist. A mirror, but one without Kyon's emerging offensive teeth.
Thorne looked at the name, then at Kyon. "Two down. The road gets steeper. Sharpe is the gatekeeper to the semi-finals. He doesn't win pretty; he wins by making you lose your mind. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we start building the key for that particular lock."
Kyon lay in his hotel bed that night, the chain around his neck, the two stones on the nightstand. The desert lights of Vegas bled around the edges of the blackout curtain. He had faced the chaos of Jones and the speed of Mendez. He had passed two tests. But the tournament was a crucible, each round forging him in a hotter, more refined fire. The Phantom had arrived in Vegas. Now, he had to prove he belonged among the final few standing in the blinding, national spotlight. The first frights were over. The real war for the crown was about to begin.