Year: 2015
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The morning of the semi-finals dawned with a different tension. It wasn't the nervous energy of the earlier rounds; it was a thick, silent focus that permeated the entire hotel floor housing the fighters. The air in the hallway felt still, charged. Few words were exchanged. Men moved with the purposeful, economized motion of those conserving every joule of energy for the storm to come.
In their room, Thorne was a study in controlled intensity. He'd laid out Kyon's gear with a military precision: the wraps, the gloves, the mouthguard, the USA robe. The two stones sat side-by-side on the nightstand, the original and its silver replica, twin talismans of his journey. Thorne's pre-fight speech was not a pep talk. It was a final mission briefing.
"Cruz is a bull," Thorne said, his voice low and gravelly. "But he's not a dumb animal. He's a smart, mean bull who knows how to use his horns. He'll come forward, but he'll do it behind a good, tight guard. He'll try to herd you to the ropes, where his short-range power is lethal. Your advantage is the entire ring. Use it. Make him turn. Make him reset. Every time he plants his feet to throw, you must already be leaving."
He tapped the tactical board he'd drawn on a legal pad. "Primary target: the body. Specifically, the solar plexus and the liver. He's built like a brick wall up top. His neck is a tree trunk. You won't hurt him with headshots early. But every man, no matter how thick, breathes. You take his wind, you take his legs, you take his fight."
"And the judges?" Kyon asked, remembering Colonel Jenkins's words.
Thorne's face tightened. "The judges will see a tall, elusive fighter against a shorter, aggressive one. They will inherently favor the aggressor if the action is close. So, you must be effectively aggressive. Your counters can't be pitty-pat scoring shots. They have to be authoritative. When you hit him, you must make a sound. You must make his head snap. You must leave a mark. Defense wins fights, Kyon. But in the amateurs, visible offense wins decisions."
It was a delicate, dangerous balance. Fight his fight—elusive, counter-punching, controlling—but do it with enough palpable impact to satisfy the political reality of Olympic scouting. The Phantom had to become more… solid.
The weigh-in was a mere formality, a quick check to ensure the fighters hadn't ballooned overnight. The face-off with Cruz was more intense than the day before. Cruz's friendly smile was gone, replaced by a flat, predatory stare. He looked Kyon up and down as if measuring him for a coffin. "See you tonight, fantasma," he growled, the Spanish pronunciation dripping with contempt.
The afternoon was an eternity of waiting. Kyon lay on his bed, headphones on, listening to the rain-and-affirmation track. But today, his visualization had a new edge. He didn't just see himself slipping Cruz's hooks; he saw himself slipping and immediately firing a right cross that crashed into Cruz's cheekbone with a audible crack. He saw himself taking a half-step inside a wide swing to deliver a brutal, short uppercut to the floating ribs. He was programming not just evasion, but violent, efficient reprisal.
As evening approached, the convention center transformed. The semi-finals were a marquee event. The streaming service's set was more elaborate, with multiple camera angles and commentators. The bleachers were packed, the crowd buzzing with the knowledge they were about to see the two best matchups of the tournament.
The first semi-final was Phillips vs. Volkov. Thorne and Kyon watched from the stands, a strategic scouting mission. It was a breathtaking clash of styles. Phillips was a hummingbird, his hands a blur, dancing in and out, tattooing Volkov's high guard with rapid-fire combinations. Volkov was a glacier, plodding forward, impervious to the stings, cutting off the ring with grim determination, landing thudding body shots whenever Phillips paused to breathe.
It was speed vs. stamina, artistry vs. attrition. For two rounds, it seemed Phillips's brilliance would prevail. But in the third, Volkov's pressure and body attack began to tell. Phillips's movement slowed, his hands dropped. Volkov trapped him against the ropes and unleashed a barrage of hooks to the body and head. Phillips, exhausted and hurt, covered up. The referee jumped in with just ten seconds left on the clock.
Technical Knockout. Alexi Volkov wins.
The crowd was stunned. The flashy favorite had been broken down by the relentless pressure of The Siberian. Volkov raised his arms, his face still a mask of icy calm. He hadn't just won; he had sent a message to the other finalist: pressure could break anything, even lightning.
"That," Thorne muttered to Kyon as they made their way back to the locker room, "is what happens if you let Cruz work. You see how Phillips faded? You don't have his handspeed, but you have better stamina and defense. You cannot fade. You must be sharp for every second of every round."
The message was received. The stakes were clear.
In the locker room, the ritual was familiar, but the atmosphere was thicker, heavier. This was the penultimate step. Kyon could feel the eyes of the other fighters—those eliminated, those in other weight classes—watching him. He was no longer just another competitor; he was one of the two men standing between Alexi Volkov and a national title.
"Wilson vs. Cruz! Semi-final bout! Fighters to the tunnel!"
The walk felt longer, the tunnel darker, the roar at the end louder. When Kyon emerged into the light, the wall of sound was physical. He kept his hood up, his eyes on the ring. Cruz was already there, pounding his gloves together, stomping his feet, a bull in the chute.
Kyon removed his robe. The contrast was stark: Kyon, long and lean, a study in streamlined tension; Cruz, a compact powerhouse of muscle and menace.
The referee brought them together. Cruz's breath was hot. "Time to wake up from your dream, ghost."
The bell.
Round 1 was a feeling-out process conducted under siege. Cruz came forward immediately, but not with wild, reckless abandon. He advanced behind a high, tight guard, his chin tucked, his eyes peering over his gloves. He feinted level changes, trying to draw Kyon's defense down to open up his head. He was smart, just as Thorne said.
Kyon established his jab, flicking it out, trying to find the range. It landed on Cruz's guard with a series of pops, but did nothing to slow the advance. Cruz walked through them, a human tank. He'd eat two jabs to get in range to throw his own weapon: a whipping, compact left hook to the body.
The first one landed. THUD.
It was like being struck by a swinging sack of wet sand. The air exploded from Kyon's lungs in a pained grunt. It wasn't just a punch; it was a systemic shock. He backpedaled rapidly, creating space, his ribs screaming in protest.
Cruz smiled, a grim, satisfied thing. He'd found his target.
Kyon reset, his mind racing. The jab wasn't a deterrent. He needed to hurt, not just poke. The next time Cruz stepped in, Kyon didn't just jab. He threw a jab, then immediately fired a straight right hand down the center, aiming for Cruz's nose.
Crack.
It landed cleanly. Cruz's head snapped back. He blinked, surprised. He hadn't expected the power behind it. He paused for a split second.
That was the opening. Kyon, following Thorne's instruction to be "effectively aggressive," stepped in and threw a left hook to Cruz's body, aiming for the same spot Cruz had targeted.
Thump.
Cruz's abs were like iron, but he exhaled sharply. The bull could feel the sting.
The round became a tense, brutal chess match. Cruz pressing, trying to land his crippling body shots. Kyon moving, circling, looking for openings to land his harder, straighter punches to head and body. Kyon landed the cleaner, sharper shots, but Cruz's sheer physical presence and the threat of his power made every second a high-wire act. The bell rang with both men standing in the center, having traded their first meaningful blows.
In the corner, Thorne was swift. "Good! You hurt him! He respects the right hand now. But you got greedy. You stood in front of him after you landed. That's when he got that hook in. Hit and move, Kyon. Never stop moving. Now, listen. He's loading up on that left hook to the body. I see it. Every time he wants to throw it, he drops his right hand a fraction. When you see that right hand drop, you pull your left side back and you throw a right uppercut. Up the middle. You understand?"
Kyon nodded, gulping water. His left side was already aching dully. "Uppercut. When his right drops."
Round 2. Cruz came out with more urgency. He knew he needed to impose his will. He increased the pressure, cutting the ring more effectively, forcing Kyon to work harder to maintain his distance. A minute in, he trapped Kyon near the corner. He feinted a right hand, then dropped his right hand slightly, coiling for the left hook to the body.
Kyon saw it. The tell.
Instead of trying to flee the corner, he did the unexpected. He took a small step forward, inside the arc of the coming hook. As Cruz threw the devastating left, Kyon pulled his torso back, letting the fist graze his already-sore ribs. At the same time, he launched the right uppercut from his shoes, up through the channel Cruz's dropped guard had created.
It was a perfect, violent intersection of timing and technique.
The uppercut landed flush under Cruz's chin.
SMACK.
The sound was crisp, shocking. Cruz's head jerked back violently. His eyes lost focus. His legs buckled. For a terrifying second, it looked like he would go down. He staggered backwards, his arms flailing for balance, hitting the ropes and bouncing off them.
The crowd erupted. The Phantom had rocked the Bull!
Kyon, adrenaline surging, moved in. But Cruz's survival instinct was primal. As Kyon stepped forward to capitalize, Cruz, still on unsteady legs, lunged forward in a desperate clinch, wrapping his thick arms around Kyon and burying his head in Kyon's chest. It was a foul, a clear head-butt, but in the chaos, the referee missed it, seeing only a hurt fighter holding on.
The referee pried them apart. Cruz stumbled back to the center, shaking his head, his legs still wobbly but his eyes clearing with a feral rage. He'd been hurt, humiliated. The bull was wounded, and now he was angry.
The rest of the round was a war of attrition. Cruz, abandoning some caution, threw bombs. Wild hooks, overhand rights. Kyon, knowing one clean shot could end it, danced and weaved, landing sharp counters but avoiding the firefight. He was winning the round, maybe the fight, but he was expending enormous energy to stay safe from the enraged powerhouse across from him.
The bell saved them both.
In the corner, Cruz's team was frantically working on him, screaming for him to breathe, to focus. In Kyon's corner, Thorne was applying an ice pack to his aching left side. "The rib's not broken, but it's bruised. You can't take another one like that. You hurt him bad. He's vulnerable. But he's also desperate. This is the most dangerous round. You need to be smart. Box. Move. Pick your shot. If you see him cleared up, go for the finish. But don't force it. A decision is a win."
Round 3. Both men came out knowing this was it. Cruz, knowing he likely needed a knockout, launched an all-out assault. It was no longer calculated pressure; it was a berserk charge. He swung with everything he had, his technique devolving into pure power.
This played into Kyon's greatest strength: fighting a predictable, aggressive opponent. He became a phantom in earnest. He slipped the wild hooks by inches, pivoted away from the charges, and made Cruz pay with sharp, stinging counters. A jab that reopened a cut over Cruz's eye. A right cross that snapped his head back. A left hook to the body that made Cruz wince every time.
But Cruz was inhumanly tough. He kept coming, a force of nature fueled by pride and pain. With a minute left, he caught Kyon with a glancing overhand right that sent a bolt of lightning through Kyon's skull. The world spun. Kyon's legs turned to rubber. He backpedaled, clutching, trying to clear the fog.
Cruz smelled blood. He roared and charged, swinging a massive left hook.
Kyon, operating on instinct drilled over thousands of hours, didn't try to block it. He dropped his weight into a deep squat, the "weave" he'd practiced on the icy Detroit docks. The hook passed over his head, the wind of it ruffling his hair.
And Kyon was now in the perfect position, rising from the squat directly in front of Cruz's exposed body. He didn't think. He threw a right hand, not a textbook punch, but a short, powerful shovel hook, putting all his rising momentum into it.
It landed with a sickening, wet crunch directly on Cruz's solar plexus.
Cruz's eyes bulged. No sound came out. All the air, all the fight, all the will left his body in that instant. He folded in half, then dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, his face pressed to the canvas in utter, silent agony.
The referee didn't count. He waved it off immediately.
Knockout. Body shot. Round 3.
The silence was absolute for a half-second, then the arena exploded. A body-shot knockout was a rare, brutal, and deeply respected finish. The Bull had been felled not by a shot to the head, but by a punch that stole the very breath from his lungs.
Kyon stood over him, his own body screaming in protest, his mind trying to process the sudden void of violence. He saw Cruz's corner rush in, saw the medics. He felt no triumph, only a vast, hollow exhaustion and the profound relief of survival.
His hand was raised. He was in the finals.
The walk back to the locker room was a blur of noise and light. In the medical check, he passed the concussion protocol again. The nurse Brenda smiled. "Another one? You're making a habit of dramatic finishes." She had him do the voluntary cognitive test again, as part of the "pilot program." Dazed and tired, Kyon went through the puzzles and reaction games, his performance slightly slower but still adequate.
Back in the quiet of his own locker area, as Thorne iced his ribs and tended to a small cut over his eyebrow from the glancing right, the reality settled in. He had done it. He had weathered the storm of the most physically powerful fighter he'd ever faced. He had adapted, found the tell, landed the perfect shot. He was in the national championship final.
Thorne's face, in the quiet aftermath, was a landscape of pride and grim calculation. "You showed heart. You showed skill. And you showed you can take a shot and give one back. That uppercut… that was beautiful. The finish was instinct, pure instinct. That's what separates good fighters from great ones." He leaned close. "But you took damage. Cruz is a truck. We need to get you recovered. Because tomorrow…"
He didn't need to finish. Tomorrow was Alexi Volkov. The Siberian. The man who had methodically broken the fastest fighter in the tournament. The final boss.
The other semi-final's winner had been a formality after Volkov's display. The finals were set: Kyon "The Phantom" Wilson vs. Alexi "The Siberian" Volkov. Style vs. Style. The elusive, counter-punching defense of The Phantom against the relentless, crushing, systematic pressure of The Siberian.
It was the perfect narrative, and the streaming service and USA Boxing promoters were already salivating. The technical genius vs. the grinding machine. The ghost vs. the glacier.
As Kyon lay in the dark hotel room later, the ache in his ribs a persistent throb, the tiny stone cool against his skin, he thought of the journey. The alley. The gym. The state title. And now, here, on the precipice of a national championship. One more fight. Against the most daunting, mentally tough opponent imaginable.
Volkov wouldn't be frustrated like Jones. He wouldn't be out-sped like Mendez. He wouldn't be out-smarted like Sharpe. He wouldn't be overpowered like Cruz. He would just… come. Relentlessly, efficiently, coldly. He would be the ultimate test of the Phantom's core principle: Can you avoid what is unavoidable?
The bull in the china shop had been defeated. Now, he had to find a way to stop the glacier from grinding him to dust. The greatest challenge of his young life was one sleep away.