Year: 2016
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The victory over Andre Miller was a strategic earthquake. It wasn't just a win; it was a manifesto written in punches. The "Phantom 2.0" narrative, carefully cultivated by Hayes and confirmed by the clinical knockout, went supernova in the boxing press. Kyon was no longer the "comeback kid"; he was the "evolved phenomenon," the fighter who had taken his near-catastrophic flaw—a willingness to absorb punishment—and surgically removed it. Colonel Jenkins called the morning after, his voice crisp with approval. "That's exactly what the committee needed to see, Wilson. Dominance with responsibility. Keep it up."
The Olympic Trials were now six weeks away. The training camp at The Last Round became a fortress under siege. Hayes wanted more "access" for the web series, sensing the climax of the "Road Back" story. Thorne became the gatekeeper, a gruff Cerberus allowing only the most sanitized glimpses. "He's preparing for a war, not a photo shoot," he'd growl at Chloe, who would retreat with her camera crew, muttering about "artistic compromise."
The dossiers on Thorne's desk thickened. The 165-pound Olympic Trials bracket was a hall of mirrors, each reflecting a different kind of danger. There was Isaiah "The Apostle" Prince, a fundamentalist of the sweet science with a jab like a ramrod and the patience of a saint. Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez, a swarming, volume-punching whirlwind from Los Angeles. Caleb "The Mountain" Jones, a freakishly strong, mauling clinch-fighter. And, of course, Alexi Volkov. The Siberian's path through the other qualifying tournaments had been typically brutal, a series of methodical dissections. The rematch loomed as the potential final, a specter haunting every training session.
The new style—the controlling, intercepting, pre-emptive Phantom—was being stress-tested against every conceivable simulation. Thorne brought in sparring partners who were clones of each potential opponent. Kyon's days became a grueling rotation: one day fighting a tall, jab-happy technician, the next a short, buzzing pressure fighter, the next a grappling brute. The goal was to make the new, safer system not just a tactic, but an immutable reflex.
The physical toll was immense, but it was the mental calculus that was exhausting. Every movement had to be measured not just for effectiveness, but for optics. Was this counter "visible" enough? Was this evasion "dominant" enough? The joy of pure movement, of flow, was now filtered through a lens of political necessity. He found himself sometimes pulling a punch that could end a sparring session, opting instead for a second, more "scoring" blow, just to practice the kind of point-accumulation the amateur judges craved.
One evening, after a particularly frustrating session against a Rodriguez clone where he'd been caught with too many "scoring" shots in messy exchanges, Kyon snapped. He stormed out of the ring, tore off his headgear, and hurled it against the heavy bag.
"I'm fighting with one hand tied behind my back!" he shouted at Thorne, who watched him with folded arms. "This 'safe' style… it's letting them in! I'm thinking about what it looks like instead of what needs to be done!"
Thorne didn't argue. He walked over, picked up the headgear, and held it out. "You're right. You are fighting with one hand tied. The hand is called 'recklessness.' The hand that almost ended your career. You're learning to fight without it. It's harder. It's less fun. But it's how you last. It's how you become the greatest, not just a flash."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The Volkov in Vegas… he's gone. You killed him with that last punch. The Volkov you'll face at the Trials is the same fighter, but he's also studied you. He'll be ready for the brawl. He won't be ready for the surgeon. That's your edge. Now, get your gear back on. We're drilling exits from the clinch for an hour. Jones will try to maul you, and the judges hate clinching. You need to get out clean and make them see you getting out."
The grind was interspersed with surreal moments of celebrity. The PHANTOM apparel was selling, quietly but steadily, through a dedicated website Hayes had built. Kyon started getting recognized on the street in Detroit. Not often, but sometimes—a double-take at a gas station, a nod from a construction worker. "Ain't you the Phantom?" It was never "Kyon." He was the symbol.
A local news station did a feature. They interviewed Thorne, who gave gruff, monosyllabic answers about hard work. They interviewed a beaming Hayes, who spoke about "brand synergy" and "the new American boxing icon." They wanted Kyon to say something inspiring. He stood in the center of the ring, the camera lights hot on his face, and said: "The goal is the Olympics. The goal is gold. Everything else is just noise." Hayes later told him it was "perfect—enigmatic, focused."
Four weeks out, the official invitations and schedules arrived. The Trials were to be held in Reno, Nevada—a different desert crucible. The format was brutal: win three fights in four days to become the Olympic team representative. No margin for error. No room for a bad night.
The final weeks of camp were a descent into a focused, isolated madness. Kyon moved into the gym full-time again, sleeping on the cot in the office. The outside world—the brand, the media, even the city of Detroit—faded to a distant murmur. There was only the ring, the mitts, the specific, grinding problems posed by Prince, Rodriguez, Jones, and Volkov.
Dr. Kozlov monitored him like a hawk, running extra cognitive tests, checking his balance, his reaction time. She pronounced him "at peak cognitive and physical function for post-concussion recovery." The "post-concussion" qualifier would always be there, a permanent footnote to his medical history.
The night before they were to fly to Reno, Thorne didn't give a speech. He handed Kyon a small, worn notebook. It was his own, from his fighting days. The pages were filled with cryptic shorthand, drawings of footwork patterns, and notes on opponents long since retired.
"Every fighter who lasts keeps a bible," Thorne said, his voice rough. "This is mine. There's no magic in it. Just the accumulated dirt of a lifetime in the game. I want you to have it. Not to use. Just… to know that you're walking a path others have walked. You're just walking it further."
Kyon took the notebook, its pages fragile with age. It was a sacred relic. It was also a passing of the torch.
The flight to Reno was quiet. Kyon looked out the window at the vast, wrinkled landscape of the American West, feeling the weight settle on him. This wasn't just another tournament. This was the gateway to his ultimate vow. The Olympics were the world stage. "Greatest of all time" meant starting with Olympic gold. The first leg of the impossible journey ended here, in a convention center in the high desert.
The Olympic Trials were a different beast from the Nationals. The air was thicker, charged with a desperate, final-chance energy. These weren't just kids dreaming of glory; these were men on the cusp, fighting for the last, most meaningful accolade in amateur sports. The eyes of the boxing world—the real boxing world, including pro scouts, international coaches, and the ghost of every past Olympian—were upon them.
Weigh-ins were a tense, silent affair. Kyon stood in line, his hood up, feeling the stares. He saw Volkov across the room. Their eyes met. Volkov gave the same slight, meaningless nod as before. No fear. No animosity. Just acknowledgment of a task to be completed. The rematch was inevitable, but first, they had to navigate the minefield.
The draw was kind and cruel. Kyon was in the top half of the bracket. His first fight: Caleb "The Mountain" Jones. The mauler. A perfect first test for the "clean" style—could he avoid the ugly, points-sapping clinch?
Isaiah Prince and Benny Rodriguez were in the bottom half, along with Volkov. The brackets were set for a potential semifinal clash between Prince and Volkov, a clash of technical purity vs. relentless pressure.
Kyon's first fight was on Day One. The venue was smaller than Vegas, but the crowd was more knowledgeable, more intense. When he walked out, the "PHANTOM" chant started, a ripple that grew into a wave. He had a national following now.
Jones was exactly as advertised: a wide, powerful bull of a man who came forward behind a low guard, looking to tie up and work the body. From the first bell, he tried to close the distance, to make it ugly.
Kyon executed the plan perfectly. He used his footwork not to run, but to circle just outside Jones's lunging range. He peppered him with a stiff, punishing jab every time Jones tried to step in. When Jones did manage to get close and attempt a clinch, Kyon used the frames Thorne had drilled into him—forearms in the chest, head positioning—to create an inch of space, then pivoted out neatly, often landing a sharp hook to the body as he exited.
It was frustrating work. Jones was strong and durable, eating punches to get inside. But Kyon never let him get set, never let him impose his fight. In the third round, with Jones growing increasingly frustrated and slow, Kyon saw an opening. As Jones lunged with a wide right, Kyon stepped inside the punch and landed a short, compact right uppercut to the chin.
Jones froze, his eyes glazing. He didn't go down, but he was out on his feet. Kyon followed with a crisp one-two that sent him stumbling into the ropes. The referee jumped in and stopped the fight.
TKO, Round 3. A dominant, clean win. No clinching. No drama. Just a problem solved with the new tools.
Colonel Jenkins, watching from ringside, gave a firm nod.
Day Two was the quarter-finals. Kyon's opponent was a slick boxer from Florida, a lesser version of Prince. He boxed him effortlessly to a unanimous decision, showcasing his defensive prowess and sharp counters. He was barely touched.
Meanwhile, in the bottom half, the drama unfolded. Isaiah "The Apostle" Prince put on a boxing clinic, picking apart a tough opponent with his sublime jab. But the shock came in the other quarter-final: Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez vs. Alexi Volkov.
It was a stylistic war for the ages. Rodriguez came out firing, a hurricane of punches, trying to overwhelm Volkov with sheer volume. For a round and a half, it worked. Volkov was backed up, taking shots, his face a mask of concentration. But he didn't break. He absorbed, he parried, he kept moving forward. In the third round, as Rodriguez's inhuman pace inevitably slowed, Volkov went to work. He began digging brutal hooks to Rodriguez's body. The sound was sickening. By the end of the round, Rodriguez was moving in slow motion, his arms dropping. Early in the fourth, a Volkov left hook to the liver folded Rodriguez in half. He couldn't answer the ten-count.
Volkov had weathered the storm and broken another elite fighter. He was in the semifinals. The rematch with Kyon was now just one win away for each of them.
Day Three: Semifinals. Kyon's opponent was a tall, tricky southpaw he'd studied extensively. He won another clear decision, though he was caught with a few clean left hands that reminded him no system was perfect. He was through to the finals.
The other semifinal was Prince vs. Volkov. It was chess versus checkers, and for nine minutes, chess was winning. Prince used his sublime footwork and jab to keep Volkov at the end of his reach, piling up points. But Volkov, as always, kept coming. In the fourth and final round, he finally cornered Prince. He unleashed a barrage to the body. Prince, exhausted and hurt, covered up. The referee stopped it with only twenty seconds left on the clock.
Volkov was in the finals. The rematch was set.
The night before the final, Kyon lay in his hotel bed, Thorne's old notebook on his chest. He hadn't found any secrets. Just the sweat and grind of a forgotten career. It was a comfort. This struggle wasn't new.
Thorne came in, his face grave. "He's the same," he said, meaning Volkov. "But you're different. He'll expect the fighter from Vegas—the one who could be hurt, the one who would brawl. He's prepared for a war of attrition. You're going to give him a puzzle he can't solve. You're going to give him the surgeon. Remember: control, intercept, punish. No emotion. Just geometry."
Kyon nodded. The fear was there, a cold stone in his gut. But it was a clean fear. The fear of failure, not the fear of annihilation. He was no longer the boy trying to prove he couldn't be broken. He was the champion trying to prove he was the best.
The next day, the air in the arena was crackling with historic tension. The 165-pound final was the marquee event of the entire Trials. The winner went to the Olympics. The loser went home with nothing.
When Kyon walked out, the chant was deafening. "PHAN-TOM! PHAN-TOM!" He saw the PHANTOM logos on shirts in the crowd. He saw Colonel Jenkins in the front row, his face unreadable. He saw Hayes, looking like a kid on Christmas.
Volkov walked out to a more subdued, respectful applause. The destroyer. The Siberian.
They met in the center of the ring. The referee gave his instructions. Volkov's winter eyes held Kyon's. There was a new intensity there. Not hatred, but a deep, professional respect and a fierce determination. He knew what Kyon was now.
The bell rang.
Round 1 was a high-stakes feeling-out process of immense technical quality. Volkov came forward behind his piston jab. Kyon didn't slip it in the traditional way. He used subtle parries, deflections, and small angle steps that made the jab miss by millimeters while keeping him in position to counter. He didn't throw much. He was studying, calibrating. He landed a few sharp jabs of his own, but they bounced off Volkov's high guard.
Volkov tried to press, to cut the ring, but Kyon's footwork was a masterpiece of controlled evasion. He wasn't running; he was re-drawing the map of the ring with every step, keeping Volkov turning, resetting, never allowing him to plant and unleash.
The round ended with little damage done, but a clear message sent: Kyon was not the stationary target from Vegas.
Round 2. Volkov increased the pressure. He started throwing more combinations, aiming for the body, trying to slow the elusive Phantom down. Kyon began to implement the interception counters. As Volkov threw a one-two, Kyon didn't pull away. He stepped slightly offline and fired his own straight right hand, aiming to meet Volkov's cross in the middle.
Crack!
The two punches collided in mid-space, but Kyon's, thrown with perfect timing and from a better angle, won the exchange. Volkov's head snapped back. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. This was new.
Kyon pressed the advantage. He started landing his jab with more authority, snapping Volkov's head back. He used feints to draw out Volkov's predictable responses, then punished them. A feinted jab made Volkov flinch, opening him for a hard right to the body. A step to the left drew a Volkov hook, which Kyon rolled under before coming up with a sharp uppercut.
It was a clinic in proactive defense. Kyon was controlling the fight not by running, but by dictating the terms of every exchange, making Volkov pay a tax for every offensive thought.
By the end of the round, Volkov's face was marked, his nose bleeding. Kyon was untouched.
In his corner, Thorne was a coiled spring of satisfaction. "Perfect. He's frustrated. He doesn't have an answer. Third round, he's going to try to force it. That's when you break him."
Round 3. Desperation began to tinge Volkov's relentless pressure. He came forward with more abandon, swinging harder, trying to corner Kyon. He ate two, three jabs to land one thudding body shot. It was the old Volkov strategy: sacrifice for damage.
But Kyon had learned. He took the body shot, grunted, but immediately pivoted out, spinning Volkov around and cracking him with a left hook on the way out. He was making Volkov's successes costly and fleeting.
With a minute left in the round, Volkov, in a final, furious attempt, trapped Kyon near the ropes and unleashed a barrage. Kyon shelled up, blocking and rolling, letting the punches slide off his guard. As Volkov paused to take a breath, Kyon exploded off the ropes.
Not with wild swings. With a surgical three-punch combination he'd drilled a thousand times: a right to the body that made Volkov drop his left hand, a left hook to the head that snapped it sideways, and a final, concussive straight right that landed flush on Volkov's jaw.
Volkov's legs betrayed him. He stumbled backwards, his arms dropping, his eyes losing focus. He hit the ropes and sagged, barely remaining upright.
The referee leaped in, looking closely at Volkov's glazed eyes. He waved his arms.
Technical Knockout. Round 3.
The arena erupted. The Phantom hadn't just won; he had dominated. He had exorcised the ghost of Vegas with a performance of icy, flawless brilliance.
Kyon stood in the center of the ring as Volkov was helped to his stool. He felt no roaring triumph, only a deep, profound validation. He had done it the right way. The hard way. He had out-thought, out-fought, and finally, broken the unbeatable pressure of Alexi Volkov without selling his soul.
The referee raised his hand. The announcer's voice boomed: "…the winner… and your 2016 United States Olympic Boxing Team representative at 165 pounds… KYON 'THE PHANTOM' WILSON!"
As the gold medal was placed around his neck—not a championship medal, but an Olympic team medal—Kyon looked out at the roaring crowd, at Thorne's tear-streaked, grinning face in the corner, at the flashing cameras. He had reached the summit of the amateur mountain. He was an Olympian.
The weight of the nation was now on his shoulders. The journey to "greatest of all time" had just found its passport to the world stage. The ghost from Detroit was going to the Olympics.