Year: 2017
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The winter in Detroit was a gray, gritty blanket, perfect for convalescence and quiet reckoning. By February, six months after Rio, the physical wounds had knitted. The nose was permanently altered, a slight bump on the bridge where it had been broken and reset. The scar over his left eyebrow was a pale, thin line, a permanent footnote to the Kovalenko fight. The ribs no longer screamed, only muttered with the occasional deep twist. The headaches were ghosts, rare and fleeting.
It was the internal landscape that remained complex. The hollow feeling, the post-war stillness, had evolved into a kind of watchful calm. He had spent the autumn and early winter doing nothing that resembled fighting. He walked for miles through the city, anonymous in a hoodie and beanie. He read—not fight manuals, but history, biographies, anything about people who had built something from nothing. He helped Thorne with the endless repairs The Last Round demanded, finding a meditative peace in the scrape of sandpaper and the smell of fresh paint.
The Phantom brand, expertly managed by Hayes in his absence, continued to grow. The apparel sold steadily. The web series "The Road Back" had concluded with his gold medal win, and Hayes was now shopping a documentary special to streaming services. Kyon's likeness was on a limited-edition sports drink can. He was a name, a face, a symbol—all while he himself felt like a blank page.
The professional offers, having reached a fever pitch in the weeks after the Olympics, had settled into a persistent, serious hum. Three entities had emerged as the final contenders, each representing a vastly different path.
First: Sterling Promotions. The old guard. Run by Frank Sterling, a seventy-year-old legend who had shepherded a dozen fighters to world titles. His offer was the most conservative financially, but it came with an intangible promise: legacy. Sterling believed in the "marinate" method—careful matchmaking, building a fighter's skills and reputation slowly against progressively tougher competition. He promised no shortcuts, no circus. "I don't sell sideshows," his handwritten letter stated. "I sell championship boxing. You have the talent to be an all-time great. My job would be to not get in the way of that, and to protect you from yourself until you're ready." It was the safe, respectable choice, the one Colonel Jenkins and every boxing purist would endorse.
Second: Apex Global. The new money. A venture-capital-backed promotional outfit run by a flashy, data-obsessed thirty-five-year-old named David Chen. Apex's offer was a staggering eight-figure signing bonus, the largest ever for an Olympian turning pro. They talked in terms of "brand synergy," "cross-platform audience development," and "disrupting the boxing model." They wanted to fast-track Kyon, using his Olympic pedigree and compelling story to land him a title shot within 12-15 fights, leveraging social media and strategic matchups against "narrative-rich" opponents. They saw him not just as a fighter, but as the centerpiece of a media empire. It was the lucrative, modern, high-risk/high-reward choice.
Third: A personal call from Darius "The Dream" Vance.** The man he'd beaten in the state semi-finals years ago. Vance, now a rising contender in the professional ranks with a slick promotional team behind him, had a different proposal. "Come with us," he'd said, his voice confident over the phone. "We're building something new. A fighter-owned collective. More control, better revenue split. We pick our fights, we build our own events. It's for the guys who are tired of being owned by old men or exploited by corporations. You're the biggest name out there. With you, we could change the game." It was the rebel's choice, full of idealism and uncertainty.
Thorne refused to push him one way or the another. "This is your life, Kyon. Not mine. I'll train you for whoever you fight, whenever you fight. But this decision… you have to own it. You have to live with the path."
Hayes, of course, had a strong opinion. "Apex. The money is life-changing. The platform is massive. We can negotiate creative control. With that kind of capital, you call the shots anyway. Sterling will treat you like a child. Vance's collective is a pipe dream—no infrastructure."
Kyon listened to it all. He met with Frank Sterling in a quiet, wood-paneled steakhouse. The old man spoke of ringcraft, of learning your trade in small halls, of the pride that comes from a slow, earned ascent. He showed photos of his past champions. It felt like joining a venerable, if fading, guild.
He met David Chen in a sleek downtown loft filled with video screens streaming analytics. Chen talked about "market penetration," "demographic engagement," and showed projections of Kyon's potential earnings over five years that were dizzying. It felt like being acquired by a tech startup.
He met Darius Vance and his small team in a coffee shop. They talked about ownership, about the predatory nature of traditional promoters, about building a legacy that wasn't just about belts but about changing the sport's power structure. It felt like joining a revolution.
Kyon would return to The Last Round after each meeting and just sit in the ring. He'd hold the river stone, feeling its solid, simple weight. He thought about his promise: greatest of all time. What did that mean in the pros? Was it about undefeated records and multiple world titles? Was it about money and fame? Was it about transcending the sport itself?
One evening, as a late-winter sleet pattered against the gym's high windows, Miguel found him there.
"You know what my abuelo used to say about hard choices?" Miguel said, leaning on the ropes. "He said, 'When you don't know which road to take, remember where you're trying to go, not just how you want to feel walking there.'"
"Where am I trying to go?" Kyon asked, the question hanging in the cold air.
"You told me once. The greatest. So… which of these roads gets you there without losing you along the way? Sterling's road is long and safe, but will you still be hungry in five years? Apex's road is a rocket ship, but will it burn you up? Vance's road… it's unpaved. Might lead nowhere."
The answer didn't come from analysis. It came from a deeper, more fundamental place. It came during a session with Dr. Kozlov, who was giving him a final cognitive and physical assessment before clearing him for full training.
"Your brain scans are normal," she said, pointing at the images. "The healing is complete. But…" she turned to face him, her expression serious. "The history is there. Like cracks in porcelain that have been glued. Strong, but not original. You must understand: your margin for error is now smaller than other fighters. You cannot afford to be a 'warrior' in the pros. Not if you want a long career. You must be a surgeon. Every time."
Her words connected the dots. The "greatest of all time" couldn't be a fighter whose career ended at 28 due to accumulated trauma. It had to be a master whose brilliance was sustained. It had to be about the craft, not just the conquest.
The next day, he asked Hayes to set up one more meeting. Not with the promoters. With a man named Alonzo "The Professor" Ruiz, a legendary cutman and defensive strategist, now retired, who was renowned for extending the careers of hard-nosed fighters by teaching them the dark, subtle arts of protection.
They met in Ruiz's cluttered apartment, walls lined with photos of bloodied champions he'd saved. Ruiz was a small, wizened man with eyes like black diamonds.
"You're the Phantom," Ruiz said, his voice a dry whisper. "I saw your fights. You move like smoke. But you get hit. You get hit because you choose to, to land your own. In the amateurs, that's heart. In the pros, with small gloves, eight-ounce on some nights… that's a death wish." He leaned forward. "You want to be great? You have to learn to win without getting hit at all. Not even a little. The art of making them miss by a mile, not an inch. The art of clinching not to rest, but to steal time and frustrate. The art of the elbow, the forearm, the hidden thumb. The dirty, beautiful science of survival at the highest level. That's what lasts."
Kyon spent three hours with The Professor. It was a revelation. It was the missing piece of the Phantom 2.0 evolution—a curriculum not in offense, but in the advanced, professional-grade mastery of not being there.
Walking back to the gym, the sleet turning to a cold rain, Kyon made his decision. It wasn't about the money, or the platform, or the revolution. It was about the craft. It was about the long, steep road to true, sustainable greatness. It was about living up to the name "Phantom" in its purest, most terrifying form.
He called Hayes. "Set up the meeting with Frank Sterling. But we have conditions."
The negotiation took a week. Kyon, with Thorne by his side and Hayes as the legal spearhead, laid out his terms. The signing bonus from Sterling was a fraction of Apex's offer, but it was still more money than Kyon had ever imagined. The key was in the control:
1. Matchmaking Veto: Kyon and Thorne had final approval over every opponent.
2. Training Control: Thorne remained the head trainer, with a budget to bring in specialists like The Professor regularly.
3. Pace: No more than four fights in the first year. A deliberate, slow build.
4. Brand Rights: The "Phantom" brand remained under Kyon's control, with Sterling Promotions getting a percentage of fight-related merch, but not ownership.
5. Media: Strict limits on mandatory media appearances. No reality shows, no sensationalist documentaries.
Sterling, to his credit, agreed to almost all of it. He was from an era where a handshake and a fighter's word meant something. He saw in Kyon not just a marketable Olympian, but a throwback—a kid who cared about the art, not just the auction. "You remind me of the old masters," Sterling grunted, signing the final contract. "Let's see if we can make you the last of them."
The signing was deliberately low-key. No press conference in a flashy hotel. They did it in the office of The Last Round, with just Sterling, his lawyer, Kyon, Thorne, and Hayes present. The flash of cameras came afterward, a managed photo op in the gym with Kyon in a simple sweater, Sterling in his old-fashioned suit, and the contract on Thorne's desk.
The headline the next day in the Detroit Free Press read: "Gold Medal Phantom Turns Pro, Chooses Legacy Over Lottery."
The boxing world was intrigued. Purists applauded the Sterling choice. The business pundits called it "leaving money on the table." The Apex Global camp leaked statements about "a lack of ambition." Darius Vance tweeted a single emoji: a shrug.
Kyon didn't read any of it. With the contract signed, a strange, new energy filled him. The hollow was gone, replaced by a fresh, specific purpose. He was a professional boxer. The goal was no longer an abstract "greatest." It was a concrete path: win a world title. Defend it. Unify the division. Move up. Do it all while mastering the craft of invulnerability.
The first order of business was not an opponent, but a style overhaul. Thorne and The Professor became his dual tutors. Mornings were with Thorne, rebuilding his offensive arsenal for the professional game: focusing on punching through targets with the smaller gloves, developing a professional-caliber jab that could control and damage, working on combination punching for sustained attacks, not just one-off counters.
Afternoons were with The Professor, who came to the gym twice a week. These sessions were like learning a secret language. They worked on defensive minutiae:
· The "Phantom Slip": A torso movement so subtle and efficient it used 30% less energy than his old, more dramatic slips.
· The Catch-and-Pivot: Catching a jab on the glove not to block it, but to use its momentum to spin the opponent, creating offensive angles.
· The Professional Clinch: Using head position, forearm frames, and subtle foot sweeps to dominate the clinch, drain an opponent's energy, and land hidden, short shots that referees rarely saw.
· The Elbow Shield: How to legally use the elbow to deflect hooks and disrupt an opponent's rhythm.
· Distance Hypnosis: Using feints and footwork to make an opponent freeze, making them unable to pull the trigger, a psychological defense.
It was exhausting, cerebral work. It was also exhilarating. Kyon felt like he was being given the keys to a higher level of the sport. He was no longer just a fighter; he was a student of an ancient, violent art.
Sterling's matchmaker delivered the first potential opponent: Javier "El Relámpago" Mendoza, a tough, durable Mexican veteran with a record of 22-5. He was a classic "test" — experienced, technically sound, but not a huge puncher. A safe first step.
Kyon and Thorne watched the tape. Mendoza was good. He had a tight guard, a decent jab, and never stopped coming forward.
"He's perfect," The Professor rasped, pointing at the screen. "See how he throws his right hand? He cocks it back here, by his ear. From that position, he cannot jab. When you see that right hand go back, you step in and jab. You own that second. You make him pay for loading up. That's professional fighting. Exploiting habits."
The fight was scheduled for early June, at a 2,000-seat theater in downtown Detroit. Sterling was giving the hometown hero his debut. The promotion was classic Sterling: understated, focusing on Kyon's Olympic pedigree and Detroit roots. No trash talk, no circus.
As training intensified, Kyon felt a new kind of pressure. It wasn't the life-or-death pressure of the Olympics. It was the pressure of expectation. He was the gold medalist. He was supposed to shine. The Phantom brand was watching. The city was watching. The boxing world, skeptical of his conservative choice, was watching.
One night, a week before the fight, Kyon found Thorne polishing the Olympic gold medal with a soft cloth, the way one might tend to a religious icon.
"Nervous?" Thorne asked without looking up.
"A different kind," Kyon admitted. "It's not about winning. It's about… showing what we've been building. Showing that the Phantom isn't just a brawler with a gold medal."
Thorne set the medal down. "It's just the first step on a longer road. Mendoza is a door. You don't have to knock it down. You just have to learn how to open it." He looked at Kyon, his eyes serious. "The greatest aren't made in one fight, Kyon. They're made in the thousand days between them. This is the first of those days. Now go get some sleep. Tomorrow, we work on making El Relámpago look like he's fighting in the dark."
Kyon lay in his cot that night, the contract signed, the path set, the first opponent named. The ghost from the alley was now a professional boxer under contract, with a master trainer, a cunning professor, and a wily old promoter. The journey to the greatest of all time had entered its second, more treacherous volume: the professional ranks. The Phantom was no longer an amateur specter. He was a professional mystery, and his first chapter was about to be written in the bright, unforgiving lights of his hometown.