Kengan: New Roots

The gym smelled of sweat and floor polish, like every other venue Ashan had fought in. But tonight had a weight to it. It was the finals. The crowd was larger, louder. Coaches barked from every corner. Someone hit the heavy bag too hard and it snapped back with a dull thwack.

Ashan sat on the edge of a folding chair, his hoodie over his head, earbuds in. His fists were already wrapped. He had taped them up himself. Clean. Methodical.

His opponent's name was Mateo Lewis. taller, rangier, 17, 40 fights. Calm. Sharp. Everyone whispered about him like he'd already won.

Ashan didn't care.

He had two knockouts in this tournament. He wasn't supposed to make it past round one. No one said his name out loud. Not in predictions, not in conversations. And that was fine.

When his name was called, Ashan walked slow. He entered the ring like it was a spar in Midtown. Just another day.

Round One

Mateo moved first, fast, twitchy. He snapped out three jabs and circled wide. Ashan stalked him, high guard, small steps. First minute was all Mateo. His reach was a problem.

Then Ashan started to time it.

He blocked a jab, stepped just outside the right, and came back with a stiff jab of his own. It popped loud. Mateo grunted and backed up. That was the moment. The moment Ashan realized:

He wasn't faster. He wasn't stronger. But he could see him.

Still, round one was close. Mateo landed cleaner. Ashan didn't flinch, but he knew he'd need to step it up.

Round Two

Ashan turned it on. Sharp double jabs, low feints, and quick pivots. His crosses were landing now, clean. Midway through the round, Ashan slipped a hook, stepped in, and fired a jab that rattled Mateo's head back. Before he could reset, the right cross landed straight on the nose.

Mateo dropped.

The ref started the count. Ashan stood in the neutral corner, breathing slow. No grin. No celebration. He was just waiting.

Mateo got up at eight.

Ashan didn't chase the finish. He went back to his jab. Kept touching him. Kept walking him down. Controlled.

Round Three

Mateo came out desperate, throwing wild. Ashan stayed calm. Blocked high, stepped back, moved off the line. His footwork was cleaner now. Each miss from Mateo looked worse.

With thirty seconds left, Ashan feinted a jab, saw Mateo bite, and snapped the real one down the pipe. It stunned him just long enough. The right came over clean.

Bell rang.

Mateo stumbled slightly to his corner. The crowd wasn't sure who had it. His corner tried to play it off. Ashan didn't look around. He just stared at the canvas, breathing steady.

Decision: Unanimous. Ashan Korr.

He raised one glove. Not both. The underdog. The nobody. The 0-0 kid who just took the tournament.

After, a local reporter cornered him for a mic interview. The camera was cheap. The mic had tape on it.

"You weren't expected to make it past round one. What do you think made the difference tonight?"

Ashan wiped his nose with his wrist wrap. "I don't care about what people expected. I came here to fight. That's it."

"What's next for Ashan Korr?"

He looked off camera. Paused.

"Don't know yet," he said. "But I'm not done."

No smile. No speech. He stepped off, gloves still tight.

No one knew what was really next. Only him.