Restarting Life: Be Domineering to the End

The gym on 8th Street was old, iron-scented, and alive with ghosts. Zion chose it deliberately. No mirrors, no branding—just sweat, bags, and floor space. He called it The Forge.

The moment Blaze stepped inside, his nose wrinkled at the scent of rust and canvas. Everything felt gritty, real. Unlike the clean gyms with streaming setups and wall-mounted LCDs, The Forge had history soaked into the walls, each crack a scar from a forgotten war.

"You'll hate it at first," Zion had warned. "Then it'll make you."

Blaze did hate it. The silence. The unforgiving floor. The endless repetition. But something about it grounded him. He began to rise earlier, train harder, ask deeper questions. Each punch felt heavier, more meaningful. He wasn't just sweating anymore—he was building.

Training for Luther Kaine began under tight discipline. Kaine wasn't just a fighter—he was a technician. Clean footwork. Precise jabs. No wasted motion. A graduate of the old-school regime, with none of the recklessness Blaze used to thrive on.

"You can't out-brawl this one," Zion told him. "You out-think him. Break rhythm. Make him doubt his training."

Blaze studied Kaine's fights obsessively. Zion had them all saved on an ancient hard drive, categorized by stance, round, and strategy.

They trained with bricks taped to Blaze's shoes to force shorter steps. Water-filled bags absorbed momentum, requiring maximum impact. The Forge became a crucible where every flaw was burned out, every ego dissolved.

Meanwhile, Zion met with Vic almost nightly. They watched footage deep into the evening, whispering strategy like generals before a siege.

"Kaine's got a solid center," Vic said. "Doesn't sway, but he adjusts. He's used to people trying to overpower him."

"So we don't overpower," Zion murmured. "We infiltrate. Break him down from the inside."

"He's also got backing," Vic added. "New sponsor. Ex-management from Price's team."

Zion's eyes narrowed. "Then this fight's not just about Blaze. It's about message control."

And so he doubled the regimen. Days of intense sparring. Nights of mental warfare. He hired actors to pose as journalists, hit Blaze with hostile questions in mock interviews. He placed hidden speakers in the gym that blared crowd noise at random intervals during training rounds.

"Why the noise?" Blaze asked after a grueling set.

"Because the real battle doesn't start until the bell rings and your heart's trying to leave your chest," Zion replied.

One afternoon, during a particularly brutal sparring session, Blaze hit a wall. He took a sharp jab to the temple, staggered, and threw his gloves down.

"I'm not a machine!" he shouted. "I can't think when you throw everything at me at once!"

Zion walked over slowly. Picked up the gloves. Set them gently on the stool.

"Good," he said. "Machines break. I'm building something that doesn't."

Blaze stormed out, furious. The silence in the gym returned, thick and heavy.

But the next morning, Blaze arrived an hour early. He was already taping his hands when Zion walked in.

They didn't speak. They didn't have to.

Zion watched from the shadows as Blaze moved with new precision, tighter angles, sharper footwork. Every movement carved from fire and frustration.

Days before the fight, Zion found Blaze standing on the roof of The Forge, overlooking the city.

"Thinking about the fight?" Zion asked, stepping beside him.

Blaze nodded. "I'm thinking... what if I lose? After all this?"

Zion was silent for a long moment.

"Then we start again," he said finally. "But you won't. Because pressure makes diamonds—if the fire's hot enough."

Blaze didn't reply. But he didn't look away from the skyline either.

Fight night came fast.

The venue was smaller than Edgewater Arena but packed to the rafters. Local fans, promoters, scouts, and a few recognizable faces from higher leagues. Zion spotted two men from Price's team seated near the front. He nodded slightly.

Kaine stood in his corner, calm and clinical. Blaze looked across the ring and saw the man everyone said he couldn't beat.

He exhaled slowly.

When the bell rang, Blaze didn't charge. He measured. Fainted. Tapped. Tested. He gave Kaine nothing easy. Kaine, in turn, tried to draw Blaze out—force mistakes.

But Blaze stuck to the blueprint.

By the second round, he began carving angles. Slipping inside Kaine's jab. Tagging the ribs. Then sliding out.

In the third, the rhythm shifted. Blaze threw a feint, Kaine bit. Step left. Jab. Slip. Body shot. Kaine hesitated.

Then Blaze exploded—three-punch combo, duck, uppercut. Kaine folded to his knees.

The ref stepped in.

Zion didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Just watched.

After the hand was raised, Blaze walked out of the ring different—older somehow. Less fire, more steel.

Backstage, the cameras waited. Blaze said little.

"I trained like I was broke. I fought like I was starving," he told one reporter. "That's how I'm staying."

Zion joined him in the quiet hallway.

"You didn't fight like a kid tonight," he said.

"I didn't feel like one," Blaze replied.

That's when they saw him—a man in a navy suit, leaning casually by the exit.

"Mr. Cole," the man said, offering a sleek black card. "We represent Malcolm Price's team. He's been watching. And he's... interested."

Zion took the card, unreadable.

"It's not time yet," he said.

"Not yet," the man agreed. "But soon."

After he left, Blaze turned to Zion. "What was that about?"

Zion slipped the card into his jacket. "Proof you're shaking the right trees."

Later that night, in the quiet of The Forge, Blaze stood alone in front of the heavy bag. No gloves. Just fists.

He hit it once.

Twice.

Then again. And again.

Zion watched from the shadows. The sound of each strike echoed off the walls.

"Don't stop," Zion said under his breath. "Don't ever stop."

Because in this world, the streets don't hand out crowns.

You take them.

With pressure.

And fire.

And when you bleed, you smile.

Because that's when they know:

You're not just here to fight.

You're here to reign.