The warehouse lights buzzed faintly overhead, bathing the cold cement floor in sterile fluorescence. Blaze stood with his arms crossed, eyes locked on a series of blueprints spread across a folding table. Zion stood across from him, expression unreadable.
"That's six gym partnerships, two media sponsors, and a streaming platform willing to distribute under our terms," Zion said. "If we push this hard, we launch in ninety days."
Blaze didn't respond immediately. He was studying a circle on the map—an old factory space near Dockside that he and Zion had walked through last week. Its cracked skylights and rusted frame felt more honest than any corporate ring he'd ever fought in.
"This becomes the center," Blaze said finally. "Not just a gym. Not just a ring. This becomes our root."
Zion nodded. "A sanctuary. A statement."
But before the vision could take full form, war knocked again.
---
It started with media.
Local news segments ran half-truths: "Blaze Carter linked to underground organizations," one headline read. Another: "Sources question Carter's financial backers."
Then came the podcasts, influencers, gossip pages. Rumors of illegal fights. Of unpaid taxes. Of being 'owned' behind the scenes.
None of it true.
All of it calculated.
"They're smearing you," Aria said. She'd dropped by The Forge unannounced, phone buzzing with alerts. "They're trying to control the narrative before you build your own."
Blaze smirked grimly. "Let them talk. When I open this place, people will see the truth with their own eyes."
"You don't need to survive the storm, Blaze," she said. "You need to burn through it."
---
The next strike hit closer.
An investor backed out—anonymously pressured. A gym owner partner in Jersey had their lease mysteriously revoked. Even Titan Tech issued a statement distancing themselves from "unverified reports" tied to Blaze's name.
Zion sat down with Blaze that night in the gym's upstairs office, away from cameras and microphones.
"They're bleeding you slow," Zion said. "You won't fall overnight. You'll just lose options one by one until you're begging."
Blaze clenched his jaw. "Then we don't ask. We build. From ground up. No favors. No compromises."
Zion nodded. "That's the move. But it's going to cost."
"Then I pay in sweat."
---
Blaze began calling in every favor he'd earned. Fighters he'd helped train. Neighborhoods he'd donated to. Journalists who respected what he stood for.
He launched his own channel—The Roar—with Aria's help. Daily videos, training insights, behind-the-scenes footage. His message was clear: nothing about him was fabricated. He was building something real.
Fans rallied.
Former skeptics leaned in.
And the Order took notice.
---
Two weeks later, Blaze was invited to a charity gala downtown. Big names. Fancy suits. Velvet ropes. Zion was wary, but Blaze accepted.
"Why?" Zion asked.
"Because if they're going to come for me, I want them to look me in the eyes when they fail."
The gala was in a restored opera house—gold trim and crystal chandeliers. Blaze walked in wearing a fitted black suit, no tie, and fire in his stride. Cameras turned. Influencers whispered. Corporate execs smiled tight smiles.
He spotted them immediately—two men in tailored suits, standing near the bar. The same crown-and-dagger symbol etched into their cufflinks.
One approached.
"Mr. Carter. I'm Michael Harrow. I represent parties interested in your... future."
Blaze didn't extend his hand.
"Tell your Order I don't kneel."
Harrow smiled. "No. But everyone leans eventually. A little nudge. A little pressure. A loved one missing. A contract rescinded."
Blaze's expression darkened. "Try again, and I'll put your name on every camera I've got. You want the shadows? Stay in them. But don't step into my light."
They stared at each other.
Then Harrow stepped back and raised a glass. "To independence. It rarely lasts."
---
By the next morning, Blaze's confrontation had gone viral.
Someone had caught it on a phone—posted it with the caption: "Real one doesn't flinch."
The clip trended. Donations flooded into his project. A local studio offered free production for The Roar. Independent fighters reached out, asking to join his movement.
And the factory by Dockside? Bought anonymously. Deed delivered to Blaze with a note:
"Let it rise."
Zion showed it to him with a grin.
"Looks like someone out there believes."
Blaze folded the deed carefully.
"Then it's time we give them something to believe in."
---