POV: Narrator
The auditorium, usually alive with bouncing echoes and scattered voices, fell into a hush so sudden it might have been scripted.
Two boys. Two legends.
And one ring between them.
Zion stood in one corner — calm, unflinching, tying his black belt like it was just another day.
Kevin in the other — eyes burning, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths.
They bowed.
The match began.
From the very first second, it was clear: Zion wasn't in a rush.
Every movement he made was calculated but effortless, like a lion pacing around prey that hadn't realized it was already dead. Kevin attacked with force — jabs, rushes, feints. Sharp technique. Desperate energy.
But Zion?
He danced.
Dodged. Slipped. Parried.
With one arm behind his back at times.
And when he did strike, it was slow. Precise. Measured.
Not because he couldn't finish it fast — but because he wouldn't.
The crowd leaned in as the scoreboard began to tell the story.
1-0.
Zion lands a spinning back kick, smooth as silk.
2-0.
A sweep — Kevin on the mat, scowling.
3-0.
Counter. Perfectly timed.
4-0.
He ducks under Kevin's roundhouse and tags his ribs.
5-0.
Push kick. Kevin stumbles.
6-0.
Elbow tap, another trip.
And then —
7-0.
The final point: a slow-motion side kick that landed so squarely, Kevin's mouthguard flew.
But it wasn't just the score.
It was how it happened.
Kevin tried everything. Dirty tricks — faint limp to draw pity, feigned stumble to bait Zion close, even a near-illegal elbow hidden behind a spin.
Zion saw it all coming. As if he had rehearsed this fight months ago.
He countered Kevin's schemes like he'd lived them before. Not reacting — anticipating.
As if someone had already told him exactly what Kevin would try.
From the edge of the ring, Mabelle watched in absolute silence. No gasp. No shift. Just eyes — locked on Zion, as if nothing else existed.
And he knew.
He knew she was watching.
Every blow was for her. Every dodge was a whisper:
I am already ahead.
You cannot win this.
There was a half-smile on Zion's face by the fourth point.
By the sixth, he didn't even bother to hide it.
And when the final whistle blew, he didn't raise his fist. Didn't celebrate.
He just bowed, picked up his towel, and walked off like nothing happened.
Not a scratch on him.
Kevin stood in the center of the ring — still panting, chest aching, pride shattered into elegant shards that no one saw but him.
The crowd clapped politely.
But the silence inside Kevin's head was deafening.