Chapter 6 — Unexpected
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"Kid," Victor said with a faint grin, "let's have a match."
The roar of the crowd dulled into a hum. The neon light above the ring flickered as Xen blinked, unsure if he'd heard right.
Victor — the Night City boxing legend, the man whose fists were still whispered about in underground rings — was now standing across from him, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp with excitement.
For over half an hour, Victor had been sitting in the stands, watching Xen flatten one opponent after another. He'd seen exhaustion gnaw at the kid's body, seen the sweat pool around his feet — and yet, that final knockout had been perfect.
A single heavy punch that shattered every underdog's fantasy in the room.
Even Victor had to admit — it made his heart race.
He hadn't expected Xen to still have enough power to pull off a punch like that. Watching it ignited something in him, something he hadn't felt in years — the pure thrill of competition.
And now, that fire demanded release.
---
"It's not a real match," Victor clarified, raising a hand to calm the crowd's excitement. "Just one round. For fun. I'll only defend — no attacks. You land three clean points, you win."
Up in the stands, the Fixer grinned, teeth glinting in the light. "Oh, this is perfect," he whispered. "The legend descends. The kid gets his spotlight. The people eat this stuff up."
But Victor wasn't thinking about spectacle or sales. For him, boxing was sacred — flesh, will, and spirit clashing in honest rhythm.
He'd seen Xen's skill, his raw intelligence, his instinct to read and adapt.
Now, he wanted to test his will. To see what burned behind those eyes.
---
Xen wiped the sweat from his brow, taking a slow drink from his bottle before answering.
"Alright," he said, deliberately cocky. "If the Boxing Champion's giving me the honor, I can't refuse."
The crowd roared approval. Xen played along, tapping his gloves together and tossing his towel aside. He needed to keep up the bad boy act the Fixer had written for him — arrogant, bold, reckless.
But behind that mask, his mind was already analyzing.
Three points.
Three clean hits on the Champion.
Victor wouldn't attack — only defend.
That meant Xen had one narrow window: attack fast, keep the pace, and never let him adapt.
He glanced up toward the Fixer's booth. The Fixer was already recording with his cyber-eye, no doubt planning the media package: The Bad Boy's Redemption.
The script was clear — Victor would humble him, teach him respect, and the story would sell like fire.
Xen smirked. Then let's rewrite the ending.
---
The bell rang.
Xen lunged first.
Victor barely shifted. His elbow angled upward, absorbing the impact cleanly. No flinch, no stumble — just perfect defense.
The kid was fast, but Victor had been defending against faster. Still, he noted something: the punch came with intent, not desperation.
"Good move," Victor said quietly, sidestepping another jab. "But speed alone won't cut it."
Xen didn't answer. He was too busy studying the rhythm — Victor's shoulders, his stance, the subtle shift of his weight.
The man was a wall, but a moving one — fluid, calm, impenetrable.
Victor's smile widened. "You've studied the greats, haven't you? I can see it — Mayweather's shell, Ali's rhythm, Tyson's burst. But you don't feel it yet. You imitate too perfectly."
Each time Xen threw a left, Victor's arm moved first. Each time Xen leaned right, Victor had already rotated his core.
It was like the champion could see the future.
Frustration bit at Xen's nerves. The techniques he'd absorbed through the Blueprint system — the skills of dozens of champions — weren't working. Against Victor, they were useless.
He's reading me. Predicting me before I even move.
---
"You're too clean," Victor said, blocking another hit. "Boxing's not ballet, kid. You gotta make it dirty sometimes."
The crowd laughed. Xen grit his teeth.
Fine. If classic boxing didn't work, maybe it was time for something less… pure.
He stepped back and triggered a silent command.
> [Lightweight brass knuckles produced.]
A faint shimmer flickered over his gloves. Thin, metallic layers formed beneath the padding — undetectable by the naked eye, light enough not to slow him down.
Xen smirked. You said make it dirty, right?
He lunged again, this time feinting high. His right fist blurred toward Victor's jaw, only to curve mid-air into a wide, looping hook.
Victor moved to block the wrong side — and Xen's left jab shot straight into his ribs.
"Good hit!" Victor barked, grinning despite the impact. "Now that's a surprise."
The crowd roared approval. Even the Fixer leaned forward, cyber-eye glowing brighter. "That's it, kid! That's the angle!"
Xen didn't stop. He pressed forward, weaving between stances, mixing real techniques with street brawler tricks — shoulder bumps, low feints, half-steps.
Every punch was unpredictable now. Every swing a little too wild for textbook defense.
Victor blocked the next one, but Xen followed through with a spinning backhand that clipped the older man's side.
> 2 points.
"Not bad," Victor said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Who taught you that? A back alley or a church basement?"
"Both," Xen shot back, panting. "You learn fast when rent's on the line."
Victor laughed, genuine this time. "I like that. Alright, show me the third."
---
The bell's ten-second warning rang.
Xen's lungs felt like they were on fire. Every nerve screamed. His knuckles burned under the weight of the metal inside his gloves.
He only had one shot left.
Victor adjusted his stance, anticipating another feint. His eyes glimmered with pride — the look of a teacher watching a student take his first real step into mastery.
"Come on, kid," he said softly. "Don't think. Just feel it."
Xen roared and charged. His punch tore through the air — no finesse, no trick, just raw willpower.
"Thwack!"
His glove struck Victor's abdomen with a crisp, echoing crack. The sound rang through the hall like a gunshot.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Victor looked down at the glove pressed against his stomach… and smiled.
"I didn't expect your last punch to still have so much power," he said warmly. "Good kid."
Before Xen could speak, Victor lifted the younger man's arm high, declaring to the crowd, "You won. Well done."
The arena exploded in noise — cheers, confusion, disbelief. The Fixer's laughter echoed above it all as camera drones swarmed in for close-ups.
---
Xen blinked, stunned. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest. "Wait… what?"
He hadn't really won. Victor had let him win.
The realization hit like a punch harder than any he'd taken tonight.
He threw the match.
The Fixer was ecstatic, already typing notes for the press release.
"The fallen champion passes the torch to the rising star."
The perfect headline. A perfectly marketable story.
Victor leaned close, his voice low so only Xen could hear. "Don't overthink it. Sometimes letting go is harder than holding on. You've got the fire, kid. Use it."
Xen stared at him, a dozen thoughts swirling in his head — gratitude, pride, resentment. "You didn't have to—"
"Yeah," Victor said softly, "I did. Night City needs someone to believe in again. Might as well be you."
---
The Fixer's voice rang out from the booth, louder than the cheering crowd. "That's it! That's our story! The Bad Boy Becomes the Champion!"
Xen turned toward the stands, his expression unreadable.
He wasn't sure what burned more — the exhaustion in his body, or the knowledge that the moment everyone would call his "victory" was a lie.
But as Victor patted his shoulder and the crowd chanted his name, something inside him shifted.
If they want a story… then I'll give them one.