The tournament was drawing closer—semi-finals. One match to determine everything. If he lost, it would all be over. No finals. No championship. No world stage. No legacy.
But this time, Alex wasn't just fighting for revenge anymore. He was chasing something far beyond vengeance against the bullies who once broke him. Now, he was fighting to become a champion. A name the world would know. A name his mother would hear being cheered in stadiums. A name she could be proud of.
Alex wanted his face on the banners. His gloves held high. His voice quoted in documentaries. He didn't just want victory—he wanted immortality.
He wanted to be a legend.
That week, he stopped going to school entirely. Not once did his mother complain. She understood. Her eyes, tired but filled with faith, told him she saw the man he was building himself into. Her boy was forging his own destiny.
He wanted to be chosen—not by luck or chance, but by pain, sweat, and sacrifice.
He wanted to be like his heroes. Mike Tyson. Muhammad Ali.
Day One. Sunday. 3:00 AM.
The air was cold. The streets were still. Everyone else in the city was asleep, but Alex was already running—shirtless, his breath visible in the dark. His legs burned, but he didn't care. He had a deal with the future. And pain was the price of greatness.
At the gym, Coach Ray was waiting.
"You're late," Ray said, but his lips twitched into a rare smile. He'd been waiting since 2:30.
Alex panted, sweat pouring down his back. "Just warming up."
That day was brutal. It wasn't training anymore—it was a war zone.
100 push-ups. 100 pull-ups—with 50 kg weight on his back. 100 squats with 500 kg. 100 bench presses with a loaded bar that could crush bones. And still, it wasn't over.
Then came boxing.
Punches. Movement. Counter. Defense. Dodge. Block. Jab. Slip. Weave. Spin.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Coach Ray didn't let him stop. No water. No sitting. No music. Just fists, footwork, and fury.
Alex's knuckles bled. His legs trembled. His lungs screamed.
By 4:00 PM, Ray told him to jog to the park.
"But—" Alex couldn't speak. His voice was gone.
Ray didn't repeat himself.
So Alex ran.
He ran while the sun dipped low behind the trees. He ran until children disappeared from playgrounds. He ran until streetlights blinked on and shadows stretched.
By 9:00 PM, he collapsed on a bench beside the river. The world was quiet.
Ray sat down next to him, silently.
They watched the river flow.
"Think you can handle this every day?" Ray asked without looking at him. "You think this path is really yours?"
Alex was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. "Today felt like I met death. Like I stared him in the face. But I also saw the future. And I liked it."
Ray chuckled softly. But his eyes glistened.
"You know I won't be around forever," Ray said. "This might be the last student I train. You."
"I know," Alex said, voice low. "But if you go, I'll chase you. Anywhere. Across cities. Across oceans. If I have to walk the whole world barefoot to find you again, I will."
Ray looked away, wiping his eyes.
The Week Unfolded
Every day was harder than the one before. Muscles tore and healed. Blood mixed with sweat. Dreams mixed with nightmares.
But something strange happened.
Alex grew stronger. Faster. Smarter.
He didn't just punch harder—he punched with purpose. With poise. With precision.
Coach Ray barely said anything by Friday. He just watched Alex move. His eyes spoke everything: You've grown.
Saturday Night. The Park.
It was silent again. Just like Day One.
Alex was crying.
Not from pain—but from everything else.
He didn't want to say goodbye.
Ray sat beside him again.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
Alex wiped his tears, lips trembling. "I don't wanna lose you."
"You won't," Ray said. "You'll carry me in every punch you throw. You'll see me every time you look at your reflection in the gloves. You became what I hoped. No… you became more."
They sat like that in silence.
Just like father and son.
Sunday. The Arena. Match Day.
Alex searched every hallway, every corner. No Coach Ray.
His chest was heavy.
Then, he saw Jack—his senior, his role model.
"What are you looking for?" Jack asked.
"Coach Ray," Alex said, voice flat. "He's not here."
Jack nodded. "No. He's not. But he's watching you. Even if you don't see him. Now go show the world what he made."
Alex breathed in.
Something in him snapped awake.
No more fear.
No more sadness.
Only fire.
The Match Begins
Announcer's voice thundered across the arena.
"On the right corner, from Long Arm Gym… Abdullah!"
"And on the left… ALEX, the Rising Storm!"
As the bell rang, time seemed to slow.
Alex saw the jab.
He dodged it. Fluid. Calm.
Then a hook. He slipped past.
Then a flurry of punches. He danced.
Turtle shell defense like Tyson. Footwork like Ali.
He was untouchable.
And then he struck.
Left hook to the ribs. Uppercut to the jaw.
Then ten punches in one second.
Boom-boom-boom!
Abdullah hit the canvas.
Out cold.
"KO! Emergency—he's not breathing!" the ref yelled.
Alex froze.
Did I just kill him?
The crowd went silent.
Then chaos.
Later. The Medical Room.
Alex walked in, hands shaking.
"Abdullah…?"
The boy stirred. "Yeah? What you want?"
"I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go that far."
Abdullah blinked. Then laughed. "Man, I thought you were gonna mock me. But you came to say sorry? You're something else. I thought I saw death too. But hey, I'm still here."
They laughed. A strange, powerful laugh. Brothers of war.
Alex stepped out.
He looked at the arena again.
The crowd was still buzzing.
The final match awaited.
But something had already changed in him.
He wasn't chasing vengeance anymore.
He was chasing greatness.
And it was chasing him back.