They chant my name like it belongs to them.
Xeus.
It rolls from the crowd in waves—sticky, breathless, hungry. I keep my head down as I move through the corridor toward the ring, the smell of sweat and disinfectant clinging to the walls. The lights overhead hum, fluorescent and relentless, flickering just enough to remind me I'm alive. My gloves are already on. Red. Taped tight enough to make my knuckles ache. Pain is a reminder. Pain keeps me present.
Someone slaps my back. Someone else shoves a microphone toward my mouth. I fake the smile that has become muscle memory. If I stop smiling, they start asking questions. Questions I don't have answers to. Not truly.
Inside the arena, the lights bloom white and cruel. The ring sits like an altar, ropes gleaming, canvas clean in a way that feels dishonest. Clean never lasts.
"Six-time champion!" the announcer roars. The belts glitter somewhere behind me, locked away, heavy with memory. Thirty fights. One loss. One draw. Numbers are safer than faces.
The bell hasn't rung yet.
That's when it happens.
A flicker. A tightening behind my eyes, like the world inhaling.
I see him step left.
It's not a guess. Not instinct. It arrives fully formed—his shoulder dipping, his right hand twitching, the feint that pulls you into range. I see it the way you see lightning before thunder reaches your ears.
I close my eyes.
"Breathe," my coach says, close enough that I can smell coffee on his breath. "You're good. You're ready."
I nod. I don't tell him what I saw. I never do.
When the bell rings, time loosens.
My opponent—Adebayo, southpaw, heavy jab—comes forward exactly as the vision promised. Step left. Shoulder dip. Feint. I'm already moving before his glove leaves his chin. My counter lands clean, the sound sharp as a snapped branch. The crowd erupts.
They think it's speed.
It isn't.
It's knowledge.
Between rounds, my heart hammers like it wants out of my chest. Seeing always costs me something. A dull pressure settles behind my eyes, a warning ache that reminds me the Sight isn't a tool—it's a transaction. Every glimpse comes with a price. Every foresight leaves a mark. I sip water. My hands shake. The noise of the crowd turns distant, as if I'm underwater.
"Beautiful work," my coach says. "Keep breaking him down."
I don't answer. I'm watching Adebayo across the ring, watching the way he breathes through his mouth now, the way doubt has crept into his stance. He doesn't know it yet, but I've already seen how this ends.
The vision comes again.
A slip. A hook. His knee buckles.
I flinch.
The second round starts. I follow the path laid out in my head. Slip. Hook. His knee buckles. He goes down. The count is academic. The belt is inevitable. The crowd roars like they've witnessed a miracle. Cameras flash. Somewhere, my name is turning into a headline.
Xeus the Great.
But in the locker room, the roar drains away like a tide pulling from the shore. I peel off my gloves and stare at my hands. They're steady now. Calm after the storm. I should feel triumphant. Instead, a cold unease settles in my gut.
Every time I see the future, it feels closer.
Not the future of belts and applause.
The other one.
The one I don't talk about.
My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number.
How long do you think you can keep cheating time?
I stare at the screen until it goes dark.
Outside, they're chanting again. My name, my name, my name. I stand, roll my shoulders, and put the smile back on.
The bell has rung.
But the real fight hasn't started yet.
Back in the arena, the fight resumes. My opponent's movements grow more desperate. He's fast, hungry, his jab sharp—but I've already seen the paths his body will take. The Sight doesn't just show punches anymore; it shows intentions, patterns, tendencies, the microsecond before choice becomes action.
Step left. Shoulder dip. Hook over the top. I anticipate. I move. I counter. The punches rain, but I flow around them. It's not skill. It's foresight distilled into instinct, a premonition I carry in my bones.
Round by round, I feel the weight of every vision. Each one leaves a residue behind my eyes, a faint pulse of dread, a reminder that knowledge carries responsibility. I'm not just fighting Adebayo. I'm fighting every possibility that could unfold in the next second, the next minute. I'm fighting the truth of what I've seen.
By the fourth round, I notice something new. My opponent is beginning to adapt—not fast enough, not precise enough, but he's learning. He hesitates where he shouldn't, shifts where he shouldn't. He's aware I'm seeing him, and now he's trying to hide.
I smile under my gloves. Finally. A challenge. A test. The Sight has always been partial, selective—but now, I rely not on visions alone. I rely on training, on memory, on instincts honed through sweat, blood, and pain.
Then, a slip. A feint. A flicker in the corner of my eye. My heart stalls.
It's the moment I was waiting for.
I counter. Uppercut. Hook. Knockdown.
The arena explodes. Cameras flash. Fans rise from their seats. But I barely notice them. I focus on his eyes. The flicker of pain, the doubt, the human beneath the gloves. The reality of the fight.
He rises. I rise. The bell rings. And for a moment, silence.
Inside me, a revelation. I have fought without the Sight, and I have survived. I have endured, not because of visions, but because of preparation, instinct, and awareness.
Later, in the locker room, blood and sweat mixed across my skin, I sit alone. My hands are wrapped again, the tape sticky against my knuckles. Ice presses against my ribs. My phone buzzes—a new message.
Good. You're learning. The ring always tells the truth.
I look at the belt. Six-time champion, they'll say. But tonight, I know something else. Tonight, I fought without magic. Tonight, I relied on myself.
You don't need to see the future to survive it.
You just need to be ready to fight it.
And for the first time in years, I feel like I am.