The arena smelled of sweat and fear.
Not the fear of losing. Not the fear of failing. The deeper, quieter fear of existence laid bare, raw and trembling beneath fluorescent lights and screaming fans. Every human in those stands carried their own hunger, their own need to witness greatness—or its collapse. And all of it pressed against me, pressing me toward the center of the ring like gravity.
The lights cut through smoke like searchlights, painting the canvas in harsh white. Shadows stretched across the ropes, across my opponent's body, across my own. Fans roared like a living beast, drunk on expectation, blind to what really mattered. Every chant of my name hit my chest like a drumbeat—constant, heavy, unavoidable.
This wasn't just another title defense. It wasn't another belt to collect or highlight reel to post. This fight had been scheduled by promoters, media, sponsors, and a crowd that expected perfection. There was no choice. I couldn't delay it. I couldn't hide. I couldn't turn away.
I touched my gloves, already taped and worn, feeling the rough edges bite into my skin. The calluses, the scabs, the memory of every punch I'd ever thrown—they all pressed back, reminding me of something I'd almost forgotten. My hands, my body, my mind—these were the only weapons I truly owned. The Sight had been gone for now, silent, absent.
For the first time, I realized something terrifying: sometimes the Sight doesn't show you what's coming. Sometimes it's absent because the lesson is in your hands—in your instincts, in your training, in the muscle memory built from sweat and pain.
Across the ring, my opponent waited. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. I had faced men like him before—fast, cunning, ruthless—but today, something was different. I didn't know what. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the fear threading through the air, thick enough to taste.
The bell rang.
He moved first.
My body reacted instinctively—not guided by visions, not by foresight, just reflex, just muscle memory, just training baked into my bones. Fists flew. I blocked a hook, countered a jab. The crowd roared. Cameras flashed. The announcer's voice blurred into noise. All I heard was the rhythm of fists and breath, the pulse of motion, the truth of the fight.
Time slowed—but not like a vision. Slow like focus. Slow like clarity born from fear. Every decision mattered. Every punch, every step, every breath was deliberate. Every swing carried consequence.
I felt the inevitability of every blow, but this time it didn't paralyze me. This time, I moved. This time, I survived.
Halfway through the third round, he landed a clean hook. My ribs screamed. Pain lanced sharp and immediate, white-hot and consuming. The Sight had stayed silent. No warning. No whispers. Nothing but raw, unforgiving reality. I stumbled back, bracing, tasting blood in my mouth. The crowd's roar became distant, muffled, irrelevant.
I survived.
Between rounds, Coach Musa grabbed my shoulder. His eyes didn't question. They reminded me.
"Trust yourself. Not the Sight. Not anyone. Just you."
I nodded. The words burned like fire in my chest. I swallowed and stepped back into the ring.
The fourth round began, and the rhythm of the fight became a conversation. Every punch was a sentence; every dodge, a reply. I read him in real time—not visions, not prophecy, not anything borrowed from the supernatural—just instincts, training, and raw observation.
I watched the tension in his shoulders. The shift of weight in his legs. The twitch in his eyes before a jab. His patterns weren't hidden, but I had to catch them, understand them instantly, react before his movements became punishment.
Then—a feint.
Just a fraction of a second of hesitation. A blink. Enough.
He struck.
And suddenly, the Sight returned—but not to warn me. Not to save me. This time, it was a teacher. I saw the trajectory. I saw the danger. I saw the gap where instinct alone would have failed.
I moved.
Counter. Uppercut. Knockdown.
The arena erupted.
He rose. I rose.
The bell rang, but the lesson didn't end. I had fought without the Sight for most of the fight, and I had survived. I had endured every swing, every feint, every jab without magical foresight. I had relied on what I'd built—the fighter I had trained to be.
The fifth and sixth rounds blurred into a rhythm, almost meditative, almost cruelly beautiful. Sweat poured, mixing with blood. Gloves burned. Every breath tore at my lungs. Every step was calculated.
And I realized something in that chaos: power is not given. Vision is not power. Control is power. Control over the body, the mind, the choices made in milliseconds when failure is immediate and total.
By the seventh round, the fight had become a dance of survival. Every punch I threw, every dodge I executed, felt sharper. More precise. More intentional. My opponent was good, ruthless, fast—but he was predictable to someone who could read instinct and intent, someone who had bled, who had feared, who had learned lessons the Sight could never teach alone.
By the eighth round, sweat stung my eyes. Blood trickled from a split brow. My ribs throbbed from hooks. Yet with every strike, every step, I grew more aware. More alive. The Sight had given me advantages once—but now, I was building them myself.
And then it happened—a moment so small, almost imperceptible. He overextended. A slight shift. A flash of intent that was mine to read.
I struck. Uppercut. Followed by a hook. The bell rang just after his knees buckled, but I knew the fight had ended before the referee's count.
The crowd screamed. They roared. Cameras flashed. Champions celebrated in their own way. But I barely heard them.
Inside, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: control. Choice. Power that wasn't borrowed from visions, but earned in real time, in the chaos of the ring. Sweat and blood mixed, pain sharpened every sense, and I was alive—not because the Sight had shown me, but because I had trusted myself.
Later, in the locker room, I sat with ice on my ribs, tape on my knuckles, my body aching from exertion. My phone buzzed. A new message.
Good. You're learning. The ring always tells the truth.
I looked down at the belt. Six-time champion, they'd say. But tonight, I knew something else. Tonight, the Sight was not my master. It was a teacher. A challenge. A shadow to measure against, not to rely on.
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 felt like I was.