The arena, a coliseum of raw human energy, roared around me. Not a single sound, but a tidal wave of noise, a crashing crescendo of cheers and boos that seemed to shake the very foundations of the domed stadium. It was a primal symphony, each voice a thread in a frenzied tapestry that vibrated through the air, through the ground beneath my feet, and deep within my bones. Above this deafening chorus, the announcer’s voice cut through, a sharp, amplified blade of sound.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! First, fighting out of the red corner!” His words boomed with a practiced, almost theatrical cadence, each syllable dripping with anticipation. “A mixed martial artist with a professional record of eighteen wins, one loss—Leopold ‘The Berserker’ Armstrong!”

  A fresh surge of noise erupted, a turbulent mix of adoration and animosity. Leopold stepped forward, his face a mask of chiseled stone, his eyes – dark, intense – smoldering with an unwavering, almost terrifying resolution. His massive frame seemed to suck the air from the arena, emanating a quiet, potent menace. Every measured step he took towards the center of the octagon was a silent promise of ruin, a declaration of intent that needed no words.

  “And now,” the announcer’s voice escalated, swelling with a palpable, infectious excitement, “FIGHTING OUT OF THE BLUE CORNER! The reigning, defending, undisputed, undefeated champion of the BFC lightweight division—Nikolai ‘The King’ Volkov!”

  The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous, explosive. A white-hot wave of frenzy washed over me, the sheer volume an almost physical force pressing in from all sides. Standing under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the octagon lights, I simply absorbed it, letting the chaotic energy surge and recede. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, heavy beat, not from fear, but from the crushing weight of everything this moment represented – the culmination of years, the hopes and expectations of so many, the solitary burden of the undefeated. Across the octagon, Leopold’s gaze locked onto mine, a steady, unyielding challenge that spoke volumes in its silent intensity.

  I knew that look. It was the same one I’d seen before, in the fleeting moments before I had shattered his world with a single right hook, stealing his pride, his title, his very sense of self. But now, seeing him standing there again, his will unbroken, his gaze unwavering, a sobering realization dawned. This wasn’t just about the belt to him. This was personal. This was payback.

  The referee stepped between us, his presence a rigid, impartial line drawn in the sand. “Red fighter, are you ready?” Leopold gave a single, sharp nod, his massive shoulders rolling back as if shedding the last vestiges of doubt or hesitation.

  “Blue fighter, are you ready?” The question, directed at me, seemed to cut through the lingering tension. I forced a nod, a tightness blooming in my chest, a strange, electric hum of anticipation and trepidation.

  The referee’s arm shot upward, a signal understood by every soul in the stadium. “Fighters, fight!”

  In an instant, the space between us evaporated. We closed the distance, our eyes locked in an unspoken declaration of war. The first exchange was a cautious dance, a feeling-out process. Every movement was measured, every feint a subtle probe, searching for the smallest crack in the other’s defense. Then, in a heartbeat, the rhythm shattered. Leopold exploded forward, his jab a piston, a blurring slug aimed at my face. I slipped sideways, the air whistling past my ear, countering with a double jab that snapped his head back. A straight right followed, but he flowed beneath it with the effortless grace of water, his body a blur of motion.

  The world outside the octagon ceased to exist, shrinking to nothing but the chain-link walls and the storm of our combat. Every second stretched into an eternity, every strike, every counterstrike, a brutal, visceral exchange of wills. A dangerous swell of confidence surged through me. Too much confidence.

  He threw another jab, a familiar pattern. A distraction. The feint came a split second later, a subtle shift designed to draw my weight to the right. I reacted, shifting as he expected – and saw it too late. His left leg arced through the air with blinding speed, a devastating scythe aimed directly at my head.

  No. Not like this. Not… this early.

  A sickening crack. Then, silence. Oblivion.

  Sterile white walls swam into a hazy, indistinct focus. The low hum of hospital machinery provided a droning, monotonous soundtrack to my returning consciousness. My head pulsed with a dull, relentless ache, a persistent drumbeat against my skull. As the fragmented pieces of memory began to reassemble, slotting back into place with painful clarity, the crushing weight of realization settled over me like a suffocating shroud.

  “You were fighting for your championship belt,” a soft voice said when I finally managed to croak out a question. The nurse’s face, framed by a halo of light, was a mask of gentle kindness, yet her words landed like a final, devastating blow. “You lost.”

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  The rest of her explanation faded into a hazy, meaningless drone. Lost. The single word echoed in the hollow chamber of my skull, a never-ending reverberation. Years of relentless training, of sacrifice, of pushing my body and mind to their absolute limits – all undone in a matter of seconds. Thirteen seconds, to be precise. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  I sat in the sterile confines of the hospital bed, my phone heavy in my hand. Against my better judgment, against every instinct screaming at me to look away, I opened the NowTube app. The headline was everywhere, screaming from every corner of the screen: Nikolai "The King" Volkov Knocked Out in 13 Seconds by Leopold Armstrong. The thumbnail was a damning image – my own body sprawled lifelessly on the canvas, Leopold roaring in triumph above me, a victor standing over the fallen.

  I clicked the video, a morbid fascination holding me captive, unable to tear my eyes away. The fight played out in brutal, unforgiving clarity. Every moment I had believed I was in control, every subtle shift and feint, I watched Leopold dismantle with chilling precision. The final kick, the one that had stolen my consciousness and my title, replayed in agonizing slow motion, the sound of the impact a haunting echo in the quiet room.

  The comment section was a battleground, a digital arena mirroring the one I had just left. My loyal fans mourned my sudden, unexpected fall; my critics gloated, their words sharp and unforgiving. One comment, in particular, seemed to burn itself into my mind: "13 seconds is all it took to end the so-called King."

  Deep inside, beneath the layers of pain and disbelief, the shame burned hotter, deeper.

  Hours later, the familiar, quiet stillness of my apartment greeted me like a physical presence, a tidal wave of silence that crashed against my ears. I slumped onto the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort, my mind replaying the fight, dissecting every movement, every mistake, over and over again.

  The sudden buzz of my phone shattered the stillness. Jose Martinez. My coach. His name flashed on the screen, a reminder of another failure. “Hey, Niko,” Jose’s voice, sharp and clipped, came through the receiver. “Why didn’t you tell us you were out of the hospital?”

  “I—” The word caught in my throat.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. “I told you not to take that fight. You’re the champ, Niko, not some scrub. Well… you were the champ. And you ignored the game plan. We reviewed the footage. Leo telegraphed that head kick from a mile away! Now our team’s a joke. Anything to say for yourself?”

  I swallowed hard, the shame crawling into my tone, making it thick and heavy. “Coach, I… I shouldn’t have taken the fight. I should’ve listened to you, but—”

  “’What’s done is done,’ huh?” His voice turned icy, each word a chip of frozen stone. “You know what? We’re done too. Don’t come back.”

  The line went dead.

  I lowered the phone slowly, staring blankly at the opposite wall. What had happened to me? I had always been the picture of calm, of calculated precision in the octagon. But somewhere along the way, arrogance had crept in, clouding my judgment, blinding me to the risks.

  Now, the silence in the apartment felt absolute. I really was alone.

  A piercing scream ripped through the stillness of the night, shattering the fragile peace.

  I sat up with a jolt, my senses instantly on high alert. Mrs. Gable. My elderly neighbor. Her voice, thin and laced with terror, was unmistakable. Without a second thought, driven by an instinct far older and deeper than any training, I was on my feet and running towards her apartment door. It was ajar, a dark, ominous rectangle in the dimly lit hallway. Inside, a masked figure stood over the slumped, bloody form of Mrs. Gable, a knife gleaming wickedly in his hand.

  The old lady lay still, a dark pool spreading beneath her. In the corner of the room, huddled together, sat her daughter and granddaughter, their faces contorted in abject terror, their eyes wide and reflecting the horror unfolding before them.

  The masked man turned towards me, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

  Adrenaline surged through me, hot and electric. I charged, a primal roar tearing from my throat, tackling him to the ground. My elbows became pistons, smashing against his face, desperation fueling every strike. He thrashed wildly beneath me, a cornered animal. And then I felt it – a sharp, searing pain across my throat.

  Warm, sticky blood welled up, pouring from the wound, my strength draining away with every beat of my heart. But I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not with them watching.

  Using the last vestiges of my strength, the final reserves of a lifetime of combat, I jabbed my thumbs into his eyes. He screamed, a raw, agonized sound, his body buckling, his resistance finally waning. I wrapped my hands around his neck, my fingers digging deep, squeezing tight, ignoring the black spots that danced at the edges of my vision, threatening to swallow me whole.

  A sickening crack echoed in the small apartment.

  His body went limp beneath me, the struggle finally over.

  I turned my head, my vision dimming, towards the huddled figures of the mother and daughter. Their faces were petrified, frozen in a mask of shock and fear, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. I tried to offer a reassuring smile, a weak, probably bloody curve of my lips, but the darkness was closing in.

  At least… at least I managed to get them out. Perhaps, in the end, my life had amounted to something.

  My face smacked against the floor, the impact jarring, and then, blessedly, I was out cold.

  The next thing I knew, it was a sensation more than a sight. A feeling of rushing, of hurtling through some kind of tunnel, colors blurring by in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, and a distinct, growing brightness at the other end.

  The first thing I saw when my eyes finally opened was an endless expanse of brilliant, light blue sky.

  Where… where am I?