Mornings came hard, but Zion welcomed the grind.
Blaze would show up half-awake, grumbling about the cold or how his shoulders ached, but he always showed up. Zion never commented. He just held out the gloves, unspoken code that the day had begun.
They ran the same drills over and over. Footwork until the floorboards complained. Bag work until Blaze's knuckles barked. Combos until his arms drooped and he felt like collapsing.
But Zion saw the edge sharpening.
Between rounds, Zion didn't talk about boxing. He talked about business. Legacy. Chess moves. He mapped out not just victories, but leverage.
"You want to win?" he said once, handing Blaze water. "You have to become a story people want to watch. Then a brand they can't ignore."
Blaze squinted. "I thought this was about fighting."
Zion chuckled. "Fighting is easy. Domination is architecture."
He had a plan: three local fights in the next eight weeks. One for recognition. One for respect. One to ignite rumors.
Each fight had a purpose. The first was a warm-up—a glorified street brawl in a makeshift ring behind an auto shop. Blaze moved like a shadow and punched like thunder. His opponent didn't make it out of the second round.
The second fight was against a gym favorite. Bigger. Slicker. Blaze bled early, took hits that rattled his vision, but stayed in the pocket. In the fifth round, he found the liver. The crowd stood before the ref did.
That night, Zion didn't celebrate. He reviewed footage, pausing Blaze's missteps.
"You hesitated after the third jab. Why?"
"Didn't think it'd land."
"You don't throw punches to hope. You throw to decide."
He opened the notebook.
Rule #7: Doubt is a luxury. Eliminate it.
The third fight was different. A last-minute substitution. A veteran, lean and mean, with scars in his eyes. Blaze didn't dominate—he survived. Won by decision. But he learned.
And more importantly, people noticed.
An underground blog wrote about him. A fight promoter reached out. A sports photographer sent over shots for free.
Zion started dressing different. Cleaner. Sharper. No chains, just polish. Perception was armor.
He took Blaze to local events. Made him shake hands with retired fighters. Told him when to smile, when to nod, when to disappear.
"You want to be king?" Zion said. "You gotta look the part before you claim the crown."
The buzz grew. Kids in the gym mimicked Blaze's footwork. Some asked Zion to coach them. He refused.
"Not yet," he told Vic. "I'm building proof first."
And behind it all, he kept writing.
Rule #8: Hype fades. Presence echoes.
Zion wasn't chasing spotlight. He was orchestrating momentum.
Because in the shadows, he had seen the real world: the backroom deals, the empty promises, the men who wore suits like masks. He'd been betrayed once by people who smiled while stealing his time.
Never again.
Now, he would script every step.
And Blaze would be the opening chapter of a legacy no one could erase.