Summer pressed heavy on the city like a warning. The air was thick with exhaust and sweat, and Zion Cole walked through it like he owned the atmosphere. He wore the same clean-cut jacket, dark and quiet, with Blaze trailing behind like a storm yet to strike.
Things were changing. Quickly.
Blaze's name had been whispered on two local sports stations, shouted in a barbershop video that made it onto TikTok, and passed around in the DMs of regional promoters. It was all noise for now, but Zion knew how to sculpt noise into narrative.
"People don't follow fighters," he told Blaze as they entered a community center gym on 49th. "They follow stories. Heroes. Monsters. Choose what you want to be before they choose for you."
The gym was rundown, all peeling paint and cracked mirrors, but the energy inside was raw. A local promoter had invited Zion to scout a few amateur fighters—his way of courting favor. Zion accepted, not because he needed new talent, but because he wanted everyone to see him watching.
Blaze worked pads in the corner. Zion watched him between bouts, critiquing from a distance, giving nods only when deserved. Other fighters noticed. Some asked about training. One dared to challenge Blaze to spar. Zion waved it off.
"He's not here for scraps. He's here for the throne."
Outside, under flickering streetlights, a man approached. Slim suit, shark eyes, gold tooth. He introduced himself as Rico Lane—a recruiter for a regional tournament. The kind that launched contenders if played right.
"We like Blaze. He's raw, but the crowd's hungry for that. We've got slots next quarter. Real money. Real eyes."
Zion's response was calm. "Send the details to my line."
Inside, he was already three steps ahead.
Rule #9: Never grab a deal. Let it circle you, then squeeze.
Back at their training ground, Zion intensified Blaze's regimen. Not just physical—mental. He brought in a chess board, made Blaze play before sparring. Taught him how to read opponents like opening books.
"Every punch is a trade. Know your economy."
He also introduced Blaze to Vic's old friend—an ex-fighter named Reggie who now taught breathing techniques and ring psychology. Blaze resisted at first. Then he learned to pace his heart.
The days blurred into sweat and strategy. Zion pushed hard but never wasted effort. He cut training into phases: footwork and balance, angles and pressure, countering off instinct. They filmed every round, studied frame by frame.
Zion treated Blaze's rise like a hostile takeover.
Then came the whisper. Malcolm Price. A name like a loaded weapon. Undefeated. Unreachable. Recently returned from hiatus.
Zion heard the name at three different gyms and one late-night bar.
"You hear he's back?"
"They say he's training underground."
"Price don't lose. He retires people."
Zion listened. And he smiled.
Because every king needs a storm.
He waited until Blaze had cooled off from sparring.
"Remember the name Malcolm Price. He's the mountain we'll climb."
Blaze hesitated. "Think I can take him?"
Zion closed the notebook.
"Not today. But we don't need today. We just need the climb."
Rule #10: Chase no one. Make them chase your shadow.
In the silence of his apartment that night, Zion lit a candle. He didn't pray. He planned. His wall was covered in schedules, fight breakdowns, scouting reports. Lines connected names and venues and timelines. Blaze wasn't just a fighter—he was a piece in a wider puzzle.
That week, Zion arranged an underground bout not listed in any league—just a circle of muscle and smoke behind a warehouse near Belmont Avenue. Blaze entered masked, anonymous. The crowd cheered without even knowing his name. He fought a towering brute with reach and weight, and won with a combination that looked like chaos but had been drilled for weeks.
No headlines. No trophies. Just whispers. The kind Zion liked.
Later that night, Zion was approached by a man he didn't recognize. Clean shoes. Rough voice.
"You're Zion. You're the one moving Blaze like a chess piece."
Zion didn't respond.
"You keep pushing," the man said, "you're gonna attract attention you can't duck."
Zion waited, measured him. "Good. I'm tired of shadows."
The man scoffed and walked off, leaving behind the scent of expensive liquor and thin threats.
The next morning, Blaze showed signs of doubt. His strikes were slow. Focus dulled.
"You okay?" Zion asked.
Blaze didn't look up. "What if I'm just hype? Just another name in lights for a minute?"
Zion sat across from him. "Then prove yourself wrong. You bleed. You breathe. You wake up. That's power. Nobody hands out crowns. We build the throne."
Blaze nodded, and the switch flipped again.
Zion made a note.
Rule #11: When your fighter doubts, lend him your fire.
By the end of the month, Blaze was on every gym wall in the form of printed flyers. A sponsored bout loomed. And one night, Blaze asked a question Zion had waited for:
"Do you think I'll be remembered?"
Zion's answer was simple. "Only if we write our own ending."
And they would.
Because echo doesn't come from sound. It comes from something solid enough to bounce off of.
And Zion Cole was building concrete.