Sitting down, Stephen finally let the adrenaline fade from his system, and with it came a wave of reflection he hadn’t expected. The roar of the crowd was gone now, muffled behind the ringing in his ears, and all he could hear was the heavy, steady rhythm of his own breathing. The after-effects of the fight were catching up to him , the burning in his knuckles, the trembling in his fingertips , but what weighed on him more was the thought of his Vow .
He stared down at his hands, rotating his wrist slowly.
This power... this speed... I only unlocked it because of that Vow.
It hadn’t been an easy thing to create, not like Max or Na who seemed to figure theirs out much faster. Even he, while helping Joe search for the right words and the right emotion to anchor a Vow, hadn’t truly understood what his own should be.
What could he possibly value enough to sacrifice?
What was something he cared about so deeply it could stay lodged in his heart like a splinter , always there, always reminding him why he had taken this step?
Nothing had seemed right at first. Every idea he considered felt shallow, incomplete, or simply not enough. So, out of desperation, he had turned inward , back through his memories, back through the winding path that had brought him here.
Like Joe, Stephen had never been good at studying. In school he wasn’t the kid teachers praised or the one who excelled at anything academic. Instead, he used his fists , not because he liked fighting, but because trouble always seemed to come to him. He wasn’t part of any gang, wasn’t trying to act tough. He simply kept to himself, a lone wolf, and for some reason that made him a target.
It became routine: one day two kids would pick a fight, the next day it was three, and soon enough there would be a group from another school wanting to test themselves against "the tough guy who fought alone." Stephen hated it, hated the constant pressure, but what could he do? He had no one to turn to.
Then came the coincidence , or miracle , that changed everything.
A trainer, a man Stephen had never met before, had stepped in during one of his fights, scattering the attackers with surprising ease.
"I can’t stand watching a group gang up on one person," the man had said, brushing dirt off Stephen’s shoulder. "You’ve got good instincts, kid, but instincts alone won’t save you forever."
Stephen had muttered a quiet "thanks," believing that even this wouldn’t change anything. The beatings, the challenges , they would continue. They always did.
But the trainer didn’t leave.
"If you’re going to keep fighting anyway," he said, "why don’t I teach you how to actually use those fists? And if you find a hobby , something that gives you purpose , maybe the streets won’t swallow you whole."
Stephen didn’t know why he agreed, but he followed the man to the boxing gym. That place became his refuge, his second world. The trainer taught him everything: footwork, discipline, how to read an opponent, how to live like a real fighter. And for the first time in his life, Stephen felt like he belonged somewhere.
The kids at school noticed the difference almost instantly. The ones who bullied him before didn’t dare approach him. Some even stopped coming near him entirely. And the day a large group tried to jump Stephen outside the gym, the boxing club came out together , moving like a family, protecting him without hesitation. Nobody wanted trouble with them , and nobody wanted trouble with Stephen anymore.
For the first time, he had people he trusted. Or at least, he thought he did.
He trained for years, fought his way through amateur leagues, built a reputation. He wasn’t charismatic, he wasn’t flashy, but he was undefeated. Boxing became his world. His passion. His identity. He had one dream , to become a world champion.
But the world of boxing was not what he hoped it would be.
His style wasn’t showy. He didn’t dance around the ring or taunt opponents. Interviews made him nervous, and crowds didn’t consider him exciting. People called his matches "boring." Promoters didn’t want him. Big clubs ignored him. Even his own trainer, the man he once admired, told him the truth bluntly:
"You’re good, Stephen. Maybe too good. But you can’t sell tickets. And in this world, nobody gets a title shot if they can’t sell tickets."
Stephen swallowed that bitter truth and continued fighting anyway. What else could he do? Boxing was all he had.
Then came the opportunity he’d been waiting for , a stepping-stone match against a rising star. The opponent was loud, charismatic, undefeated, and already attracting massive attention. The promoters wanted him to rise quickly through the ranks, and the perfect way to test him was against someone like Stephen.
Someone dependable.
Someone consistent.
Someone undefeated... but not flashy enough to be protected.
The match was announced. Fans were excited. Stephen trained harder than ever.
But before the official date, men in suits came to his gym.
The look in their eyes told him everything before they even spoke.
"You want me to... lose the match? On purpose?"
He remembered asking that question with a dry mouth and clenched jaw. The room had gone silent. The request hung in the air like a foul smell. That was the moment Stephen truly understood how dirty the boxing world could be.
How everything he worked for — all the pain, all the victories, all the dreams — could be reduced to nothing more than a transaction.
That was the moment he learned that loyalty, family, and passion meant little in the face of money and manipulation. What he didn’t know were things were about to get a lot worse because of a decision he had made.
****
*****
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