The gym smelled like war. Not the polite, sanitized version the media described no trophies gleaming under soft light, no polished floors. This was iron and leather and sweat so thick it seemed to coat the walls. The air was heavy, damp, alive with the ghosts of every fighter who had come before Prince.
He moved through it like a shadow, gloves raised, fists slicing through the stale air. Each punch echoed off the walls, bouncing back, hitting him like whispers from the past.
Outside, London roared in quiet fury. Rain drummed against the roof again, tapping a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Steam rose from drains, curling around the windows, fogging the glass, blurring the world into watercolor streaks of yellow streetlights and black asphalt.
Prince circled the ring. Boots scraped against the worn canvas. He paused, flexing his fingers, imagining Ruiz across from him: jaw tight, eyes calculating, muscles coiled like a panther ready to spring. The ring was a kingdom. Every line in the canvas told a story. Every mark in the leather told of blood spilled, of hands lifted in triumph, of bodies broken and rebuilt.
Morgan moved behind the pads, his shadow stretching across the ring. The man's gray beard glinted under the dim fluorescent lights. His eyes never left Prince. The gym was empty except for the two of them, but in that emptiness, Prince felt the presence of everyone who had trained there, everyone who had fought and lost, everyone who had dreamed beyond the limits of the streets.
The pads slapped against his fists, a sharp punctuation in the heavy air. Jab, cross, hook. The sound vibrated in Prince's chest. Sweat poured down his temples, down his back, soaking into the black fabric of his hoodie. Every strike was a message: this body was a weapon. This mind was a fortress. This man was a storm.
He moved to the heavy bag next. Leather groaned under his fists. Each blow sent tremors up his arms, down his spine. His breath came in short, measured bursts, fogging in the cold air. Each hit left a mark on the bag, but also on him pain sharpening, focus hardening.
The mirror along the wall caught his reflection. Gloved fists raised, eyes dark, a thin sheen of blood and sweat on his brow. He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. In the mirror, he saw Ruiz, he saw Musa, he saw himself. All in one frame. All waiting. All demanding.
He ducked low, rolling under an imaginary hook. The canvas groaned beneath him. Each movement was precise, economy of motion honed through thousands of repetitions. The storm outside rattled the windows, the rain mixing with the sweat on his skin. He didn't notice. Couldn't. His body was alive in the present, each muscle attuned, each nerve screaming with awareness.
Morgan barked corrections. "Tighter guard! Turn your hips! Watch your angles!"
Prince absorbed them all. Each word a reminder, each correction a sword sharpening his mind as well as his body.
Then, the ropes snapped.
A misstep, a slight wobble. Prince caught himself, toes dragging against the canvas. He felt the tremor in his muscles. Pain blossomed, sharp, honest, demanding attention. He welcomed it. Pain never lied. People did.
He pivoted, striking the bag again, faster now, heavier. His knuckles burned. Muscles screamed. Each exhale was a battle. Each inhale, a promise.
Outside, the city blurred in the rain. Neon streaks cut across puddles like broken lightning. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, a distant voice crying. The world carried on, oblivious to the fight being built in this small gym. But Prince could feel it. Could feel the storm moving toward him. Ruiz. Musa. Everything he had worked for. Everything he had sacrificed. All of it converging on a single point.
The double-end bag swung wildly. Prince struck again and again. Jab. Cross. Uppercut. Each hit a spark, a flare, a testament. Sweat ran into his eyes, stung, but he didn't wipe it. He wanted it there, blinding him, sharpening him, forcing him to rely on instincts alone.
He moved to the speed bag. His hands became a blur. The rhythm was hypnotic, syncopated, perfect. Eyes narrowed, fists flying, shoulders rotating, hips twisting. The bag stung, barked, but never defeated him. Every rebound was a lesson: anticipation, timing, patience. Every beat of the bag synced with his heartbeat.
Hours passed like seconds. The gym's shadows grew long, stretching across the walls. The floorboards creaked, whispered secrets, recalled punches thrown and taken. Prince didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Each movement was ritual. Each strike a prayer.
Morgan leaned against the ropes, mug in hand, silent, observing, letting Prince dance with the storm he had built inside.
Prince stopped at the center of the ring. Gloves lifted. Sweat dripping, chest heaving, eyes locked on nothing. He imagined the bell. Felt it vibrate through the floor, through the air, through his chest. He imagined the crowd. Imagined the lights. Imagined Ruiz waiting, waiting for him to falter. Waiting for him to show fear. Waiting for him to break.
Prince would not break.
He dropped to the floor. Push-ups, rapid, punishing. Each movement precise, perfect. Muscles burning, lungs screaming. The storm inside him became physical, tangible, a living force he could shape, command, control.
He rose. Gloves back up. Shadowboxing. This time, the walls weren't mirrors. They were the faces of his enemies, the eyes of doubters, the ghosts of his past. Each punch carved through air, cutting illusions, cutting fear, cutting doubt.
The city outside changed light. The morning bled into afternoon. Sun broke through clouds in shards, glittering on wet asphalt. Rain dripping from the roof, onto the floor, into puddles. The gym became a world unto itself: timeless, sacred, brutal.
Prince's heartbeat synced with it all. The sweat, the leather, the canvas, the ghosts, the storm, the city. It was a symphony of chaos and order. Every repetition, every strike, every inhale and exhale was a note.
He moved to the ropes. Jump rope. Quick, precise, relentless. Feet tapping, rope whipping, rhythm hypnotic. The gym faded. There was only movement. There was only the fight to come. There was only Prince and what he would become.
Morgan's voice broke through once: "Faster. Harder. No excuses."
Prince didn't need it. The command was already inside him, forged in every hardship, every fight, every night running through streets slick with rain.
He stopped. Gloves lowered. Breathing heavy, steady. Blood and sweat and iron burned in his veins. He closed his eyes. Saw Ruiz's face. Saw Musa's shadow in the stands. Saw himself in the mirror, in puddles, in flashes of neon on the streets.
Then he smiled. Not for anyone. Not for the city. Not for Ruiz. Not for Musa.
For himself.
The ring was no longer a ring. The gym was no longer a gym. It was the world. And Prince was ready to claim it.
He walked slowly to the door. Opened it. The light hit him. Sunlight and rain mixed on the streets outside, glittering like a battlefield illuminated for the first time.
Every step he took carried weight. Not of fear, not of doubt, not of obligation. But of purpose. The Sovereign moved through the streets. Through the city. Through the storm he had become.
He passed the alley where graffiti told stories of those who had come before. He passed puddles reflecting his image, broken into fragments, yet whole. He passed the river, flowing cold and alive, carrying secrets and memories downstream.
Prince raised his gaze to the horizon. Somewhere, beyond the streets, beyond the crowds, beyond the noise, Ruiz waited. Musa watched. And the fight real, inevitable, merciless loomed like a storm about to break.
Prince's gloves tightened. Breath steady. Muscles coiled. Mind sharp. Heart ready.
The city around him seemed to shift, to hold its breath, to lean in. Every shadow, every light, every flicker of movement was a witness to the making of a king.
Prince took a final step.
The Sovereign had arrived.
And when the first bell rang, the world would know