Prologue the sovereign's fight for GLORY
The night was heavy with silence, the kind of silence that presses against the skin and makes every heartbeat sound louder than it should. In the dim glow of the gym's overhead lights, Prince stood alone in the ring. His gloves hung at his sides, sweat dripping from his brow, chest rising and falling like a war drum. The ropes creaked faintly as he leaned forward, staring at the canvas beneath his feet.
It was not just a ring. It was a kingdom. And tonight, he was its sovereign.
The gym smelled of leather and chalk, of old battles fought and new ones waiting. Shadows stretched long across the walls, broken only by the rhythmic flicker of a fluorescent bulb. Outside, the city slept, but inside, Prince was awake awake in the way only a fighter can be, when the body is exhausted but the spirit refuses to rest.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his frame carved by years of discipline. His skin glistened under the light, muscles taut, veins alive with the pulse of ambition. He was Black, proud, and unshaken not defined by struggle, but by the fire that had carried him from distant streets to this very canvas. Every scar, every bruise, every ache was a testament to the journey.
Prince had migrated to England years ago, carrying nothing but a dream and the weight of expectation. He had been called many things outsider, underdog, challenger. But in the ring, names dissolved. Only fists spoke. Only will mattered.
They called him The Sovereign. Not because he wore a crown, but because he fought as if every round was a throne to be claimed.
The bell rang in his mind, though no fight was scheduled tonight. He imagined the sound sharp, metallic, final. The bell was more than a signal; it was a prophecy. It marked beginnings and endings, triumphs and defeats. For Prince, it was the sound of destiny.
He closed his eyes and saw the battles ahead. The roar of crowds, the blinding lights of arenas, the faces of opponents who would try to break him. He saw belts gleaming like treasure, banners raised, voices chanting his name. He saw himself standing at the center, arms lifted, sovereign of the division.
But before glory, there was always struggle.
The prologue of his life had been written in sweat and sacrifice. He remembered the first time he stepped into a ring in England the gloves too big, the crowd too small, the air thick with doubt. He remembered the sting of defeat, the taste of blood, the echo of laughter from those who thought he would never rise.
Yet he rose.
Every dawn, he trained. Every night, he dreamed. He ran through streets slick with rain, his breath fogging in the cold air. He punched until his knuckles burned, lifted until his muscles screamed. He studied tapes, memorized footwork, sharpened reflexes. He built himself not just into a fighter, but into a force.
And slowly, the world began to notice.
Now, standing in the quiet gym, Prince felt the weight of all those years pressing against him. He was no longer just a contender. He was the face of the light heavyweight class, the man others measured themselves against. His name carried power, his presence commanded respect.
But respect was never enough. He wanted glory.
Glory was not a belt or a title. It was something deeper, something eternal. Glory was the echo that remained long after the final bell had rung, the story told in whispers and shouts, the legend carved into memory.
Prince wanted to be remembered. Not just as a fighter, but as The Sovereign.
The gym door creaked open, and a gust of cold air swept in. Prince didn't turn. He stayed in the ring, eyes fixed on the canvas, mind locked on the vision of what was to come.
He imagined the opening of his next fight: the crowd rising, the lights dimming, the announcer's voice booming through the arena. He imagined walking down the aisle, robe draped over his shoulders, gloves tight, chin high. He imagined the opponent waiting, eyes sharp, fists ready.
And then he imagined the bell.
The bell was always the beginning, but it was also the end. It was the sound that separated men from legends, challengers from champions. It was the sound that would decide whether Prince's story was one of triumph or tragedy.
He whispered to himself, voice low but steady:
"This is my kingdom. This is my fight. This is my glory. I, I am the Sovereign"
The prologue ends not with a battle, but with a promise.
Prince steps back from the ropes, lifts his gloves, and throws a single punch into the empty air. The sound echoes through the gym, sharp and final, like the toll of a bell.
It is not the end. It is the beginning.
The Sovereign's fight for glory has only just begun.