The snow fell as a dry, gritty powder, etching the city in shades of charcoal and ash. It wasn't picturesque; it was invasive, finding its way into collars, onto eyelashes, into the gears of the waiting world. Kyon watched it from the window of the SUV, a silent, shifting veil over the fortress. Fight night.
The silence inside the vehicle was dense, ritualistic. Gregor sat beside him, eyes closed, mentally running through the phases of the plan for the hundredth time. Darius drove, a pillar of concentration. Lena was ahead in a separate car, a queen moving to her battlefield. Doc Faraday quietly checked his kit: coagulants, swabs, adrenaline, the tools of damage control.
Kyon felt preternaturally calm. The volatile anger, the cocky fury, had been distilled in the silence of the last 24 hours into a single, crystalline purpose: dismantle the instrument. He'd studied the photo of the cabin until its every detail was seared into his mind, then burned it. The threat was no longer a distraction; it was the core of his kinetic energy. Every synapse, every muscle fiber, was aligned toward one act of retaliatory violence.
They arrived at the VTB Arena through a subterranean service entrance, bypassing the seething crowds and media gauntlets. The back halls were a stark contrast to the coming spectacle: concrete, humming fluorescent lights, the smell of industrial cleaner and stale sweat. Their assigned locker room was large but sterile, a cold white box. Kyon's gear was laid out on a central bench: the black and gunmetal-gray trunks, the custom mouthpiece, the hand wraps.
Gregor broke the silence. "Two hours. We wrap in one."
Kyon nodded, beginning his solitary warm-up—dynamic stretches, shadowboxing at half-speed, feeling the blood begin to heat the machine. The Phantom Reflex was there, humming just under the skin, a latent current waiting to be grounded through his fists. But layered over it now was the immense, quiet power forged in Berlin. He wasn't a specter anymore. He was a demolition charge wrapped in velvet.
There was a knock. Darius opened the door a crack, exchanged low words, then turned, his face grim. "Commission doctor. Mandatory pre-fight physical."
A small, officious man in a cheap suit entered, followed by a hulking nurse. The doctor's eyes darted around the room before settling on Kyon with a look of clinical disdain. "Champion. I am Dr. Uspensky. I must check vitals, reflexes."
The exam was perfunctory and rough. The blood pressure cuff was cinched too tight. The stethoscope was cold against his skin. When checking his pupils, the doctor's light lingered, blatantly trying to disorient. Kyon endured it, his gaze fixed on a point on the wall, his heart rate not rising a single beat.
Finally, the doctor grunted. "You are cleared. For now." He packed his bag and left without another word.
"Psychological warfare," Gregor muttered. "They want you agitated."
"He failed," Kyon said, rolling his shoulders.
Forty-five minutes to fight time. The wraps. This was always a sacred ritual, but tonight it was different. As Gregor began winding the cotton and gauze around his left hand, locking the delicate bones into a single, devastating unit, Kyon thought of The Professor. He thought of the old, blood-stained wraps Thorne had returned to him, the legacy of a cleaner war. This was not that. These were the wrappings of a siege weapon.
Lena entered, a vision of controlled ferocity in a crimson suit. She held a tablet. "The arena is vibrating. It's a coronation for them. Global PPV buys are massive. You're the most hated man in Russia for the next three hours."
"Good," Kyon said, watching Gregor secure the final strip of tape over his right knuckles. The feeling of his hands being transformed into stone mallets was complete.
"We just got the official word," she continued, her voice dropping. "The judges are Vasin, Petrov, and Orlov. All from Moscow boxing clubs with ties to Volkov's promoter. Vasiliev is the ref, as expected. I've already lodged three formal protests. They were ignored."
"Expected," Kyon echoed.
"There's more." She looked directly at him. "Solano is here. In a luxury suite. He arrived on a private jet this morning."
A fresh, sharp edge honed itself inside Kyon's calm. Rafe Solano, watching from the shadows, a vulture waiting to see if the bear would finish his work for him. "Is he with anyone?"
"Alone in the suite, according to my source. But the syndicate men, the ones from the workout, they're in the front row, ringside. Center."
Kyon stood, the wraps feeling like extensions of his will. He bounced lightly on his toes, feeling the floor through his boots. The calm began to transmute, not into nervousness, but into a terrifying readiness. The energy was seeking a conduit.
"It's time," Gregor said.
The walk was a descent into sound. The roar from the arena was a living entity, a pounding, rhythmic chant of "VOL-KOV! VOL-KOV!" that shook the very corridors. They passed under stark signage, through security checkpoints where guards stared with open hostility. The noise grew, layer upon layer, until it was a physical pressure.
They reached the final curtain. Kyon could see the blinding halo of the ring lights through the fabric, the distorted shapes of the vast, screaming crowd. His music, a minimalist, pounding track by a German industrial artist, began to blast. It was immediately drowned by a tsunami of boos.
Gregor put his hands on Kyon's shoulders, leaning close to be heard. "Remember! The first four rounds are his. Let him blow the storm. You are the mountain. You make him break his hands on you. Then, you become the landslide. Yes?"
Kyon met his eyes and gave a single, slow nod. The artist was gone. The monster was present. The siege engine was primed.
He pushed through the curtain.
The wall of hatred was immense, a sensory overload. Seventy thousand faces, twisted in nationalist fervor, screamed their disdain. Flashbulbs popped like a nerve ending. Security formed a tight, nervous wedge around him as he began the long walk to the ring. Debris rained down—a cup, a program, a rubber bear. It bounced off his shoulders. He didn't flinch. He kept his eyes on the ring, a twenty-by-twenty island of violent possibility in a sea of rage.
He climbed the steps, slipped between the ropes. The ring canvas felt unfamiliar, taut. The lights were scorching. He went to his corner, ignored the continuing boos, and began his final routine—stretching, moving, keeping the machine warm. Across the ring, the opposite corner was empty. Volkov would make him wait.
And wait he did. For ten long minutes, the crowd's impatience built, stoked by dramatic lighting and thumping patriotic music. Then, the arena plunged into darkness. A single spotlight hit the entrance tunnel. A deep, traditional Russian choir boomed over the speakers, morphing into aggressive war-metal.
Ilia Volkov emerged, a fur-trimmed robe over his shoulders, making him look even more like a mythical beast. He walked slowly, purposefully, a giant acknowledging his worshippers. He carried a Soviet flag. The roar was deafening, seismic. He took his time, bathing in the adulation, before finally entering the ring. He stared across at Kyon, making a slow, deliberate throat-slitting gesture. The crowd lost its collective mind.
The referee, Yuri Vasiliev, a compact man with a severe, unsmiling face, called them to the center of the ring for final instructions. The bell of the arena was still ringing in Kyon's ears.
Vasiliev spoke in Russian, then in heavily accented English. "...break clean when I say. Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands. No hitting behind the head." His eyes lingered on Kyon. "I will be watching you very closely."
Kyon stared back, unblinking. Volkov loomed beside the ref, his breath fogging in the cold arena air, his eyes glazed with the certainty of impending violence.
They returned to their corners. Gregor gave last reminders. Doc Faraday smeared the last bit of Vaseline on his brows. The music died. The crowd's roar settled into a tense, unified hum.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Round 1.
Volkov came out like a glacier calving—slow, immense, and inevitable. He didn't jab; he pushed a lead hand forward like a probing iron rod. Kyon, using the Phantom Reflex, slipped outside it effortlessly, feeling the wind of its passage. He circled to his right, away from Volkov's nuclear right hand. The crowd booed his movement.
For the first minute, it was a tense chase. Volkov cut off the ring with surprising footwork, herding Kyon toward the ropes. Kyon didn't panic. He feinted, dipped, and glided away, making Volkov reset. He landed a crisp, testing left hook to the body. It felt like hitting a barrel packed with wet sand. Volkov didn't react.
With thirty seconds left, Volkov cornered him. A thudding jab snapped Kyon's head back. Then a right cross followed, a blow that had ended nights. Kyon pulled back just enough; the fist grazed his forehead, the impact still staggering, like being brushed by a moving truck. He clinched immediately, wrapping up Volkov's massive arms. Vasiliev was on them in a second, shouting "Break!" and physically pulling Kyon away. As he did, Volkov drove a short, illegal shovel hook into Kyon's kidney. The pain was electric and deep. The ref saw nothing.
Kyon backed away, his face a mask. The bell rang. He returned to the corner.
"Good," Gregor said, swabbing his face. "You felt his power. It is real. The body shot he gave you in the clinch was dirty. Expect more. The ref will not help. Breathe."
Round 2.
Volkov was more confident. He began walking Kyon down behind a double jab, his feet planted with terrible authority. Kyon focused on that opening, the slight dip and load of the right shoulder. He feinted a step in, and as Volkov bit and unleashed the right hand, Kyon slid to his left and drove his own right hand—not to the head, but straight into the solar plexus.
Thump.
The sound was dull, wet. Volkov's forward motion halted. For a fraction of a second, his eyes widened, not with pain, but with surprise. The wind left him in a quiet gasp. He took a half-step back.
The crowd, which had been roaring, hushed for a stunned moment.
Kyon didn't follow up. He reset, circling. He had planted the first seed of doubt, the first physical question Volkov's body had ever been asked. The giant's face darkened with anger. He surged forward, throwing wild, looping hooks. Kyon weaved under them, the Phantom Reflex a lifesaving grace, but one grazing hook caught him on the ear, making it roar with static.
The round ended with Volkov stalking, Kyon navigating. A clear Volkov round on aggression, but Kyon had landed the only meaningful punch.
Round 3.
The siege began in earnest. Vasiliev's role became overt. Every time Kyon clinched to disrupt Volkov's rhythm, the ref broke them instantly, often while Kyon was still in a vulnerable position. Once, as Vasiliev pushed them apart, Volkov fired a blatant late punch that caught Kyon on the jaw. The ref turned his back.
The crowd sensed blood. Their chants grew more frenzied. Volkov started landing thudding jabs to the chest, punches that would have broken the ribs of a lesser man. Kyon absorbed them, his conditioning from Kampfklub Ost the only thing keeping him upright. He was a mountain being hit by artillery, but the mountain was made of something harder than expected.
With a minute left, Kyon saw his second opening. As Volkov lunged, Kyon pivoted on a dime and cracked a left hook over the top, landing flush on the Russian's temple. Volkov's head snapped sideways. He blinked, shook it off, and smiled—a terrifying, hungry smile. He liked it. He liked that Kyon could hurt him. It made the destruction more satisfying.
The bell rang. In the corner, Doc Faraday worked on Kyon's ear, which was now bleeding internally, swelling shut.
"He's starting to slow," Kyon rasped, spitting blood-tinged water into the bucket.
"Not enough," Gregor warned. "You are taking too much. You must make him pay more."
Round 4.
Volkov's punches began to lose their laser precision, becoming wider, more sweeping. But their power was undiminished. A right cross caught Kyon high on the cheekbone, splitting the skin open. Blood instantly sheeted down the side of his face. The crowd roared in triumph.
Vasiliev called time for the doctor to look at it—a mandatory check for a champion. The ring doctor, the same Dr. Uspensky, took his time, prodding the cut, looking into Kyon's eyes with barely concealed hope that he would stop it. "Can you see?" he asked in bad English.
"I see perfectly," Kyon growled. "I see a tired bear."
The doctor glared and waved the fight on.
The blood seemed to energize Volkov. He launched a furious assault, driving Kyon to the ropes and unleashing a barrage. Kyon shelled up, his high guard absorbing thunderous blows. The sound of fists on forearms was like axe-blows on oak. Through the slit of his guard, Kyon watched. He saw the frustration growing in Volkov's eyes. The mountain would not crumble.
In the final ten seconds, Kyon exploded off the ropes. Not backward, but forward, inside the arc of a monstrous hook. He drove a right uppercut into Volkov's torso, right under the floating ribs. Then, as Volkov grunted and folded slightly, Kyon brought a crushing left hook down onto the Russian's exposed trapezius muscle, the nerve center of the shoulder.
Volkov let out a pained shout and shoved Kyon away violently. The bell rang.
Kyon returned to his corner, bloodied but clear-eyed. The cut was bad, but Faraday went to work, skillfully pinching it closed with a butterfly stitch and a thick layer of coagulant.
"The storm is passing," Gregor said urgently, wiping away blood. "He is blowing his power on your guard. The body, Kyon! The body! His right hand is slower. His breathing is loud. Now! Next round, you become the landslide!"
Kyon's breathing was controlled. The pain was there—the throbbing ear, the screaming ribs, the fire in his kidney, the sting of the cut—but it was compartmentalized, fuel for the furnace. He looked across the ring. Volkov was sitting, drinking water, but his chest was heaving. The Siberian Bear was breathing like a bellows. The first seed of doubt had sprouted into a sapling of fatigue.
The hunger inside Kyon, starved and patient, finally opened its eyes.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Round 5.
Kyon came out not as the mover, but as the initiator. He took a step forward. The crowd, sensing a shift, booed in confusion. Volkov met him with a jab, but it was slower, pushed. Kyon parried it aside and fired his own jab, snapping Volkov's head back.
A shocked "Ooooh" rippled through the arena.
Kyon stepped in again. He feinted the right to the body, and as Volkov dropped his elbow to block, Kyon changed levels and drove a straight left hand directly into the solar plexus again.
Thump-CRACK.
This time, the sound was different. Sharper. Volkov's mouth flew open in a silent, agonized gasp. He bent forward, the wind utterly gone. Kyon didn't let him recover. He unleashed a short, brutal combination: a right hook to the same spot, then a left uppercut to the chin as Volkov's head came down.
Volkov's legs buckled. He stumbled backward, crashing into the ropes. His eyes were glazed, his mouth trying to draw air that wouldn't come.
The arena fell into a stunned, horrified silence.
Vasiliev hovered, but Volkov wasn't out. He clung to the ropes, surviving on pure instinct. Kyon stalked forward, a predator moving in for the crippling blow. He saw the opening on the left side, the lagging elbow. He set his feet and loaded every ounce of his forged weight into a single, piston-like straight right hand.
It never landed.
As Kyon threw the punch, Vasiliev leaped between them, wrapping Kyon up in a bear hug and spinning him away. "Break! Break!" he screamed, though Volkov was the one on the ropes, defenseless. It was a blatant, fight-saving intervention.
The crowd erupted in relieved cheers. Volkov, gifted ten seconds of recovery, sucked in a ragged, wheezing breath and pushed himself off the ropes.
Kyon stared at Vasiliev, the cold fury in his eyes enough to make the ref take a subconscious step back. The message was clear: the apparatus would not let their champion fall so easily.
The round ended with Volkov surviving, but the dynamic had irrevocably shifted. The siege engine had breached the wall.
In his corner, Volkov's coaches were screaming, slapping him, pouring water over his head. The Bear looked hollow, the certainty gone.
In Kyon's corner, Gregor was electric. "You have him! His engine is broken! He has only one tank left. This round, you take his head! Do not wait for the ref! Do not give him a chance! You are the Reckoning Engine! Now! FINISH IT!"
Kyon sat, the taste of blood and victory metallic in his mouth. He looked past the ring, into the sea of faces. His vision tunneled, finding the front row. The silver-haired syndicate man was no longer sitting calmly. He was leaning forward, his hands on the apron, his face a stone mask of cold calculation. Their eyes met across the chaos.
Kyon gave him the same, small, surgical smile he'd given Volkov at the weigh-in.
He was no longer breaking their toy.
He was coming for the hands that held it.
Ding. Ding. Ding.