Forgotten by the King

The clank of weights hitting the floor echoed through the gym, blending into the rhythmic grunts and sharp exhales of athletes pushing their limits. The gym was a sacred space reserved for the Olympians of the world. Elite competitors who understood the grind, or those who could afford the membership fee.

Titan moved through his routine like a machine. Reps. Sets. Perfect form. His muscles burned, his breathing steady, his focus razor-sharp. These were the sacraments of his devotion, the tangible proof of his unwavering commitment to the craft. In the mirror's reflection, he saw not just a fighter, but a warrior-priest, a man whose very existence was a testament to the transformative power of the grind.

Until his phone buzzed.

An unwelcome intruder in the sanctity of his ritual. At first, he dismissed it, his mind too honed, too sharply attuned to the task at hand to be swayed by such trivial distractions. But as the vibrations persisted, a rhythm that demanded his attention, Titan felt the first stirrings of unease, a premonition of the chaos to come.

With a grunt of annoyance, he relinquished his grip on the dumbbells, the sudden absence of their weight a tangible void in his hands. He snatched up the phone, his eyes narrowing as they drank in the words that glowed like embers on the screen.

Social X was on fire.

Victor Blackwell – LIVE NOW

The name hit him like a physical blow, a sucker punch to the solar plexus of his psyche. Victor Blackwell, the new puppet master who held the strings of the combat world, the man who had promised him salvation in the form of a rematch. The rematch. His rematch.

With a tap that was half challenge, half prayer, Titan brought the video to life, the screen flickering with the harsh glare of a stage too bright, too artificial to be real.  There, framed the image of Peak Media Group headquarters, the massive SFL x PMG banner stretched behind the press conference table.

Victor Blackwell sat at the center, the king; Clayton Reed, the kingmaker; and Cade Mercer, the usurper. The unholy trinity of the fight game. Titan's grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles blanching with the force of his rage. The camera panned in as Victor leaned forward, his voice calm, authoritative. The voice of the man who controlled the industry.

"There will be a rematch."

A smirk, savage and triumphant, split Titan's face, nodding to himself. Damn right, there will be. This was it, the moment he had been waiting for, the chance to reclaim his throne and silence the doubters once and for all.

"An epic rematch... a fight that fans deserve to see."

The smirk widened, a wolf baring its fangs in anticipation of the kill. He could taste it now, the copper tang of redemption, the sweet nectar of vindication. Titan vs. Cade Mercer, a clash of titans that would shake the very foundations of the combat world.

"A rematch... with Matthew."

The words hit him like a freight train, a brutal, blindsiding impact that left him reeling. For a moment, Titan's face remained a mask of stone, a study in impassivity. But beneath the surface, a tempest raged, a maelstrom of betrayal and fury that threatened to consume him whole.

The noise of the gym faded away, reduced to a muffled hum that paled in comparison to the roar of blood in his ears. The heat of his exertion, the sweat that drenched his skin, it all evaporated in the face of the icy realization that crashed over him like a tidal wave.

Matthew. Not him.

Victor's words, once a balm to his battered ego, now seared his soul like a brand, a mark of shame that he would carry for the rest of his days. He had believed, with a faith that bordered on the religious, that their pact was inviolable, that his redemption was a foregone conclusion written in the stars themselves.

With a savage motion, he killed the video, the screen going black as if in mourning for the death of his hopes. The phone clattered to the bench, discarded like a tainted relic, a reminder of the betrayal that had cut him to the quick.

Victor played him.

But even as the rage boiled within him, a seething cauldron of primal fury, Titan felt a new emotion taking root in the fertile soil of his despair. It was a cold, calculating thing, a serpent coiled in the depths of his being, waiting to strike with venomous precision.

He didn't care about Matthew, didn't give a damn about Cade Mercer's victory lap. No, his focus had narrowed to a single, all-consuming point, a burning need that eclipsed all else. He would make Victor Blackwell remember, would sear his name into the very fabric of the combat world until it was spoken with the reverence of a prayer. Titan wasn't just another fighter, wasn't some interchangeable cog in the machine of the fight game.

No, Titan was the fight, the living embodiment of the primal struggle that lay at the heart of all combat. And soon, with a fury that would shake the heavens and rattle the earth, he would remind them all of that inescapable truth.

As he stood there, his body coiled with a newfound purpose, Titan felt the embers of his rage ignite into a blaze that threatened to consume the world itself. He would rise from the ashes of his defeat, would carve his legend into the annals of history with the broken bodies of all who dared to stand in his way.

And when the dust settled, when the final bell had rung and the last drop of blood had been spilled, they would all remember the name of Titan, the forgotten king who had stormed the gates of heaven and taken back his rightful place upon the throne.