The bell rang.
Round twelve began.
The final round. Thirteen and zero against an undefeated champion whose four years of preparation had built him into one of the most disciplined fighters Zed had ever faced. Eighteen weeks of camp, and everything that had come before it, all narrowed down to three minutes.
Zed's legs barely held him as he walked to the center of the ring, but his mind was clear in the particular way exhaustion sometimes clears a mind, stripping away everything except what mattered. He thought, briefly, of the whiteboard back at Iron Harbor, MENSAH written across the top, all those weeks now shaded in behind him, and of every fight before this one that had asked something similar of him and found him ready.
Across from him, Mensah moved slowly too, but he was there. St
