The morning after the anniversary felt like punishment.
My limbs were heavy. My head buzzed with broken thoughts, and every time I blinked, I saw her — Rose — laughing with Ammos, wearing the ring that wasn't mine, in a world I didn't belong to. My body moved on its own, dragging itself through the streets of Kitwe like a ghost in a city that once bowed to my name.
No breakfast. No messages. No music. Just street dust and shame.
If this was a novel, this would be the part where the MC gets a cheat system — a glowing screen in his eyes, stats, missions, an S-tier skill tree to avenge his broken heart and rise again.
But real life isn't a novel.
There is no system.
There are no shortcuts.
Just pain.
And when pain called, I only knew one place to answer it: Team Santana.
Their base wasn't marked on any map, but I knew the way like it was wired into my blood — down through Luangwa's worn alleys, past Corner Briko, a right at Corner X, and there it was. A battered, fenced compound tucked between scrap buildings and rusted containers. A gym, a ring, a warzone.
A home for wolves like me.
"Boss!" someone shouted as I stepped through the gate.
Nigger X was leaning against the wall, half-dressed in gloves and a torn Santana vest. He grinned when he saw my face.
"You really made a mess out there, huh? Socials are on fire. But I get it — heartbreak burns worse than fists. You here for your anger issues? Good. We got someone special for you today."
I lifted my eyes, half-expecting one of the usual trainers.
But then I saw her.
Joyce.
Tall, lean, fierce — with braids pulled tight and eyes that had seen war. She was in the center ring, wrapping black gloves on her fists with deliberate, slow precision. Her black sports gear looked military-grade. She was a 4th grade martial artist, the kind that doesn't fight for sport — but to bury you.
She didn't smile. Just tilted her head as I approached.
"These next two years," she said coldly, "will test everything inside you."
She started circling me as I climbed into the ring, her boots whispering against the worn mats.
"People think your father fled to China after losing it all. They believe the Mopani empire is dust. That you're weak. Alone. A shadow of a prince."
I didn't respond. My fists tightened.
Joyce continued, "But we in the underground know the truth. Your father still holds all the mining certificates. All the export rights. But we're suppressing that news."
She stopped, staring into my soul.
"If the Jerabos find out you're sitting on all that power, they'll come for your throat. Not just for revenge but to replace you."
I blinked.
She didn't.
"They already think you've been abandoned. Even the ones who were loyal to your name will start sniffing blood."
Then she dropped into a stance.
"And the world won't wait for you to catch up."
She raised her voice.
"Begin!"
And she launched.
Before I could even blink, her body was in the air — a blinding flash of movement. Her leg swung wide in a vicious spinning dropkick, the heel connecting hard with my shoulder. Pain ripped through me as I stumbled back. My feet slid across the mat.
But she wasn't done.
She followed with a jab straight to my gut, a sharp elbow to my ribs, and a knee that cracked against my thigh.
I gasped — but didn't fall.
Not this time.
I brought up my fists.
Blocked with my left.
Slipped her right cross.
Clenched — but she twisted, broke the clinch, and swept my legs from under me with a brutal inside hook.
I hit the floor hard.
"Get up," she said.
Her voice wasn't cruel.
It was real.
I pushed myself up. My vision blurred with sweat and dust.
"Again."
She came at me faster this time.
I countered barely.
Palm block.
Low cross.
Shoulder feint.
Quick jab.
I landed one. Just one clean hit to her jaw.
She paused. A flicker of a smirk.
"Good. Now fight like everything is already gone."
So I did.
I fought like I had nothing.
Fists bleeding.
Legs cramping.
Breath ragged.
We went ten rounds in that ring.
And every hit I took burned out the pain Rose had left inside me.
By the time I stepped out of the Santana base, it was night.
My shirt was torn. Blood from a split lip ran down my chin. My knuckles were bruised. But I was calm calm in a way I hadn't felt since before the lie, before the ring, before the girl who shattered me.
The streets were quiet. Even the night market at Corner X had slowed down.
There was only one car parked by the alley entrance.
Aamon's car.
But it was parked wrong sideways like he'd stopped in a panic.
Something twisted in my gut.
I stepped closer.
"Aamon?" I said.
No answer.
My hand moved toward the door
BOOM.
A sack dropped over my head.
I was yanked backward, dragged like an animal. I heard the screech of a car door opening. Then
THUD.
A blow to my neck. My vision snapped black.
Darkness.
No escape.
No warning.
And no one to hear me scream.