Chapter Twelve: Bell of the Prophet
"It's not the fight that changes you.
It's who's still standing after your soul leaves the ring."
We left for Detroit the next day.
Blaze didn't pack anything.
Just his gloves, his wraps, and the photo of Kane. Folded four times and buried deep in his hoodie pocket like a warning he couldn't stop reading.
The city greeted us like a clenched fist — cold air, dim skies, concrete that never dried.
The underground circuit here wasn't like the others.
This one wanted blood.
They didn't sell tickets. They sold silence.
You didn't fight to win. You fought to survive your opponent's story.
And Kane?
His story was one of silence and shadows.
Dutch called while we waited in the motel.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"No," I said. "But Blaze is."
"That kid is past saving, Damien. You know that now, right?"
I glanced at Blaze, who was wrapping his knuckles tighter than necessary, like he was trying to contain something underneath.
"Maybe. But if he's going to burn out, I need to know what's feeding the flame."
Dutch sighed.
"Then watch Kane. He's the mirror Blaze hasn't broken yet."
The fight was held inside an abandoned meat processing plant.
Low ceilings. Fluorescent lights that flickered with every breath. An audience of former fighters, fixers, and men whose names were only whispered.
The ring wasn't a cage. It was a concrete square roped off by chains.
Blood still dried in the corners.
And on the wall: a faded eye wrapped in barbed wire — the same symbol from Kane's photo.
"What is this place?" I asked one of the handlers.
He didn't answer. Just handed Blaze a token — black, hexagonal, with the word PROPHET carved in rusted letters.
Kane entered first.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Pale like chalk and carved like marble.
His eyes scanned the crowd — slow, deliberate.
Then stopped.
On Blaze.
He smiled.
Not like a fighter.
Like a teacher meeting his most promising student.
Blaze didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Just stepped forward and rolled his neck like he'd done this already.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
"He's looped," Blaze whispered.
"You're sure?"
Blaze nodded.
"He remembers me from a future I haven't lived yet."
They didn't announce names.
No music. No theatrics.
Just the clanging of a rusted bell that sounded like God coughing up blood.
Kane didn't move.
He waited.
Like a man reading a script he'd already memorized.
Blaze approached slowly, hands up.
Then paused.
"You're the first one I couldn't kill," Blaze said.
"Not couldn't," Kane said, voice low and cracked. "Wouldn't."
Then he struck.
A knee to the ribs. A hook behind the ear. Fast. Precise. Like a surgeon with a grudge.
Blaze staggered back — but didn't fall.
"You loop too," Blaze muttered.
Kane smiled.
"I used to."
"What do you mean?"
"The Witness doesn't keep you forever. He graduates you."
Blaze hesitated.
And that was enough.
Kane landed a spinning elbow that split Blaze's brow.
Blood flowed.
"You're not fighting to win," Kane said. "You're fighting to stay human. But what if you're already not?"
Outside the chain circle, I moved toward the handler.
"Call it. He's not ready for this."
The handler didn't respond. He just held up the token again.
"Only a Prophet can stop a Prophet."
Blaze wiped the blood from his eye.
Then smiled.
Something twisted in that smile. Something dark.
"Let's see what graduation looks like," he whispered.
And charged.