Three-dimensional

Tyson stood in the dimly lit gym, already drenched in sweat despite the early morning hour. The staccato rhythm of his training session echoed in the corner where the battered old recorder sat, issuing a relentless stream of numbers. It was a game of memory, a test of willpower. He nearly recalled those sequences now, the numbers swirling in his mind like a manic dance as he attempted to keep pace.

The first number was 9635, and while it made little sense at face value, it represented a battle—an intricate series of timed strikes against 'Willie,' his relentless training partner. Tyson's fists had to land with precision across different targets: the left hand thrusting into the lower abdomen, the right hand punctuating the ribs, the left crashing into the chin, and another jab at the ribs again. Disallowed the jab, the training took on a masochistic edge, a dull throbbing in his arms that matched the frustration blooming on his brow.

This monotonous routine had become the dull ache of his day—something he'd considered abandoning as soon as he felt a flicker of strength course through his muscles. Yet he knew better, realizing all too well the price of weakness. The fourth set loomed like a mountain he felt unprepared to climb, and the vision of the fifth was akin to a jagged crest piercing a stormy sky.

Yet his mentor, Kus, was not having any of it. The man's voice rang through the air with the ferocity of a roaring lion. "If you throw in the towel because it's tough, you'd be better off crawling back into whatever hole you dragged yourself from, boy," Kus barked, the sharpness of his words slicing through Tyson's haze of discontent. "'Willie' isn't just a tool; it's your lifeline. Each punch you throw at that fake opponent is a step toward mastery—the fists will find the liver, the ribs, the chin, and the temples, all in less than a heartbeat."

Tyson's throat constricted as he absorbed the reprimand, a cautious fire licking at his insides. He had seldom seen Kus unleash such fury, and he fought the instinct to shrink in its wake. With no room left for excuses, he steeled himself, adopting an ascetic approach to the grind of practice, thinking of transcending past the plateau he found himself on.

He often soaked the ground with sweat, sometimes even dreaming of strikes, punches flinging through the air in vivid bursts of color. But that fourth tape—it was a wall that wouldn't budge, standing tall against his relentless assaults. Gradually, he pushed the limits, extending his training of Willie to a grueling three hours a day, the strain intensified as he wrestled to keep up with the unforgiving beat of the recorder.

Slowly but surely, Tyson hacked away at that wall, inching closer to a semblance of victory—a feat no one else had accomplished: three consecutive strikes to different areas with the same hand before time fractions shut him down. It was a glimpse of the makings of a champion, a killer instinct starting to take shape.

On the sound of the recorder, he fell into a rhythm, a fluid dancer with fists that jabbed and crossed like ballerinas on a stage. He didn't stop, even when the sting of fatigue whispered sweet promises of respite, even when he moved from twenty-three seconds to a grand total of twenty-nine. Each tick of time felt like fortune, and when the last punch landed, the joy that bloomed felt as genuine as victory itself.

"Today's harvest is good," he muttered under his breath as he made his way home, the drive in the Cadillac a blur of streetlights and shadows. Dinner with Carmel was comforting, her warmth grounding him after endless hours of solitude spent in training. Yet, there was a new addition to his surroundings—a set of seven small canvas bags filled with pebbles, suspended from the ceiling like ominous pendulums. Each bag hung temptingly low, waiting for Tyson's fists to send them spiraling.

"Flying Stone," Kus had called it, a challenge wrapped in ropes of frustration. Tyson laughed silently, thinking of the noble warriors of legends. To him, it was Zhenwu's seven interceptions, a sacred initiation into prowess. As he began to spar with the bags, his body became a whirlwind of strength, the pebbles quivering against the onslaught of his punches.

Fatigue set in too soon, but deep within, the thrill of combat ignited. He hurled himself into the fray, dodging flurries of flying stones until he felt sufficiently bruised, exhausted to the core. Like a moth to a flame, he'd commit to this madness until he faded out from exertion, collapsing into bed only to steal away into dreams of triumph.

Days melted into one another, and soon the time for reckoning approached. Tomorrow he would weigh in and face a drug test, then stand before the thrumming cameras and chattering media at a so-called press conference. Not quite the grand affair, it was nonetheless more substantial than the last, sponsored by eager backers hoping to coax the masses with the promise of violent glory.

Kus prepped him in earnest, despite setbacks along the way—sending Tyson off to the arena in Albany, its vastness dwarfing the previous venue. As they arrived, he felt the eyes of small media clans and casual fans curiously find him, his storied history swelling around him like a badge of battle.

In the tumult of the moment, he strode through the crowd, a determined young lion, and headed straight to the waiting area. There, amidst a mass of fighters, some shot him cold stares that only seemed to bounce off him like pellets on a brick wall.

When his opponent, Trent Singleton, emerged, he looked ready for war, and the same raw intensity flared in Tyson's chest. As the ritual of weighing in unfolded, he slashed a glance at Trent, a spark igniting between them, tension thick as molasses.

"Stay away from me, or I'll smash your ugly mug," Trent spat, clearly ruffled by Tyson's approach.

"Hey!" Tyson shot back, adrenaline surging through his veins. "You'll see your blood spill on that ring, buddy."

He turned to the reporters and proclaimed with a smirk, "One round. I'll finish him in one round, and they'll all witness it. I'm a prophet in boxing, ready to claim my due!"

The banter ignited a firestorm around them, the kind of atmosphere that would make or break a fighter's legacy. In that moment, Tyson felt himself rise, like a phoenix fueled by its own fire—a force ready for the storm to come.