Shadows of Success

The colossal stadium trembled with anticipation, its walls echoing the cacophony of cheers from the roaring crowd. The stage was set for the championship clash that would etch history. 

At its center, in the octagon, stood Michael Truce, the enigmatic figure with eyes that held no hint of emotion, a physique with only an unwavering focus that seemed to pierce through the very soul of his opponent.

He possessed a truly remarkable physique that left a lasting impression on anyone who saw him. Standing tall at 6 feet 2 inches, he exuded an aura of power and athleticism. In the opposing corner, Jack Rivers, a seasoned warrior, who looked more like a modern-day Viking than anything, flexed his muscles, showing off his confidence. But as he glanced across the ring at Michael, a glimmer of doubt flickered in his eyes. He had heard the tales of Michael's almost superhuman abilities, and the thought of facing a fighter with such raw power left him unsettled, even though Michael looked nothing but a ripped guy with some MMA experience.

The referee called both fighters to the center, and they touched gloves - a customary display of sportsmanship that Michael barely acknowledged. As the match began, the world seemed to slow down around Michael. Every sound, every movement, intensified in his mind.

He moved with calm precision, blocking Jack's jabs and countering with swift kicks and punches that sent the seasoned warrior staggering backward. Jack quickly regained his balance and charged forward, but Michael was one step ahead, dodging and weaving with lightning-fast reflexes. The crowd roared as the two fighters exchanged blows, each one searching for an opening to land the knockout blow.

But Michael's focus was unbreakable. His mind was a machine, analyzing every move Jack made and calculating his next move. He moved with such grace and fluidity that it was hard to believe he was even human.

Jack kept lunging forward with an explosive punch combination, but Michael's reaction was inhuman. He swayed away from each blow with a grace that defied physics, leaving Jack swinging in the air. The crowd gasped, in awe at the speed and precision with which Michael deflected every attack.

Despite the onslaught, Michael remained seemingly untouched, his expression as stoic as a statue. There was no hint of fear or hesitation, only a cold determination to claim victory. Each of Jack's moves was anticipated and countered with astounding accuracy. It was as if Michael had memorized every move in his opponent's arsenal before the fight even began.

As the rounds wore on, the crowd's suspense only heightened. Jack was a fierce competitor, and he refused to back down, trading blow after blow with Michael. The arena was a battleground of sweat and adrenaline, each fighter pushing their limits. But with each passing moment, it became clear that Michael had transcended the boundaries of ordinary human capability.

His strikes were like a symphony of destruction, a mesmerizing dance of power and finesse. His takedowns were executed with an otherworldly speed, sending shockwaves of amazement through the audience. Despite Jack's resilience, he found himself increasingly outclassed by his emotionless opponent.

In a particularly gripping moment, Michael unleashed a spinning back fist that landed with bone-crushing force, sending Jack stumbling. It was a blow that would have finished most opponents, but Jack was no ordinary fighter. Summoning all his strength, he rose to his feet, his face a mask of determination.

The crowd's fervor intensified, each spectator spellbound by the spectacle unfolding before them. As the final round approached, both fighters were a testament to the indomitable spirit of the human will.

Jack began this round with confidence, with a goal in mind; To win this once and for all. Jack darted towards Michael.

With seconds left on the clock, Michael unleashed a combination of strikes that defied comprehension. He darted around Jack like a phantom, each punch landing with preternatural precision. Before his opponent could react, and with immense speed and precision, Michael finished him off with a breathtaking tornado kick. The impact was resounding, and as Jack fell to the canvas, the referee began the count.

But before the count reached its conclusion, Michael stepped back, his gaze unwavering. There was no elation, no triumph, just an empty void in his eyes. Jack struggled to his feet, but it was too late. The match was over.

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, celebrating the indomitable force that was Michael Truce. The commentators shouted and applauded, their mouths filled with the triumph of the now-world champion of MMA at the age of only 20.

The scene had an intense aura of both triumph and empathy. Despite the referee's attempt to declare Michael the victor, he chose to disregard the accolade momentarily to show concern for his fallen opponent, Jack Rivers. 

Jack, with his body bruised and spirit wounded, could hardly meet Michael's gaze. His dream of becoming a champion for the second time was shattered, leaving him feeling defeated and ashamed. But Michael walked up to him and offered a helping hand, showing understanding and encouragement.

"You did well." said Michael, putting a hand on his fellow opponent's shoulder, not out of sympathy, but rather understandment," Defeats happen. But one defeat does not define your entire journey."

He turned around to face the crowd, who was already cheering, waiting for the small talk between the two fighters to end so that they could see the one moment they had been longing for, the handing out of the trophy. But before parting ways, Michael tilted his head to face Jack, 

"Keep Striving. You will reach your potential one day soon enough."

"AND HE'S DONE IT AGAIN," The commentator erupted, "THE GREAT MICHAEL TRUCE HAS NOW GAINED ANOTHER TITLE AS THE CHAMPION OF MIXED MARTIAL ARTS OF THE WOR-" He stopped. "Where is he going? Why is he leaving the stadium? Wha-"

Before anyone could do anything, Michael slipped past everyone, including the security at the gate, and left the stadium. He had already informed his agent about it and the trophy will be quietly handed out to him. He did not need such a big fuss over a small battle. All he wanted now was to calm his mind.

Michael walked away from the stadium, his head clouded with doubt and confusion. He had just won the title of champion but he felt hollow, unexplainably unsatisfied with his victory. It was as if a part of him had been left behind in the ring.

He sat in his vehicle and drove off to reach the place where he always visited, The Nebula Point, a place on the cliff of a hill nearby, giving a glamorous view over the city skyline, especially at night.

The place was usually empty, and Michael liked it that way. He had already worn his clothes in the car, but he was drenched in sweat. He stepped outside and leaned his hands against the railing on the cliff, overlooking the magnificent city. The wind was blowing and was enough to blow off all the heat from the battle.

On the edge of the Nebula Point, Michael felt a sense of connection with his city and himself. He could point out the stadium from the point, which was flashing like a jewel amidst the city lights. He had pulled out a lighter and cigarette from the car and gently lit it, putting the lighter in his pocket and the cigarette between his two fingers. 

He took a deep breath and exhaled out slowly. At that moment, he could feel all the worries and anxieties of pre-battle vanish away. He closed his eyes and let himself move to another world; one full of warmth, peace, and tranquility. 

The wind blew against his face as if it was trying to whisper something into him. He looked up at the stars that twinkled above him in harmony with their rhythm. He looked down at his hands that held onto the railing tightly as if they were grasping on for life itself. His mind raced with thoughts about his life's journey. He became powerful at such a young age and overcame all the struggles and hardships that came his way, yet he still wasn't at ease. He felt as if there was still something missing. It wasn't his fault he couldn't ever feel any emotion right from birth, even if he didn't remember anything of his childhood except that he was brought up in an orphanage in the slums but those memories were too painful for him to think about.

As Michael stood at the viewpoint, his eyes fixed on the sparkling stadium in the distance, an unsettling feeling washed over him. Without warning, he felt an eerie presence lurking behind him, causing a tingling sensation at the back of his neck.

"What do you want?" Asked Michael, looking ahead, unfazed.

He felt the presence jerk a little but come closer.

"Hello, Mike."