The wind off the East District docks was sharp and cold that morning, but Blaze barely noticed. His mind was somewhere else—on the text message he'd woken up to.
Rimfire Promotions: "You're headlining next Friday. $75k minimum. Bonus if you win in under 4."
Blaze had fought for pride, for survival, for redemption. But now, for the first time, the fight was business—and business was good.
---
Back at The Forge, Zion laid down the terms like he was managing a prize horse.
"You finish in under four rounds, that's six figures on your name," Zion said. "Finish in two? I've got a tech investor who's already asking for a sit-down. Blaze-branded recovery drinks. We get the trademark before they can steal your image."
Blaze didn't answer right away. He was taping his hands, more meticulous than usual.
"People are betting on me like I'm a product," he muttered.
"No," Zion corrected. "They're betting on the fire. You're just learning to sell the heat without burning your soul."
---
The fight camp leading to the headline was brutal. Sparring sessions with two fighters at once. Weighted training vests. Ice baths and silence.
Social media wanted peeks. His new followers were insatiable. But Blaze posted nothing.
He didn't need to hype.
He needed to win.
---
On the day of the fight, he walked into the new venue—a converted hockey arena filled with LED walls and chanting crowds. His name flashed in crimson across the screen:
BLAZE CARTER vs. DERRICK "THE NAIL" SANTOS
Santos had a jaw like granite and the footwork of a boxer who used to dance professionally. Undefeated in the last six. Blaze studied him like a final exam.
Round one: testing range.
Round two: body work.
Round three: speed shift. Blaze picked up pace like a machine finding its rhythm.
Midway through the third, he saw the opening—a dip in Santos's left parry, too slow.
A feint. A low hook. A rising elbow strike.
Crack.
Santos crumbled, clutching his ribs.
Referee waved it.
Blaze walked to the neutral corner, calm as thunder. The crowd didn't know whether to cheer or fear.
---
Backstage, the payout was hand-delivered by Rimfire's head of ops. Blaze didn't flinch at the sight of the money anymore. The weight of it had become familiar.
He split 30% to Zion immediately.
"People forget the roots when the branches stretch high," Blaze said.
Zion pocketed it, expression unreadable. "And people die on the branches when they forget the roots were built for storms."
---
Three days later, Blaze signed his first six-figure deal—with Vandal Supplements. The shoot was minimalist. No script. Just Blaze shadowboxing in a warehouse, each hit echoing with hunger.
They called it "Grit and Green"—their campaign to make resilience marketable.
The check came in electronically. $112,000. Zion read the contract twice, then had it notarized.
"Your first legit paycheck," he said. "No blood on the back of this one."
---
By the end of the month, Blaze had paid off his mother's debts. Cleared her credit. Gave her the deed to a modest townhouse on the edge of the city.
When she cried, he just said, "Told you I'd come back stronger."
But even as the wealth grew, so did the shadows.
Old faces from the streets began messaging him. Claiming loyalty. Asking for handouts. Former fighters hinted at training deals, sponsorship cuts.
One night, a man named Malik—an old rival from before Blaze disappeared—showed up at The Forge unannounced.
"I hear you're rich now," Malik said, grinning. "Maybe it's time we settled who really ran these streets."
Zion stepped in before it got physical. "You want a fight, book one. Otherwise, step."
Malik left, laughing. But Blaze knew it wasn't over.
---
That night, Blaze stared at his reflection in the gym mirror. The scars were still there. But now they glittered under the lights like medals.
He whispered to himself, "Don't lose the hunger."
Because in this new world, the money came fast.
But so did the enemies.
And Blaze Carter had no intention of being rich and dead.
Only rich.
And unstoppable.