Weeks passed. Waxwell's body hardened, but his mind was restless. Rumors led him to an abandoned gym, high above the neon chaos. Inside, the air was thick with dust and iron, memories of past champions lingering like ghosts.
"Who are you?" a voice asked, calm, yet sharp as a blade.
Waxwell froze. A man emerged, older, scarred, and lean. His eyes measured Waxwell like he could see every fight he'd ever lost.
"You think strength is enough?" the man asked. "Raw power is nothing. Control, strategy, patience—that's what separates winners from the street rats."
For the first time, Waxwell felt humility. He listened, absorbed, practiced under the watchful eye of the mentor, learning techniques that emphasized precision over brute force, patience over impulse.
When he left, he wasn't just stronger—he was sharper, aware that every movement, every decision, could mean life or death.