"The king is dead!"

        The phrase echoed around his battered brain, refusing to die down. It wasn't a memory. It was being screamed by the rat in a headset that called himself a commentator not twenty feet away. 

        He had gone down for the first time in his career. The bell had saved him, but the next round was the last: it would not save him again. His cornermen would not let him sit. He "needed to get his legs back". What legs? They felt like phantom limbs, lost in battle long before.

        He finally managed to move his head enough to catch a glimpse of what was behind his coach's head, his eyes finding smug, defiant ones to meet them.His opponent looked as though he had slain a giant. He had, in a way. He pried his eyes away, as quickly as he could, and found the Belt. It sat there, mocking him, its long stay with him nearly over.

        The cheers were deafening. The "king" being dead must be something they wanted. He watched his mother being led out of the arena, along with his wife and children. How ashamed they must be. How embarrassing to have him lose like this.

        He looked down, the sweat from his brow falling through the gap between his gloves and landing on the canvas.

        The blood between his feet had been scrubbed into a pale reflection of reality, like a reflection in a pool, paled by the sun. The fighters before him had spilled it onto the floor, all for the amusement of the crowd.

       The times had changed. Instead of having their carcasses dragged off by their heels, they walked out like heroes, elated or inconsolable. Or they were carried.

       "10 seconds," the referee called, hovering over the shoulders of his retainers, warning them to get out. His coach shouted more gibberish to him as he left the ring, leaving him to his fate. 

       It was then he realized something, in the glare of the stadium lights, surrounded by strangers: it was not over yet. He raised a glove before his face and tensed his arm. The strengths still there, the strength that had gotten him to where he was.

       His opponent was left alone in the ring as well, and looked at him with such arrogance. It was the same look he had gotten early in his career, when they hadn't known who they were dealing with. He then did something he never thought he would do again: he smiled. That brought his counterpart's face to a more sober expression.

       He rolled his shoulders, readying himself for the violence he must now do. He should focus. The bell would ring soon.

       Long live the king.