Sharpening the Blade

The heat in the gym wasn’t just from the bodies pushing against each other on the mats—it was the kind of heat that came from grit, expectation, and something to prove. The air carried a haze of chalk dust, mingled with the faint, sour bite of sweat-soaked fabric. Echoes of impact—bodies hitting mats—resonated through the space. This wasn’t a gym designed for glossy photoshoots or media stunts; it was a crucible, where champions were forged in sweat and blood.

Cade Mercer adjusted his stance, his breath steady but sharp. He was mid-session, tangled in a fast-paced grappling exchange with one of the young wrestlers who had been waiting all day for the chance to test himself against the Cade Mercer. The kid had a solid base, raw power, and the kind of youthful aggression that reminded Cade of himself not too long ago.

Then, in a flash—an unexpected move—Cade found himself taken down.

A hush blanketed the gym. It wasn’t shock; Cade Mercer had been taken down before. It was anticipation. Cade stared up at the ceiling for half a second too long. He could hear the shuffle of bodies, the faint murmurs. Not doubt—curiosity.

The kid had made a statement. Now, Cade had to answer it.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, rolled to his feet, and dusted off his knees. His face betrayed nothing—no smile, no frustration. The old Cade, the one clawing his way up, would have grinned, acknowledging the kid’s effort. But the Cade who stood at the summit just reset his stance, gave a single, commanding nod, and said firmly, "Again."

Clayton Reed stood at the gym's edge, arms crossed, eyes intense. Cade didn’t need to look to know exactly what his manager's expression was—he’d seen it before, anytime something unscripted happened.

Sparring resumed, and Cade was different, sharper, calculating. Angles were tighter, instincts keener. The kid’s aggression now became a weakness Cade exploited. He took control, dominating the exchange, reminding everyone exactly why he wore the crown. Yet even as he reestablished authority, Clayton’s voice sliced through the gym's atmosphere.

"You’re the guy now, Cade. Start acting like it."

Heads turned subtly. Clayton’s voice wasn't loud, but the words echoed anyway. Cade didn’t flinch outwardly, but the comment embedded itself deep within his mind, gnawing like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.

Start acting like it.

As if proving himself here, in this gym, mattered. As if he hadn’t already proven everything he needed to. The session ended. Cade sat alone on a bench, unlacing his boots, sweat tracing paths down his back. His breathing evened out, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the wall-length mirror—body damp, eyes intense, chest rising and falling steadily. But he wasn’t just looking at his reflection.

He was searching for something else—the hungry kid who’d fought tooth and nail to win the NCAA championship. That hunger was still there, burning within him. But for how long? How long before the business, the sponsors, and the fame chipped it away piece by piece?

Clayton approached, clapping a firm hand on Cade’s shoulder. "Sponsors don’t care how many rounds you spar, Cade. They care about results."

Cade didn't respond, his gaze never wavering from his reflection. The business of fighting was reshaping him. The real question was—would Cade Mercer let it?