All Chapters of Fighting Hearts: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Ten cities. Ten victories. One goal. Prague was only the beginning. That win—that K.O.—that moment when Lennox lifted Sloane into the air as if she weighed nothing—that was what started the avalanche. The media picked it up, the audience went wild, and the federation gave its nod. Overnight, the boy who had only ever been listed among the "promising" became the contender. And not just on paper. The next stop was Vienna. A more modern arena, a cooler crowd, a more aggressive opponent. But Lennox moved flawlessly. At the end of the first round, he ended the fight with a body hook—like completing a choreographed routine. K.O. In the second minute. In Munich, they were already waiting. Fans lined up at the entrance with names and flags. The German press wrote about him as "the boy from Prague." The ring was a different shape, a bit more slippery, the lights sharper, but Lennox didn't falter. He ended it in the second round again. Another K.O.—this time with a left uppercut. Am

The whitewashed hallways of the Berlin hospital muted the noise of the outside world. Inside, in one of the isolated rooms of the secure wing, Sloane lay motionless beneath the crisp white sheets. The IV dripped slowly. The EKG sent out soft, steady signals. The monitor's quiet beeping matched the rhythm of her breathing. The world still knew nothing. The press only suspected something had happened, but no official statement had been released. Lennox hadn't allowed it. This wasn't for them. The room was dim, lit only by the opalescent morning light filtering in through the window. The city outside stirred between hangover and uncertainty, but here, in this quiet corner, only one thing existed: return. Lennox sat in the armchair beside Sloane's bed, still wearing the same black hoodie from the night of the rescue. Dried blood stained the shoulder. Concrete dust clung to the knees of his pants. But he didn't care. He couldn't take it off. His body ached

Morning slipped quietly, almost imperceptibly, into the hotel suite. The yellow-white sunlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains in soft streaks, and a rare, peaceful silence lingered in the air. Not the silence of tension, not the aftershock of the previous night—this was something else. A kind of calm. Fragile, but real. Lennox woke slowly. His eyes were still closed, but he could already feel the presence of the world: the warmth of the light on his skin, the morning scents in the room—fresh linens, coffee from the hallway, a distant movement on the carpet. And most of all: Sloane. She was still lying beside him, her back nestled against his chest, breathing evenly. After the storms of the night, she was finally resting. Truly. Deeply. Her body no longer tense, her hands not clinging—just resting on the bed. Lennox pulled her a little closer, gently, almost without moving, and for a brief moment, he believed that nothing could disturb this quiet happiness. Then came

I. The Final The night in Berlin was different from all the others. Denser, more charged, electric. The stadium lights blazed like a star-city descended from another world, and every spotlight, every screen was tuned to one name: Lennox Graves. The world championship final had been delayed by a week—a gesture the sports world accepted as unprecedented. The audience was patient, the fans waited quietly, and the opponents... quietly understood. Because what had happened between Lennox and Sloane was more than sport. More than a career. It was already a personal myth. And now, the final moment had arrived. The light above the ring was white and blinding. The crowd roared and chanted his name, every seat vibrating with his rhythm—but Lennox was looking for one person. And when he found her, the noise of the world fell away. Sloane stood by the ring, just behind the security rope, at a designated medical station where only the team was allowed. The signs of healing still showed o

The old gym’s smell filled everything: sweat, aged canvas, iron and leather mingled in the air, making Kai Mercer feel as if he had never truly left this place. Though he had tried to walk away three years ago, the gym received him like an old creditor, as if it had absorbed every punch, every drop of his sweat — and now it wanted it back. Cracks ran along the walls, the bags’ leather was mottled with stains and tears, and the floor bore the darkened stains of old blood. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t clean — but it was real. Christopher Kane, the trainer, stood in the center of the ring, arms folded across his chest. His broad shoulders, greying hair and stern gaze were as they always had been: authoritative and raw, yet somewhere deep down there vibrated a care he either couldn’t or wouldn’t show. He was the man who had dragged Kai into the underground fighting world — and the only one who could stop him when he went too far. “So you found your way back,” Christopher grunted, his