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**Prince Adeyemi** · (02-04-2025)

Isaiah King sat on his knees in the center of the ring, the Universal Championship pressed tightly against his chest. His hands trembled as if the weight of the belt was heavier than he remembered it to be. He didn't look at it, couldn't. Instead, his gaze drifted upward, caught in the glare of the blinding stadium lights that now seemed far too bright for the moment.

The crowd, moments ago a roaring sea of chaos, had quieted. Their shock mirrored his silence, their sporadic jeers like faint echoes in a deep void.

At ringside, Charlie leaned against the guardrail, blood streaking down his face, a grin curling his lips despite the punishment he’d endured. His eyes burned not into Isaiah but the exhausted insurgent at the edge of the ring.

Isaiah’s head snapped toward the ramp. His body reacted before his mind caught up, every nerve firing in anticipation of that familiar presence. He expected.... But the ramp was empty. The cameramen were gone. The show was over.

There was no music, no celebration. No hand on his shoulder to ground him. Just him.

The realization hit him like a tidal wave. It was his again. His throne. His reign.

And yet, as Isaiah rose to his feet, clutching the championship like it might slip through his fingers, he felt the weight of it more than ever.

The Lonely King stood tall in the spotlight, but his shadow stretched further than it ever had.

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