The Last Bell

They called him Orion Fist. Not for the stars he wore across his robe, but for the way his punches echoed through dimensions. He wasn’t born in a ring. He was born of it—a singularity of muscle and myth, forged in the gravitational crucible between dying suns.

The Universe crowned him Champion not with belts, but with silence. After his final bout—against the Void itself—time fractured. Space folded. And the crowd, scattered across galaxies, held their breath forever.

Now he crouches, fists raised, beneath a sky that no longer moves. The stars behind him are frozen mid-blink, galaxies paused in admiration. His boots rest on nothing. His breath is a relic. He is the last motion in a cosmos that dared to stop.

Some say he waits for a challenger. Others whisper that he is the challenge—a test for any god who thinks eternity is theirs to command.

But the truth is simpler.

He is the bell that never rang.
The fight that never ended.
The champion of a Universe that dared to dream of struggle, and found beauty in the pause.

---

Want to expand this into a mythic cycle or give him a rival from another dimension? I’m ready to spar with ideas.