BLOOD & GLORY (1)

🥊 Blood & Glory

By [JUBA KIOUAS]

Everyone said Malik was born with concrete in his veins and fire in his fists. He just said he was born tired — tired of poverty, tired of empty promises, tired of the kind of life where you work ten hours and still go to bed hungry.

He grew up in the outskirts of Algiers, in a concrete box where the electricity blinked more than it shone. His father left when he was six. His mother scrubbed floors in three different houses and still couldn’t afford meat more than once a month. At thirteen, Malik was already taller than his teachers and angrier than most men in prison. He didn’t care about algebra. He cared about escape.

By eighteen, everyone around him was choosing their fates: factory work, begging, petty crime — or the mythical “Europe,” if they were lucky. But Malik didn’t want to vanish into the grind of a 9-to-5. He had hands like iron and a heart like gasoline. And he had a dream: professional boxing. Not the underground scraps in back alleys — the real deal. Lights. Titles. Madison Square Garden. America.

But dreams cost money. And Malik had none.


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Round One: The Hustle

He started fighting in the back of butcher shops, mechanic garages, and sweaty gym basements. At first, just to eat. But soon he realized: people would bet on him. And if he convinced enough of them that he’d win, he could make real money.

Malik made deals. With hustlers. With men in sunglasses and crooked smiles. He’d take a percentage of their winnings if they bet big on him. “Double your money, or I give it back,” he’d promise. Confidence was never his problem.

And it worked. He won. Again and again. His name started echoing through the alleys like a war drum. People started showing up just to watch him make other men bleed.

The money came fast. Faster than he expected. He bought protein powder, proper gloves, a visa application. He studied English at night. “One day,” he told his mother, “I’ll call you from New York.”


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Round Two: The Fall

Then came the wrong fight.

A last-minute opponent switch. Malik’s guy dropped out. The replacement? A brutal southpaw from Marseille, quiet eyes and prison tattoos. Malik knew he should walk away.

But he didn’t.

He’d already taken money from a powerful local gambler named Hichem — a man who smiled too easily and wore gold chains that screamed danger. Malik had promised him a win. People had placed thousands on him. And deep inside, something else whispered:

“You’re invincible.”

He wasn’t.

In the second round, the Marseille fighter clipped him with a hook so sharp it felt like death was tapping his chin. Malik dropped. His body hit the mat like a bag of wet cement.

And the room went silent.


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Round Three: The Threat

Two nights later, Hichem showed up at Malik’s apartment with three men. No guns. Just words.

“You lost me 10,000 euros,” Hichem said, voice calm. “That’s not a number I forget.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Malik said, his mouth dry.

“You will,” Hichem nodded. “Or your mother will never see you again.”

They gave him two weeks.


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Round Four: The Fire

Malik didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He didn’t fight. His hands shook. Every alley looked like a trap. Every car engine made his heart freeze.

But fear breeds focus.

He stopped betting on himself. He started training harder than ever. Running until his lungs tore. Punching until his knuckles bled. He fought in private gyms, against beasts for nothing but pride. And he won.

With that footage, he put together a highlight reel. Sent it to small trainers in Las Vegas. He only got one reply — a Cuban ex-champion named Raul who ran a broken-down gym off the Strip.

“I see something in you,” Raul wrote. “You get here, I’ll train you.”

Malik sold everything. His watch. His bike. Even his mother’s old gold ring. And then — the miracle. A childhood friend wired him the last $500 he needed.


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Final Round: The Escape

On the day he flew out, Malik stood in the airport with a stitched eye, a cracked rib, and a bag full of dreams. Hichem never came back. Maybe he moved on. Maybe he was waiting in America. Malik didn’t care.

He landed in Las Vegas on a burning July afternoon, sweat already dripping down his spine.

Raul met him outside the terminal, holding a cardboard sign that said: “Fighter.”

Malik smiled.

He wasn’t a victim anymore.

He was a warrior.

And this was only the beginning.