Two weeks remain before the Rookie King final.
Ryoma stands on the scale, waiting for the number to settle. The glowing digits freeze at 67.3. His stomach drops. More than eight kilos to cut before weigh-in.
He steps down, exhales hard through his nose, and faces the mirror. The reflection doesn’t look bloated or soft, nothing like the image of a man who’s over the limit.
***
[VISION GRID BODY SCAN ACTIVE]
Height: 173.2 cm
Weight: 67.3 kg
Body Fat: 12.8%
Muscle Developnt: Post-cut rebound state
***
BODY FRA ANALYSIS
Chest (Pectorals):
Full volu, good proportion to fra.
Definition reduced by regained fat layer.
Mass surplus: ~0.8 kg relative to Super Featherweight efficiency.
Abdominals/Core:
Abs still visible under surface fat.
Mass surplus: 0.9–1.2 kg (lower abdon obliques).
Arms (Biceps/Triceps/Forearms):
Increased mass.
Relative to current division: over-massed by 0.8–1.0 kg.
Shoulders (Deltoids):
Fra broadening evident.
Mass surplus: ~0.4 kg for division.
STATUS
Current fighting class (Super Featherweight 59 kg)
67.3 kg represents natural rebound.
Cutting to 59 kg requires removal of ~8 kg: 3.5–4 kg fat, 2–3 kg lean tissue, ~1.5–2 kg fluid.
Risk: severe strain on performance, high fatigue probability in late rounds.
***
His body is still lean, every line of muscle sharp under the skin. Broad shoulders, corded arms, abs ridged like stone.
He looks stronger than he’s ever been. And that’s the problem.
He runs a hand across his chest, clicking his tongue. "Damn... eight kilos. This is gonna be hell."
The thought bites at him. All that muscle, all that power, and most of it has to go. His body feels like a weapon freshly forged, and now he has to file it down just to make weight.
He pulls on his heavy training sweater, tugging the hood over his head. The clock reads a little past four a.m. The house is silent.
Before he leaves, he moves into the kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast, sothing light, sothing his mother can eat when she wakes.
He sits long enough to eat, to let the food settle, then ties his laces tight. By the ti the first gray hints of dawn bleed into the sky, Ryoma is already outside, breath clouding in the cold, shoes slapping pavent.
But before the roadwork begins, his system pings.
***
[DAILY CUT PROGRAM CALCULATED]
04:30 a.m. roadwork: 12 km (target sweat loss 1.3 L)
Midday resistance: low-caloric load
Evening boxing drills: 90 min, high-intensity intervals
Caloric intake: ≤ 1,200 kcal
Fluid restriction: apply on day five
***
Ryoma exhales sharply. "You sound like a damn torturer."
The system answers in its flat, synthetic tone:
"Yeah, yeah." He pulls on the heavy sweater, hood over his head, and slips out into the cold.
The streets are still dark, silent, except for his breath puffing white and the steady slap of shoes. Sweat pools early under the fabric.
His body protests every kiloter, but the system’s voice keeps chiming through his earbuds.
>
"Daamn... I miss when music used to motivate ."
By the tenth kiloter, his socks squish with sweat. He finishes at the park bench, doubled over, spitting into the dirt.
The Vision Grid flashes across his vision, coupled with its flat tone speaking to his head.
>
>
"Only 81% more misery to go, huh? Great!" Ryoma mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.
While taking a break, he spots a girl jog past on the path, ponytail bouncing, leggings hugging every curve of her stride.
Even through the haze of fatigue, his sharp eyes can’t help but track her form. Instinctively, the Vision Grid overlays a scan across her silhouette: hip-to-waist ratio, stride length, symtry balance.
Ryoma grins faintly. "Now that’s so optimal developnt..."
Before he can enjoy the thought, the system cuts him off.
>
>
>
"Oi, shut up," Ryoma mutters, waving a hand like he could swat the voice out of the air.
>
He scowls. "Unproductive? I was appreciating biochanics."
>
Ryoma snorts, dragging himself up from the bench, legs trembling. "Even this stupid system thinks I’m a pervert..."
He pulls his hood tighter, forcing his gaze back on the empty road. His body is begging for rest, but the system isn’t letting him off the leash.
>
Ryoma groans, shoulders sagging. "I’d kill for water. Or ran. Or... hell, even cabbage soup would be great."
But the voice is unrelenting, cold as steel.
>
With a low curse, Ryoma starts walking toward the gym, sweat still dripping, shoes squelching. But his punishnt has only just begun.
***
At the gym, Hiroshi is already waiting with a whistle hanging from his neck and that expression Ryoma hates: half-bored, half-smug.
"You look like laundry soone forgot to dry," Hiroshi says, tossing him a pair of fresh wraps.
"Thanks. Your pep talks are the reason I live."
"Shut up and glove up."
In the ring, Coach Nakahara stands ready with the mitts. The old man doesn’t waste ti. He jerks his hand up, the target snapping into place like a command.
Monts later...
"Jab!"
Dsh!
Leather smacks leather.
"Cross! Slip! Hook!"
Sweat sprays with every punch, every twist of Ryoma’s waist. Nakahara’s eyes are razor sharp, picking apart every flaw.
"Your left’s dragging. Too much water in your shoulders."
"Feels like cent to ," Ryoma pants.
"That’s because you’re carrying useless weight. Move faster."
Round after round, Nakahara forces precision out of him, drilling the fundantals until Ryoma’s arms feel like lead and his lungs scrape for air.
Only when Nakahara finally lowers the mitts does Hiroshi pounce, herding Ryoma straight to the floor for conditioning.
"Jump rope. Five minutes. Don’t trip."
Then dicine ball slams. Burpees. Sprawls until the mat shines with sweat. Hiroshi keeps the rhythm cruel, never giving him more than a breath.
Hiroshi never lets him coast, never lets him forget the scale. The kilos cling like chains, and the clock ticks louder every day.
He straps Ryoma into the resistance suit, elastic cords tugging at every limb, weights biting into his hips and shoulders.
"Move," Hiroshi orders.
Ryoma grits his teeth and begins to shadowbox. Every jab drags like it’s underwater, every pivot feels like running through sand. Sweat streams down his face as the suit snaps him back with every motion.
"You want to fight Serrano in the final," Hiroshi scoffs, "or roll into the ring as sushi at?"
"Can sushi at move like this?" Ryoma smirks through clenched teeth, throwing a sluggish combination.
His hook carves the air but bounces back against the cords, landing weak and slow.
"Pathetic!" Hiroshi jeers. "Sushi at with wasabi."
Between sets, Ryoma collapses on the bench, chest heaving. The Vision Grid flickers across his vision:
[Weight loss forecast: –0.6 kg]
[Hydration deficit: critical if extended]
"Critical," Ryoma mutters. "So is listening to this idiot."
"What?" Hiroshi snaps.
"Nothing, boss. Just loving life."
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