The noise inside Korakuen Hall hasn’t faded yet. The last fight ends in a decision, gloves raised, corner n climbing through the ropes. The crowd claps in that tired and satisfied rhythm that cos when everyone knows the night’s almost over.
Monts later, the announcer’s voice echoes through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlen, thank you for attending the 2015 Tokyo Block Rookie of the Year Tournant! Please stay for the award presentation ceremony!"
The ring lights flare again. Sweat still glistens on the canvas like spilled glass. Photographers move into position. So fans rise from their seats, phones up, still riding the adrenaline from the fights earlier.
Four young boxers step through the ropes, each carrying the marks of their battles, bandaged hands, swollen faces, stiff movents. They line up side by side beneath the bright lights, trying to smile through exhaustion.
The announcer reads their nas one by one, starting from flyweight, bantamweight, featherweight, super featherweight, and lightweight division champion.
There are also winners from five other divisions who fought last week. But between "Featherweight" and "Lightweight," sothing feels missing.
The crowd stirs. So lean over the barricade, whispering.
"Wait... what about Super Featherweight?"
"Wasn’t Ryoma supposed to be here?"
"Yeah, the one who knocked that gaijin cold..."
The announcer clears his throat, eyes flicking to his cue card.
"The Super Featherweight Division Champion, representing Kirizu Boxing Gym, Ryoma Takeda. Please step into the ring."
The hall bursts into applause, louder now, more curious than celebratory. But the spot between the Featherweight and Lightweight champions remains empty.
Soone in the front row calls out, "Where is he?"
Another voices his disappointnt, "He already left? What? Did he take this tournant a joke?"
From the corridor, Hiroshi appears and runs toward the ring. He bows once to the officials before climbing into the ring, and then whispers to the announcer.
The announcer clears his throat, and announces. "Accepting on behalf of Ryoma Takeda... Hiroshi Yamada, Kirizu Boxing Gym!"
Applauses soften into sothing respectful, but uncertain. Hiroshi bows deeply, receives the small championship trophy and dal, and steps back into line with the others.
The announcer continues, voice booming through the hall: "And now, the Most Valuable Fighter of the Tournant, chosen from all ten divisions..."
Flashes burst from every corner. On the screen above, Ryoma’s highlight reel plays, the crisp combinations, the cold precision, that final knockout that left everyone speechless.
For a mont, the arena goes silent watching it. The clip ends on Ryoma’s face, calm and still, uncelebrating.
And the announcer continues:
"Super Featherweight Champion... Ryoma ’the Chaleon’ Takeda!"
The crowd roars. So laugh, others clap harder. Even without him, the na alone draws energy.
Hiroshi steps forward again as the officials bring out the large white award banner, gold lettering gleaming under the lights:
TOKYO BLOCK ROOKIE OF THE YEAR TOURNANT — MOST VALUABLE FIGHTER, PRIZE ¥5,000,000
The weight of it nearly bends in his hands. He bows, takes the banner and trophy, and steps back. The crowd keeps cheering Ryoma’s na, as if their noise might summon him back into the ring.
But as the applause begins to fade, the first jeers slip through the noise.
"Where is he?"
"Too good for the ceremony now?"
"He walked out right after his win!"
A few scattered boos follow, not many, but loud enough to sour the mont. The cheers falter, the hall wavers between confusion and irritation.
From the side, the Lightweight Champion, Kobayashi Ayano, glances down the line, expression sour. The spotlight he wanted is half-turned away, swallowed by the na of soone who isn’t even here.
Hiroshi flinches, just barely. He exchanges a look with the officials, then steps toward the announcer, leaning close to whisper sothing. The announcer listens, his face tightening in surprise. Then he nods once, and his mic hums back to life.
"Ladies and gentlen," the announcer says carefully, "we’ve just been inford that Ryoma Takeda had to leave the venue due to a family dical ergency. His mother was taken to the hospital earlier this evening."
The noise dies instantly. The sa people who booed a mont ago lower their heads. The tension lts into uneasy silence.
"On behalf of Takeda and the Kirizu Boxing Gym," the announcer adds, bowing slightly, "we sincerely apologize for his absence tonight and thank you for your understanding."
Then, softly, the applause returns, not wild, not explosive, but warm and steady, a sound closer to empathy than excitent.
Hiroshi bows again, holding the banner close to his chest. The crowd’s faces blur into one mass of sympathy and guilt under the lights.
The announcer gives the closing words: "Let’s give one more round of applause for all our champions tonight! These nine boxers represent the future of Tokyo boxing!"
The crowd cheers again, but Hiroshi barely hears it. He doesn’t smile, only staring out at the crowd, knowing that sowhere out there, Ryoma is fighting sothing far more important than the next round.
***
JR Tokyo General Hospital
A taxi stops in front of the ergency entrance, its tires hissing against the pavent.
Nakahara throws the door open before it fully halts. Kenta pays the bill, and then steps out, barely getting his footing before Nakahara’s already striding toward the glass doors.
Another cab pulls up a mont later. From it spill Ryohei, Okabe, and Aramaki, eyes darting between the lit sign above the building and the heavy glass doors.
But Nakahara doesn’t wait for them. He’s already at the front desk, both hands on the counter.
"Fumiko Takeda," he says, his voice low but firm. "She was brought in just now. Where is she?"
The nurse glances at her monitor, then points down the corridor. "Ergency treatnt unit, right wing."
Nakahara nods once and moves imdiately. Kenta mutters a quiet thanks and follows close behind, the others scrambling to keep up.
They turn a corner, and there, in the waiting area outside the ER, they finally see Ryoma and Kaede, sitting side by side on a plastic bench.
Kaede looks up first. Her hair’s tied hastily, her expression pale and tight. Ryoma doesn’t move at first. His hands hang between his knees, still wrapped loosely in tape. His body’s covered now in Kaede’s coat, too big for him, draped over his shoulders like a blanket.
Still barefoot, still in his boxing trunks, Ryoma’s eyes hollow from crying. When he sees them, he stands, or tries to. His movent is slow, looking so drained.
Nakahara reaches him in two strides. "Sit down, idiot," he says, voice rougher than he ans it. "You’ll pass out."
Ryoma blinks, nods faintly, and sinks back onto the bench.
Kenta crouches in front of him. "Your mom. What’s her condition?"
Ryoma shakes his head. His voice is low and hoarse. "They haven’t told anything yet. She just collapsed... I don’t know what happened."
No one says anything for a while. The only sounds are the faint beeping of monitors and the rolling of gurney wheels sowhere behind the double doors.
Then, the door to the treatnt unit slides open. A dical staff mber, maybe a resident in scrubs, mask still hanging under his chin, steps out, scanning the waiting area.
"Family of Fumiko Takeda?"
Ryoma is on his feet. "That’s ."
The man nods, a little surprised by Ryoma’s appearance; the tape, the female coat, the bare feet. But then he speaks gently.
"You were lucky," he says. "It’s good you brought her when you did. If it had been even a few minutes later, we might not have been able to save her."
Ryoma exhales sharply, the sound almost breaking. "So... she’s okay now?"
The man hesitates. "She’s still unconscious. We’re stabilizing her condition now. Her vitals are holding steady, but she’s not out of danger yet."
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