Moving up a class is supposed to make things easier, or so people who’ve never done it like to say. But Ryoma doesn’t buy. The mont he made the decision, he already knew: nothing about this would be simple. Every extra kilogram has its own personality, its own rebellion to ta.
Lightweight tops out at 61.2 kilograms, but Hiroshi’s plan pushes Ryoma’s walk-around weight to 65. That way, he can cut the four kilos before weigh-in, and regain them back before stepping into the ring.
He will need to be above that weight limit, because his opponent will do the sa. Hiroshi calls it effective weight, mass that doesn’t just exist, but moves on command. Every gram must earn its keep.
Ryoma likes the sound of that, even if he’s still learning what it feels like. Now he’s flat on the bench press, the fra uneven, padding torn at the corners.
The barbell’s older than he is, iron plates mismatched, one side heavier, as if the past itself leans harder.
"Keep your wrist tight," Hiroshi says quietly. "Exhale on the way up."
He stands behind him, calm and precise, watching Ryoma’s form the way a sculptor watches the lines of unfinished stone.
Ryoma presses the bar upward, the tal scraping faintly against the rack. His left arm dips lower, the imbalance tugging at his focus.
"Feels heavier on the right," he mutters through clenched teeth.
"It is," Hiroshi answers, voice dry but steady. "That’s how you learn to find your center. The world won’t spot you when it matters."
Ryoma almost smiles at that. He knows it’s just an excuse. The bar is uneven because the gym is old, and money’s always been tight.
But he doesn’t mind. Every imperfection in this place feels like a debt he intends to pay. One day, he tells himself, he’ll fix this gym, the floors, the equipnt, the lighting, all of it.
He’ll raise the gym’s na high enough to bring in sponsors, to draw real attention, to prove that a fighter from a humble place can still build a world-class future.
Around them, the gym carries on in its usual rhythm: the slap of gloves against leather, the squeak of shoes pivoting on the mat, the short sharp breaths of fighters counting under their breath.
Okabe’s voice rises from the far corner, full of mock irritation as he pulls against the resistance suit.
"You know what, Ryoma, that bar actually older than the old man himself!"
Ryohei laughs, shaking his head. "Careful, he might hear you."
Nakahara doesn’t look up from the desk near the ring, but his voice rolls across the room, deep and gravelly.
"Okabe! If you’ve got ti to joke, you’ve got ti to jab!"
The laughter dies quickly. Only Kenta and Aramaki remain unchanged, silent in their corner, working the heavy bag with unbroken rhythm.
Ryoma racks the bar after the final rep, his arms trembling from the strain. Hiroshi steps forward, checking his elbows, adjusting his grip, then nods once.
"Better," he says. "But don’t chase the numbers. We’re building function, not vanity. You’ll thank when you et soone who walks around at sixty-six and still moves faster than you expect."
Ryoma sits up, his breath heavy, a film of sweat clinging to his shoulders.
"Feels strange," he says quietly. "Being heavier."
"That’s good," Hiroshi replies, already pulling the kettlebells closer. "Strange ans your body is learning. If it still feels familiar, you’re not changing."
He then gestures toward the corner where the floor is darkened with scuff marks and chalk dust.
"Kettlebell swings, then dicine ball rotations. I want your hips snapping like pistons, not hinges."
Ryoma nods, standing slowly. As he grips the kettlebell handle and braces his stance, he realizes he isn’t just lifting weight anymore. He’s trying to understand it, to make peace with it, to learn how it moves through him.
Progress, he thinks, isn’t lighter or heavier. It’s just harder to balance.
***
By late afternoon, the gym feels slower, quieter. The air still holds the weight of the day’s heat and the sll of chalk and iron.
Ryoma has already showered and changed, though the soreness clings to him like a second skin. His limbs feel heavy, the kind of heaviness that seeps deep into the bones, where even walking seems like an argunt against gravity.
He ties his shoes, slings his gym bag over his shoulder, and waves briefly at the others. Okabe and Ryohei are still fooling around near the ring, arguing about sothing trivial. Kenta is gone, as usual, slipping out without a sound the mont his training ends.
Hiroshi, still near the bench press, calls out before Ryoma reaches the door. "Hey. Don’t forget the diet notes I gave you. You’re building muscle now, not feeding it junk. Stick to the plan."
"Yeah, yeah," Ryoma mumbles, voice hoarse and lazy.
His body feels like lead, his mind half asleep. He waves a hand without turning around and steps out into the late afternoon light.
The walk ho, barely ten minutes on a normal day, but today stretches into fifteen. Each step feels deliberate, like he’s dragging the rest of the world with him.
He stops by the barbershop, the familiar chi of the doorbell greets him as he steps in. His mother stands behind the chair, scissors flashing under the yellow light.
One custor sits before the mirror; two others wait quietly near the window, flipping through worn magazines.
Ryoma stops just past the door, too tired to move further. His hands hang loosely at his sides, fingers still trembling from the bench press.
He wants to help, the way he usually does when the shop gets busy. But today, when he reaches for the scissors on the counter, his fingers can barely close around the handle. Even lifting them feels like moving through water, every muscle protesting.
The tal feels absurdly heavy in his hand, like so instrunt from another world. He holds them for a mont, then sets them back down, defeated. So he just watches instead.
His mother’s movents are steady and calm. Her face looks brighter today, healthier, color slowly returning to her cheeks.
Ryoma watches her the way soone watches the sky after a long storm, quietly and carefully, afraid to believe it’s really clearing.
>
Ryoma exhales, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. Maybe the system is right. She does look fine. Maybe even better than just fine.
"Sorry, mom," he mutters as he slouches onto the small bench near the wall. "I can’t even lift my hands. I think I left my arms back at the gym."
His mother glances at him through the mirror, smiling faintly. "Then you’d better go ho before you lose your legs too. Get so rest."
Ryoma doesn’t answer. He leans his head back, watching her reflection instead. She looks tired, yes, but stable, stronger than she was a few days ago. That should be enough to comfort him, yet it isn’t.
He’d promised himself he’d never leave her alone again, that he’d train, fight, and still be there when she needed him. Yet re few hours away already feels like a broken vow.
So he stays, watching from the worn-out bench, breathing quietly, as if his stillness alone could stand guard for her.
And in that quiet, he makes another promise, one not ant for anyone to hear. He’ll grow stronger, strong enough that training won’t drain everything out of him.
Strong enough that, even after the hardest rounds, he’ll still have the strength to lift a pair of scissors beside her.
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