But fate has other plans. The mont Ryoma’s eyes flicker open, light floods into his brain, and sothing feels wrong.
There’s no pain, no bar, no blood, and no bullets.
Instead, he’s seated on a worn vinyl bench, wrapped in the scent of sweat, chalk, and oil. There’s duct tape on the walls. A dented water cooler in the corner.
Is this... so kind of mory? A dream? So post-death delusion?
He lowers his head, trying to calm his nerves. But sothing flickers at the edge of his vision, a ripple, like heat distortion bending the air.
***
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
Core Authority: VISION GRID SYSTEM
Type: Perception-Based Combat Enhancer
Grade: Unique
Description:
Visual Processing Unlocked.
Kinetic Prediction Modules Calibrated.
Reflex Relay Preloaded.
Previous Life Combat Data Synced.
System Online.
***
He blinks once.
"What the hell...? Am I turning into a robot now?"
His hands twitch in reflex, and instinctively, he glances down at his legs, expecting that old familiar ache in the left, the weight, the unresponsive drag.
But no, his left leg bends cleanly beneath him, like it had never been crushed. He touches the thigh, then the knee. It’s all solid and responsive.
Still blinking in disbelief, he shifts his weight to it. And for the first ti in years, it doesn’t betray him.
"Is this... really happening?"
For a second, he feels disoriented, like soone shoved two different lives into one skull and left him to sort out the echoes.
Then the system pulses again, and a second panel blooms open.
***
[TEMPORAL VERIFICATION ACTIVE...]
Current Location: Ryogoku Kokugikan – Locker Room B-2
Current Date: March 21st, 2015
Status: First Professional Match Scheduled in 28 Minutes
Opponent: Kazuya Tōjō
Alert: Combat scenario matches archived loss event. Combat Data Replay available for comparative analysis.
***
Ryoma stares at the date, his mouth dry. He is back in ti, to ten years ago. And this is the exact day, the match that derailed his confidence as a boxer.
The mory of Tōjō’s taunting grin, the third-round hook, the long silence after the knockout. The way it all unraveled after that...
"I’m back... with the mory... my left leg..."
"And this system... It’s so kind of combat-assist interface, feeding readouts like a machine."
Before he can digest everything, another notification appears.
***
[Would you like to watch the video of that match?]
- Y/N
***
Ryoma slowly shakes his head once. And the notification disappears.
He doesn’t need it. He’s already seen it hundreds of tis, day after day, sotis drunk, sotis numb, but always full of regret.
He never believed he lost because he lacked skill. He wasn’t weak, wasn’t outclassed. He simply froze, choked under the pressure of his first pro match.
Let the lights blind him. Let Tōjō’s smug grin crawl under his skin. Got dragged into a pace he didn’t control. And when the taunts ca, cheap childish jabs, he snapped and grew reckless.
Every ti he rewatched that fight, he told himself: I should’ve done this. Should’ve moved here. Slipped there. Held my guard. He said a hundred variations of a better self, but none of them real.
That fight beca the day he hated most. And now, by so miracle or curse, he’s standing in front of it again. The debt is still unpaid. But this ti, he plans to collect.
anwhile, Coach Nakahara paces across the room, wearing black warm-ups and the look of a man who always expects a brawl.
Then, just before Ryoma stands, the coach pauses and crouches in front of him. His voice drops, quiet and asured.
"Listen. Most guys lose their first fight ’cause they try to win every second of it. But the match doesn’t care how many seconds you win. Only how you finish."
He places a hand on Ryoma’s taped wrist and gives it a small squeeze.
"Let the punk waste his energy looking flashy. You just wait for your mont, and when it cos, make damn sure he doesn’t get back up."
Ryoma ets his eyes. And this ti, he doesn’t feel like a kid hearing it for the first ti.
He nods, calm.
"I know, Coach! I know exactly when that mont is. I’ve studied him, watched his video hundreds tis."
Coach Nakahara is stunned.
He has trained Ryoma since he was still in high school. The kid is naïve, always like to talk big. But now, those words, though calm and confident, carry none of the naïveté they once did.
Ryoma no longer looks like a teenager. His eyes belong to soone older, like a veteran boxer who has tasted failure, worn regret like a second skin, and lived through a past that still demands to be corrected.
Then a voice cos.
"Takeda. You’re up."
Ryoma raises and walks without a limp, without the dead drag that used to pull on his left leg like a curse. And for a terrifying second, he almost cries. Just the act of walking to the ring feels like ti itself had handed him a cri of impossible kindness.
Coach Nakahara doesn’t follow. He just stands there, watching Ryoma’s back as the boy walks out of the room. There’s a crease between his brows, a tension he doesn’t na. It isn’t worry, not quite, but sothing close, sothing unsettled.
His assistant, a younger man with clipboard and towel in hand, glances over and frowns.
"Coach? You coming?"
Nakahara blinks, as if waking from a trance. Then slowly turns, and the corner of his mouth curls. It’s not in amusent, but in anticipation, like he’s standing at the edge of sothing big and doesn’t know the shape of it yet.
"I don’t know what it is," he says, voice low and steady, "but tonight... we’re gonna see sothing special."
As he gets into the ring, Ryoma’s mory takes full shape. The lights dim, and the spotlight chases across the canvas as Kazuya Tōjō enters the ring.
He soaks up the attention like it’s owed to him, arms spread wide, chin raised, strutting to the beat of his entrance song like the arena is his personal stage. The crowd responds, mostly with cheers, but so with groans. But Tōjō just feeds off both.
He winks at a girl in the front row, pounds his gloves together, then leaps over the ropes instead of stepping through them.
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers:
"In the red corner, undefeated with four wins, one by knockout... from Kirizu Boxing Gym... give it up for... KAZUYA TŌJŌ!"
Tōjō throws his fists into the air. He doesn’t even glance at Ryoma’s corner.
Ryoma, anwhile, stands motionless, eyes fixed only on his opponent. His vision narrows, and his system hums.
***
[SCAN: OPPONENT STATUS – KAZUYA TŌJŌ]
Age: 21
Height: 174 cm
Stance: Southpaw
Muscle Density: 82% optimal
Fatigue Residue: Moderate
Reaction Index: 77%
Balance Calibration: Slight lean on left heel
Body Mass Recheck: 2.3kg from weigh-in
"Subject failed to maintain optimal dehydration recovery window. Nutrient absorption incomplete. Delayed rehydration curve. Likely due to poor pre-fight prep or overconfidence."
"Analysis: Subject is fast, but sluggish in lateral footwork. Susceptible to right feints and body-to-head combinations."
***
Ryoma exhales slowly.
"Yeah, I know. He never even took seriously back then. But I’m not the sa person anymore."
"I’m going to beat him... and take back what he stole from ."
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