The sa day, the sa noon.
The air inside Kirizu Boxing Gym is heavy with sound, the rhythmic slap of jump ropes, and the smack of gloves against pads.
In the ring, Renji Kuroiwa moves like a storm in rhythm.
His build now is deceptive, solid, a bit soft around the waist, but heavy with power. Each motion has density, every jab, every step, sounds heavier than it looks.
Across from him stands Morine Mizusaki, ranked 10th in the lightweight division, a sharp compact puncher with quick feet and a solid chin.
The bell for second round of spar rings, and Renji advances, glove raised high, chin tucked behind his shoulder.
And it begins, his flicker jabs.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
A triple jab cos from that odd loose shoulder roll stance. But unlike the flickers of a pure outboxer, Renji’s jabs have weight behind them.
They don’t just touch; they snap, each jab landing like a hamr in disguise.
Mizusaki tries to step around, throwing a right over Renji’s shoulder guard. But Renji leans with it, absorbing, turning the punch off-line.
His counter isn’t a sharp hook. It is a forward shove of a jab, then a step inside before a strong straight.
"Push him back, Renji!" Kirizu barks, arms crossed beside the ring. "Make him feel you!"
Renji follows the instruction. He doesn’t dance. He just presses with pressure.
This is his rhythm, not reactive, not waiting. His Philly Shell doesn’t roll to avoid pressure. He rolls through it.
His stance isn’t the narrow sideways line of a counterpuncher. He faces forward, weight over the front foot, ready to fire.
From there, his right hand isn’t a reaction. It’s pressure in motion.
DUG! DUG! DUG!
Body shots digs in like shovels. Mizusaki’s guard folded in, legs shifting to stay upright.
Renji follows with a jab, then another, that flicker again, but faster this ti, five in a row, each one thudding against glove or skin.
"Fight back," Mizusaski’s second calls out. "Don’t just stand there. Throw sothing."
Mizusaki burst forward in retaliation, right hook, left uppercut.
Renji rolls the first, caught the second on his forearm, then snaps up with a sharp short right.
It isn’t clean, but the sound is ugly, his glove only hits the headgear, but sweat spraying under the gym light.
Ding!
The bell saves Mizusaki.
Renji exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders loose. He turns and walks to his corner, sitting down as Kirizu hands him a towel.
"You look good," Kirizu says. "Don’t get cute with the rolls. Keep walking him down. He’s fast, but he’s breaking."
Renji nods once, water bottle pressed to his lips. Then he spits into the bucket.
But the next round never starts. Mizusaki’s trainer steps up onto the apron and waves a hand.
"Guess that’s enough for today, Kirizu," he calls out. "We’ve got a fight coming up. I’m not risking my guy."
Coach Kirizu doesn’t argue. He knows Renji’s in his best condition lately. One more round against a heavy hitter like him, and Mizusaki might’ve walked out bruised enough to cancel his own bout.
***
Just today alone, Renji’s run through three sparring partners, all outsiders brought in by the gym. He’s still not satisfied, but he can’t press it further.
It’s not about racking up rounds anymore. It’s the anxiety, the tension of his first international fight.
Kirizu has brought him plenty of boxers to mimic different styles, but none of them fight like Elliot Graves.
Now Renji turns to the heavy bag instead. The anxiety bleeds out through his fists...
THUD!
THUD! THUD! THUD!
THUD! THUD! BAM! THUD!
The sound alone kills the chatter. One by one, the other boxers stop what they’re doing, eyes drawn toward him.
Even Serrano, the arrogant kid who’s kept pestering for a spar with Renji, now realizes how foolish that idea was.
In these past months, he’s been learning what real boxing discipline feels like. He’s no longer the reckless kid who thought he could humiliate everyone just because of his genetics.
Now he knows better. He understands just how wide the gulf still is between him and Renji Kuroiwa.
***
After a few more minutes of hamring the heavy bag, Renji finally stops. His arms ache, sweat dripping from his chin, but the pressure in his chest won’t fade.
The rhythm in his fists might’ve burned through his strength, but not his anxiety.
He exhales, long and slow, and unstraps his gloves.
Then footsteps approach from behind.
"Done already?"
Renji turns, finding Kirizu standing a few paces away.
"I just got a call," Kirizu says. "Elliot Graves has just landed in Tokyo."
Renji blinks. "Already? The fight’s still two weeks out."
Kirizu shrugs lightly. "Guess they wanted extra ti to get used to the ti difference... or maybe to scout around."
Renji frowns, grabbing a towel and wiping his face. "That early, huh. Confident bunch."
"Or maybe nervous," Kirizu says, his tone mild, but his eyes sharp. "Could be they’re the ones feeling the pressure. You’re not exactly an easy fight to walk into blind."
Renji lets out a short laugh. "You think that’s it?"
Kirizu nods once. "Every fighter wants an edge before a big fight. If they ca early, maybe it’s because they’re not as sure about this one as people think."
The words hang there for a mont, almost casual, but Renji feels the subtle push behind them. Then he gives a small nod, as if to say he understands.
But when Kirizu turns away, Renji catches the faint reflection of himself in the mirror across the room, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
Even with those words, the anxiety doesn’t disappear. It just shifts, simring sowhere deeper.
***
Without a word, Renji grabs his gym bag and walks toward the locker room. Not to shower, not to rest, just to be alone.
He sinks onto the bench, pulls out his phone, and opens a video, highlights of Elliot Graves’ previous fights.
Elliot’s movents are smooth, unnaturally smooth. There’s a rhythm to him, like jazz. The way he shifts his weight, the way his head and shoulders roll, looks fluid, elegant, unpredictable.
Every feint, every pivot feels effortless, like he’s dancing on air.
But then, when he lets the right hand go...
BAM!
The rhythm breaks. The soft jazz turns into hard tal, sharp, violent, and sudden. The snap of that punch carries the sound of sothing solid.
Renji rewinds, watches it again. And again.
It’s not the speed that bothers him. It’s the control. The way Elliot’s tempo changes right before impact, from smooth to sharp, from slow to explosive, like a trapdoor snapping shut.
Renji sits there, staring at the screen, his reflection faintly visible over the replaying footage.
He’s had so many fights. Too many, maybe, and never lost once.
But sowhere along the way, the thrill faded. His last few opponents had fallen too easily, and each ti his hand was raised, the victory felt lighter than before.
The only ti he’d actually felt sothing was during that spar with Ryoma.
He’s still thinking about those few seconds when his vision went black, body frozen upright, mind flickering out while still on his feet.
That mont has been stuck under his skin ever since.
Could it be that all those easy wins... actually made soft?
He hates even thinking about it, but the doubt clings stubbornly. The sa thought he never says out loud, not even to Kirizu.
It’s the reason why he stubbornly asked Kirizu to set up an official match with Ryoma, a real one, not just sparring.
Because deep down, he knew Ryoma was the only one who’d ever made him question if he was truly as good as the belt said he was.
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