June 19th, 2016
The Japan Boxing Commission (JBC) Headquarters, Korakuen Area, Tokyo Do City.
The weigh-in hall inside Korakuen feels unusually warm, not from tension but from the low polite chatter.
Unlike most pre-fight events, no one here carries any real grudges. It feels more like a small reunion than a battleground.
Aramaki stands near the back, straightening the sleeves of his track jacket. When Coach Murakami steps through the doors, still carrying that unmistakable presence, Aramaki reacts before he can think.
He bows deeply. "Coach... thank you for coming."
Murakami pauses, studying his forr boxer.
For a mont Aramaki looks unsure whether the man will accept it. But Murakami’s expression softens, almost warm.
"You’ve grown, Aramaki," he says simply. "I’ve watched your fights. Your balance looks better. Your shoulders don’t rise anymore when you jab."
Aramaki exhales, the tension lting a little. "I’ve been working hard. Coach Nakahara pushed a lot."
Murakami nods once. "Good. Keep improving. That’s all that matters."
Behind him, there are two B-class fighters Nakahara invited for the opening bouts; Mino Anzai and Ishihara Iso. They stand a little awkwardly behind their coach, unsure whether they should greet Aramaki or look away.
Murakami notices. He clicks his tongue quietly and nudges both young n forward.
"Oi. Don’t stand there like idiots," he mutters. "He’s still your senpai. Show so respect."
Startled, the two bow deeply.
"Long ti no see, Aramaki-senpai!"
"It’s been a while!"
Aramaki returns the bow, polite but a little stiff. "Yeah... it’s been a while. You two look good. I’m expecting good performance from you tomorrow."
The two kouhais bow again, still smiling awkwardly.
Kenta ets his opponent next. Park Hyun-seok’s greeting is brief but respectful, delivered in smooth Japanese touched only by a faint accent.
"Please fight well," Park says, shaking Kenta’s hand. "I ca for the challenge."
Kenta blinks. "Your Japanese’s pretty good."
Park gives a small shrug, but honest. "If I perform well, I might get more fight offers from Japan. It’s better if we can talk properly, yes?"
Kenta laughs, impressed. "Then you definitely ca to the right place."
Ryoma himself sits slightly apart from the others, back straight, shoulders squared. It’s a calm upright stillness that carries more presence than any swagger could.
Masuda’s team watches him closely. His coach, Toshihiko Kurose, narrows his eyes in thought. Even dehydrated, Ryoma carries a peculiar weight, a presence far too defined for soone his age, sothing sharpened rather than diminished by the cut.
Kurose’s assistant, Wakasugi Oda, leans in slightly, voice barely above a whisper.
"That kid... he’s different. Even dried out like this."
Kurose simply gives a slow considered nod, an acknowledgnt of raw potential he hadn’t expected to encounter today.
***
The weigh-ins proceed without a hitch, every fighter hits their mark, not a single number out of place.
And then, as Ryoma steps toward the scale, Kurose shifts slightly. He notes the carved lines running down Ryoma’s calves, the thickness of his Achilles, and the stability in each asured step.
When Ryoma turns and lifts his arms for the officials, Kurose studies the sweep of the latissimus, the tight functional mass along the obliques and lower serratus.
"Once he rehydrates, he’ll look like a different fighter," Kurose murmurs to Masuda. "He’s built that fra with you in mind. Don’t be fooled by how light he looks now. He’ll co in much heavier once the water’s back in."
Masuda nods, not intimidated, just thoughtful.
When Masuda’s na is called and he steps onto the scale, Ryoma doesn’t spare him a glance.
In fact, in every previous fight, he would watch his opponent carefully, letting the system run its quiet scans, analyzing every detail.
But today, he just sits with his arms crossed, eyes closed, expression flat, like the fight isn’t even worth thinking about.
***
A few hours after the weigh-in, once the fighters have dispersed and the event staff finish setting the room, the atmosphere shifts.
The main-event press conference opens in a mid-sized hall inside the building, decorated with sponsor backdrops and arranged for caras, reporters, and invited dia.
The largest logo behind the table belongs to NSN, the primary sponsor Nakahara managed to secure.
The fighters take their seats; Masuda and his team on one side, Ryoma and Nakahara on the other.
There’s also Reika, sitting in the front row beside Aki, notebook in hand, posture straight, the picture of professional calm.
When the moderator invites the first question, a journalist raises his mic.
"Coach Nakahara. First of all, congratulations. We’ve just received confirmation that tomorrow’s event at Ota Gym is officially sold out. Considering Takeda’s recent rise, it seems the demand was enormous. How do you feel about the turnout?"
Nakahara inclines his head with quiet gratitude. "We’re thankful. It shows the hard work of everyone involved; the fighters, the staff, the promotion, and of course the supporters who make these events possible."
He gestures toward the backdrop, specifically toward the NSN logo.
"I’d like to express special thanks to NSN for their support of this card."
Then he turns subtly toward the audience, acknowledging both the NSN representative present and Reika, who lifts her gaze politely as caras flash.
"And I want to thank Reika Takamori as well. She’s been a trendous help throughout this preparation. We’re deeply grateful."
A murmur of recognition moves through the press row. The moderator nods, ready to move to the next question.
Another journalist lifts a hand. "Masuda-san, there’s been talk that part of your motivation for taking this fight is the event’s potential. With the card selling out and Takeda’s growing popularity... was that a factor?"
Masuda doesn’t shy away from the implication. "I won’t deny it," he says calmly. "Takeda-kun has montum right now. His na draws attention. It makes sense professionally to accept a fight that people want to see. There’s nothing disrespectful about that."
A few reporters nod. But another leans forward imdiately, sensing blood.
"So then, Masuda-san, does that an you weren’t particularly interested in his ability? Aren’t you worried about losing to a newcor with only a handful of pro fights?"
A faint ripple runs through the room. But Masuda keeps his posture steady, his expression polite.
"I’m not afraid," he says. "Takeda is strong. Everyone here knows that. But fear? No. I don’t see any risk at all."
The pressure in the room shifts. The eyes soon turn toward Ryoma.
Aki lifts a hand imdiately, seizing the opportunity. "Ryoma-kun. How do you respond to that?"
Ryoma doesn’t move at first. His gaze stays fixed sowhere distant, expression still detached.
Caras zoom in. The silence stretches long enough for a few reporters to exchange glances.
Then Ryoma inhales once, quiet and shallow.
"I don’t really care about this fight," he says.
The room freezes, unsure they heard correctly.
Ryoma continues, voice even, emotionless. "I called Masuda’s gym because the champion avoided ."
A burst of whispers explodes instantly. Masuda’s coach straightens sharply; his assistant bites down a curse. Masuda’s jaw tightens, though he stays silent.
Ryoma lifts his chin a fraction. "And I’m sure the champion will keep avoiding ," he adds. "They’re all scared of . So I don’t have a choice. I have to beat every boxer in the contender list until soone stops running."
The room erupts; forced laughter, angry scoffs, a flurry of cara shutters. So journalists lean forward eagerly; others grimace, knowing the politics it will stir.
More hands rise, voices overlap, urging Ryoma to elaborate. But Ryoma stays silent, offering nothing, not an explanation, not a correction.
His stillness makes the air tighten, forcing Nakahara to step in and smooth things over before the tension snaps.
User Comments
0 comments from readers