Thursday, August 25th, 2016.
A humid late-sumr heat hangs over Utsunomiya, but inside the cramped press room of Tachibana Boxing Gym, the air is cold, tense, controlled, and sharpened by anticipation.
Local reporters fill the space shoulder-to-shoulder. Cara tripods line the back wall. Murmurs ripple across the room as they wait for the man of the hour.
Then the door slides open.
Coach Daisuke Yoshizawa steps in with the quiet weight of authority. He takes his place behind the podium, adjusts the mic, and offers a curt bow.
He wastes no ti.
"Thank you all for coming. I will make this brief. Regarding my champion, Shinichi Yanagimoto, and the statents he made after Ryoma Takeda’s last fight... I will clarify our official stance."
The room stills. Every rustle of paper and shuffle of feet fades as the reporters snap to attention, pens hovering over notebooks, recorders lifted, cara lenses adjusting with soft chanical clicks.
A few lean forward in their seats, sensing the shift. This is no longer a routine dia call. All eyes lock on Yoshizawa, waiting for the next line that might beco tomorrow’s headline.
Yoshizawa’s voice remains steady, almost detached.
"Shinichi expressed that he would accept Ryoma Takeda’s challenge once he successfully defends his title against Hisashi Murai. I respect my champion’s intentions. He wanted to acknowledge the contenders Ryoma has dismissed, and to remind the kid that the world does not revolve around him."
A few reporters scribble notes, others lift their recorders closer.
"But," Yoshizawa continues, "it will not happen. I repeat... it will never happen.
Not while Shinichi is under my managent."
A wave of whispers sweeps through the room.
One reporter raises his hand. "Yoshizawa-san, if you decline the fight, won’t so people say you’re running away? That the gym is... afraid of Ryoma Takeda?"
The room goes quiet again. But Yoshizawa’s expression doesn’t shift an inch.
"That is the trick the kid uses," he says. "He makes bold statents to corner us. If we refuse, he calls us cowards. If we accept, he gets exactly what he wants."
A soft, humorless exhale leaves him.
"But I am not a coward. And I’m not stupid to fall into this trap. I give opportunities to fighters who earn them. And that kid has failed to do so."
Another reporter jumps in. "But Takeda is young and already considered a top contender. He’s earned at least the position to be considered, hasn’t he?"
"And so have the n above him," Yoshizawa answers instantly. "There are four contenders ranked ahead of him. Four. But we’re supposed to ignore all of them because a kid demands special treatnt?"
He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, slow, intense, and challenging.
"I remind you all... we are adults. We do not let a toddler’s tantrum dictate how we run our business. If you bow to that, you drag Japanese boxing into the mud. You turn it into a circus, where a boy with a loud mouth gets rewarded for theatrics."
His tone sharpens.
"And if the rest of the world sees that? They will laugh at our entire boxing community for handing him everything he wants just because he yells loud enough."
A tide of cara shutters clicks in the silence that follows.
"So you refuse to give him his chance?" soone asks.
Yoshizawa breathes in, folds his hands behind the podium.
"Before all this, I was prepared to give him a chance. The kid has talent. I won’t deny that.
But seeing how he behaves lately? No. Absolutely not. He needs to learn a lesson."
The reporters lean in.
"And I want to call upon all boxing managents," Yoshizawa declares, voice rising just a notch, "especially the Lightweight contenders... do not play his ga. The boy’s been acting far too full of himself. It’s ti he learns his place."
A reporter blurts, "Are you telling other camps to ignore him?"
"Yes." Yoshizawa doesn’t hesitate. "If he throws tantrums, you do not reward that. If he insults fighters, you do not indulge him. Treating him seriously will only encourage worse behavior. Alienate him if you must, until he understands respect."
A heavy silence blankets the room.
Then Yoshizawa finishes it.
"As for , I will not accept his challenge even if he reaches number one in the rankings unless he issues a public apology, to us, to the fighters he’s humiliated, and to the community he disrespects. And I hope the JBC understands my position and urges his gym to address this issue appropriately."
He gives a final bow.
"That is all."
The caras fire like machine guns. Reporters start shouting overlapping questions. But Yoshizawa has already turned away.
He leaves them with chaos, controversy, and a ssage that will echo across the entire boxing world.
***
The next day...
Saturday settles over the city like a gentle exhale, the kind of weekend lull where people slip out of their professional skins and return to being ordinary again.
Ryoma does too. The Cruel King persona he’s been parading around all week falls away without a fight, revealing the cheerful, ddleso kid who loves teasing his mother and playing harmless pranks on his girlfriend.
Fumiko’s barbershop is quiet in the warm late-afternoon light, the sun slanting across the mirrors and the floor that slls faintly of shampoo and old wood.
There are no custors, just Kaede in the chair, cape around her shoulders, watching her reflection with a look that keeps sliding from cautious to horrified as Ryoma stands behind her, scissors snipping with way too much enthusiasm.
Another small lock of her front hair falls. And Kaede stiffens.
"Ryoma," she says, voice dangerously calm, "why are you cutting it shorter? I look like a kid."
Fumiko, sweeping nearby, lets out a playful whistle. "Cute though. Very cute."
"I do not look cute," Kaede mutters, cheeks puffing as she shoots Ryoma a glare. "Why did you make look like a child? Don’t tell you have, ugh... a loli fetish."
Ryoma waves her off like she’s being dramatic. "You don’t need to act like an adult every second. It’s fine to look cute sotis. Just enjoy life. Like kids do."
Kaede sighs, trying to smile but clearly wrestling with the idea. "You don’t think my friends will laugh at ?"
Fumiko steps in softly. "No. You look pretty. And actually? You look lighter. Like you’re breathing easier. It suits you."
Ryoma glances up at the small clock above the mirror and clicks his tongue.
"Crap. It’s already late. I need to head back. Gotta prep dinner."
Kaede stands, still touching her shortened fringe. "I’m coming with you. You cut my hair like this... helping with dinner is the least I can do to pay you back."
"Oh, that would be great," Ryoma beams, already walking toward the door.
They step out into the late-afternoon light, the sky deepening into that soft pre-dusk orange that makes everything feel gentler.
Ryoma and Kaede walk to the convenience store first. Inside, the cool fluorescent glow washes over them as they split up; Kaede heading for the vegetables, Ryoma for the at aisle.
But he doesn’t get far. A magazine cover at the front rack grabs him by the collar.
"YOSHIZAWA STRIKES BACK — CONTENDERS UNITE AGAINST RYOMA TAKEDA; CALL FOR APOLOGY FROM NAKAHARA GYM."
The subheaders hit just as hard: other contenders backing Yoshizawa, several camps urging the commission to take action, so even calling Ryoma "a problem that needs correcting."
Ryoma goes still. The softness he carried all afternoon drains from his expression, replaced by a slow, cold narrowing of the eyes.
The cheerful Ryoma fades in seconds, swallowed by the hard-edged presence beneath, the Cruel King resurfacing without a word.
When Kaede returns with the basket, she stops mid-step. The air around him feels different now, tight, heavy, almost suffocating, as if the fluorescent lights themselves have dimd around him.
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