By the ti the sun leans west, the air carries a faint chill, even as light lingers warmly on the rooftops. Shadows grow long across the narrow streets, and sparrows chatter noisily from the eaves, their calls sharp against the quiet rhythm of the neighborhood.
Aramaki steps outside, tying a cloth tighter around his waist, his face set in silence. Afternoon is not a ti for rest, not for him.
"Kaori, I’m leaving!"
"Back before dark, kay!"
Banished from the bright lights of Murakami Boxing Gym, Aramaki trains alone now. No sandbags, no polished floors, no sound of gloves cracking against pads.
His ring is the cracked pavent of an abandoned lot near the river, his equipnt the scraps no one else wants. He loops a frayed rope around his waist, fastening it to a worn truck tire that he dragged from a junkyard.
When he runs, the rubber screeches and bumps against the ground, its weight pulling him backward with every step. His breath burns, his shoulders ache, but he leans forward and drives his body harder, as if outrunning despair itself.
Then he pauses for breath, hands on his knees, and looks up. Even the sky seems to sneer at his work.
"Ah, damn... rain’s coming. Better finish this and get ho."
Passersby glance his way, so slowing to watch. A group of children point and laugh at the sight of a young man dragging a tire across the street.
But Aramaki keeps his head down. His shirt clings to his back, lungs rasp, the taste of salt and iron strong on his tongue.
Each stride feels like a round against an invisible opponent, each corner of the road another set of ropes trying to pin him in.
And then...
Zrassh!
The sky breaks, not rain, but a downpour that batters the streets and soaks him in seconds. Still, Aramaki doesn’t stop. He grits his teeth, voice rough between breaths.
"Two more laps. Wrap this up before I catch a cold."
He whispers his daughter’s na with every exhale—Nanako, Nanako, Nanako—turning her into his rhythm, his heartbeat, the weight that pushes him forward instead of down.
The gym has locked him out, but the streets are wide, and the world wider still. As long as he can drag that tire, he won’t fall.
By the ti he stumbles back ho, he is wasted, drenched, shivering, body trembling with fatigue.
And also...
"Hyaaachoo!"
His wife spins from the stove, eyes widening.
"No, Aramaki! Don’t co near Nanako! You’ll give her your virus!"
***
Next day, Ryoma is back to the gym, hamring the heavy bag with a fury that feels more like madness than surgical. Yesterday, he couldn’t have cared less about the rookie tournant. Today, there’s a fire in his eyes that isn’t about sport anymore, but about survival.
He knows exactly how dirty the boxing world is. Fights aren’t just lost in the ring; they’re arranged in back rooms, whispered into contracts, buried in debts.
Dum, dsh, dsh, boom... BAM!
"Stronger! I need to get stronger!"
Dum, dum... BAM!
"Money! Raise money!"
Dum, dsh, dsh, boom... BAM!
"Rich. Power. Influence!"
He’s certain the n who killed him in that bar weren’t acting on impulse. They were following orders, carrying out a hit for a fallen champion’s managent.
And now, in the oily smile of Daigo Kirizu, he slls the sa rot.
"Anyone who cos for ..."
BAM! BAM! BAMMM!
"...better be ready to put their life on the line!"
anwhile, in the ring, Ryohei and Okabe are sparring. Neither of them has a fight coming up, but instincts dull fast if you don’t sharpen them.
It’s just that...
"Damn it, Okabe!" Ryohei rips off his headgear and slams it against the canvas. "Can’t you be serious for once?"
Flat on the mat, Okabe blinks like he just woke from a nap. This is the third ti today he’s been knocked down, and sohow Ryohei looks more annoyed than proud.
"I am serious, you bastard!" Okabe snaps. "You’re just not a suitable opponent for !"
"Just stop being so damn stubborn."
"Shut up! This isn’t stubbornness. It’s principle. A philosophy. A creed. And unlike you, all my wins are by knockout."
"And I’ve beaten you three tis today."
"That’s just... you’re a size bigger. If we were the sa weight, you’d be dead by now."
Ryohei opens his mouth, then closes it again. Half tired of arguing, half because... well, Okabe’s not exactly wrong.
He knows Okabe an infighter, and it’s natural he fights his way, chest-to-chest, fists flying.
But it doesn’t change the fact that right now, Ryohei’s got no one else in the gym to spar with. Except...
Yes. Ryoma.
Ryohei slowly turns his head, watching Ryoma punish the heavy bag like it owes him money. They are in the sa weight class. And for half a second, he considers asking.
But then...
Gulp.
That’s the man who almost beat Renji Kuroiwa. Just the thought of it is enough to make Ryohei’s throat dry.
Okabe notices the shift. He cos closer, follows Ryohei’s gaze, and then his lips stretch into a wicked grin.
"Sa weight class, huh? Why don’t you ask him?"
"What are you talking about?" Ryohei hisses, forcing his face to stay calm. "He just registered for the rookie tournant yesterday. If his fight gets announced for, say, two weeks from now, and I injure him? Then what?"
Okabe leans closer, lowering his voice in a mock whisper. "You’re scared, aren’t you?"
"I’m not scared!"
"Yes, you are."
"I’m just... afraid of hurting him. If Coach Nakahara finds out..."
Suddenly, the coach’s voice cuts through like a whip.
"Kid! Enough with the sandbag! Get in the ring!"
The two n in the ring freeze.
Ryoma stops mid-combo. The heavy bag sways gently, looking almost relieved to be spared further abuse.
Ryohei and Okabe assu the coach wants a mitt session, so they both start to leave the ring. But Nakahara raises a hand.
"Hold it. Ryohei, you spar with Ryoma. Okabe, get the bell."
For a mont, they both silence. Then Okabe’s face lights up like a kid who just found candy money.
"Please, Ryohei-senpai," he leans toward Ryohei, grinning ear to ear. "Don’t go too hard on him. We wouldn’t want to break our precious rookie, would we?"
Before Ryohei can even settle his nerves, the sound of fists slicing the air hits him.
Whip, whip, shyss!
Whip, whip, whip, shys, shyss!
He glances over, and sees Ryoma already shadowboxing across the ring. They both have sa style, sa stance. But the difference? It’s like heaven and earth.
Hand speed, razor sharp pivots, balance so smooth it’s like water. The rhythm in Ryoma’s movent is sothing Ryohei can’t replicate no matter how hard he tries. And for the first ti, he has to ask himself: who’s the senpai here, and who’s the kouhai?
Then it gets worse. Coach Nakahara picks up the headgear Ryohei threw earlier and hands it to Ryoma.
"Coach, that’s mine..." Ryohei mutters. "Ah, right! I’ll take Okabe’s..."
"No," Nakahara cuts him off. "You don’t need headgear."
Ryohei’s jaw tightens. "But, Coach..."
A sly chuckle floats from outside the ropes. It’s Okabe, enjoying this setup way too much, which makes Ryohei even more annoyed.
But then, Nakahara cos over, his tone calm almost a whisper. "I just want to sharpen Ryoma’s defense. I know he’s already good at it, but I don’t want to ruin his form by piling on new thing too much. So, we will focus on improving his arsenal to a higher level."
Ryohei frowns. "So what do you want to do?"
"Fight like you normally do," the coach says, before turning to Ryoma. "And kid... no punches. Three rounds. Pure defense."
User Comments
0 comments from readers