The official leans closer, watching the screen. He doesn’t say anything yet, but the crowd’s whispers rise.
"That’s over...
"Only ten grams..."
"So close..."
Jade’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He straightens a fraction, eyes narrowing. He doesn’t like this.
The number holds, and the official finally speaks.
"Please step down and try again."
Ryoma steps off slowly. Hiroshi leans in, voice low and urgent. Ryoma nods once, already knowing what he needs to do.
He steps back onto the scale. This ti, he empties his lungs completely. Every last bit of air leaves his chest. His abdon draws inward, ribs sharp beneath skin.
Then he tightens, flexing everything; legs, core, back.
"Aaarrrgh..."
The sound tears out of him as his body locks down. And the digits actually flicker; 61.21 to 61.20.
Pulling the air shallow, flexing muscle, shifting his center of gravity, won’t cut 10 grams from his body. But it fools the scale’s sensitivity. It’s not about weight, but the Normal Force, the pressure his feet apply to the scale
The official waits for the number to settle. And for a mont, it holds 61.20.
He raises a hand. "Weight made."
The number fluctuates again, and Ryoma imdiately steps off the scale.
Applause breaks out across the room, polite at first, then a bit louder as the announcent settles in.
But it’s Ryoma’s corner that truly erupts.
Hiroshi slams the table a few tis, head dropping as a sharp laugh escapes him. Sera slaps Kenta on the back hard enough to make his stumble.
To anyone watching, it looks excessive, almost embarrassing. A few blink, exchanging looks that ask the sa question:
It’s just a weigh-in.
Why celebrate like that?
Across the room, Jade exhales slowly through his nose. His expression gives nothing away. But his eyes never leave Ryoma.
He looks alert, because he understands sothing the room does not.
This wasn’t a formality Ryoma just passed. It’s an obstacle he wasn’t supposed to survive.
***
Within seconds, applause thins into scattered claps, then into murmurs again. Cara shutters ease. Officials shuffle papers, reset the scale, gesture for the next na.
"Jade McConnel. Please."
Jade steps forward without haste. The hood cos down first, revealing eyes already locked in, sharp and steady. He peels off his jacket, and then the shirt beneath it.
Up close, the similarities are obvious. He and Ryoma are close in height, close in fra. Broad shoulders tapering into compact waists. Long arms built for leverage rather than brute mass.
He looks like he’s walked the sa path to get here, another fighter who also cut weight, another body stripped down to its fighting form.
To the crowd, there’s no clear advantage, no visual dominance. The champion doesn’t look bigger, doesn’t look stronger. If anything, the symtry makes the matchup feel even.
But Dr. Mizuno sees sothing else.
Jade’s skin holds a healthier tone, not dry, not tight to the point of strain. There’s clarity in his eyes, no dull edge, no flicker of fatigue. His posture is relaxed but ready, shoulders loose instead of guarded.
This is the look of a man whose body cooperated with the process. The result of ideal cut.
No jet lag dragging his rhythms out of alignnt. No fractured sleep eroding his nervous system. No pressure forcing adjustnts midstream.
Mizuno’s lips press together faintly, before turning to the rest of the group. Beside him, Nakahara watches in silence. And for the first ti since Ryoma made weight, he lets the truth settle in his chest.
Ryoma’s last real spar had been on February ninth. Three days before the flight, fifteen days ago now. Since arriving in lbourne, despite bringing Aramaki along, there had been no sparring at all.
Technical drills reduced, then stripped away entirely. Everything sacrificed to the scale. It was necessary, but costly.
Jade steps onto the scale. The number appears and settles imdiately.
61.20 kg.
Exactly on the limit.
The official glances once, and then raises his hand. "Weight made."
There’s no eruption this ti, but a low ripple of acknowledgnt. Jade’s team barely reacts, like this is just routine for them.
Mark Holloway only gives a single nod, as if confirming sothing already expected, and hands Jade his shirt.
Jade pulls it on, eyes lifting at last and et Ryoma’s with recognition, that this wasn’t a struggle for him. And everyone who understands what they’re looking at knows what that ans.
***
The press conference is held later that afternoon, once both fighters have had ti to rehydrate and let their bodies climb back from the edge.
The ballroom has been rearranged. The scale is gone, replaced by a long table draped in black cloth, microphones lined neatly across it. A backdrop of OPBF logos and sponsors fills the wall behind the stage.
Rows of chairs face forward, now fully occupied with dia, photographers, analysts, a low buzz of conversation swelling and fading in waves.
The change in both fighters is visible now.
Ryoma sits straighter than he did at the weigh-in, a bottle of Surge Blue resting loosely in his hand. Color has returned to his face, and his eyes are clearer now. He still looks lean, but no longer brittle.
As his gaze drifts across the room, he catches the angle of a few caras turning toward him, lenses adjusting, hands signaling for still shots. Ryoma doesn’t acknowledge them directly. Instead, he lifts the bottle and takes a small, unhurried gulp, eyes forward, expression calm, almost absentminded.
It looks like indifference. But to anyone who knows better, it’s perfect timing to promote Aqualis and its product.
Jade, seated beside his team, looks almost unchanged from earlier. If anything, he seems looser now, shoulders resting naturally, forearms fuller with blood and hydration.
To an untrained eye, the difference between them might look small. To those who know, it isn’t.
The moderator taps the microphone, testing levels. "Thank you for coming. We’ll begin with questions for the challenger."
A hand rises imdiately. "Takeda-san," the reporter says, voice polite and asured. "This is your first title fight overseas. How do you feel now that the weight cut is behind you?"
Ryoma leans forward slightly. "Relieved," he answers honestly. "But also focused. Making weight is only the first job. The real work is tomorrow."
Another question follows. About Jade’s switching stance. About fighting a champion on foreign soil. Ryoma answers calmly, carefully, giving nothing away. Respectful, composed, saying only what needs to be said.
Until the tone shifts, as a different reporter stands, glancing not at Ryoma, but at Nakahara.
"This question is for Coach Nakahara," he says. "Sagawa’s injury was unfortunate. But Takeda accepted this replacent offer with very little preparation ti. It’s also been only two months since his last fight with Paulo Ramos."
A murmur ripples through the room.
"Doesn’t that suggest desperation for a title shot?" the reporter continues. "And can Takeda really fight McConnel in his best form under these conditions?"
Sera leans in, translating quietly. Nakahara listens without moving, eyes lowered, absorbing every word.
For a mont, the old man says nothing. He knows exactly what not to say, not to give info to the enemy’s camp. After considering it, he finally lifts his head and speaks into the microphone, and Sera translates for him.
"One advantage of working with a disciplined fighter is that... his condition is always maintained. Ryoma lives like a professional every day, not only during camp. For this fight, nothing changed fundantally. As usual, we adjusted his weight in the final stage before the weigh-in."
Sera then gives a small polite smile. "That is all."
No ntion of jet lag, No ntion of sleepless nights, no ntion of risks asured in grams and hours.
As the room processes his answer, a hand rises from the opposite side of the table.
The moderator pauses. "Yes, Mr. Holloway?"
Mark leans forward, microphone catching his calm deliberate tone. "I’d like to clarify sothing."
Every head turns. So eyes blinking, waiting.
"Before Takeda replaced Sagawa," Mark continues, "there was already an understanding between our camps. If Jade defended his title against Sagawa, Takeda was next."
The room stirs, murmurs rippling through the seats as reporters exchange glances. This is inside information no one has ever heard before.
"So calling this desperation is inaccurate," Mark says evenly. "This fight was agreed upon regardless."
A few reporters exchange glances. That alone is unexpected.
"I also spoke with Sagawa’s camp," he adds. "Takeda actually accepted this replacent to prevent the event from being canceled, sothing that would have put Sagawa’s camp in a very difficult position."
He pauses, letting that settle.
"That isn’t desperation," Mark says. "That’s professionalism. And frankly, it’s the kind of respect between fellow countryn we should admire."
He nods once, toward Nakahara’s side of the table.
"For that, I have the utmost respect for the challenger’s camp."
The room buzzes, surprised by the tone. This isn’t the conflict they were hoping to fra. There’s no hostility here, no manufactured heat, only honest acknowledgnt.
Nakahara inclines his head slightly in return. Ryoma keeps his gaze forward, a faint peaceful smile resting on his lips, sothing rarely seen in his past interviews, especially on a stage like this.
Then the call for the face-off cos.
Both fighters rise. The polite atmosphere drains away as they step to center stage. Caras crowd closer, shutters firing in rapid bursts.
Ryoma and Jade stop an arm’s length apart and lock eyes. There’s no smile now, but the
stillness of complete indifference.
Up close, the respect remains, but buried beneath sothing colder.
It’s calculation, readiness, the shared understanding that once the bell sounds, courtesy ends. Whatever goodwill exists between their camps will not follow them into the ring.
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