April 9th, 2015. The First Round of East Japan Rookie King Tournant.
Korakuen Hall breathes in restless fits. Not quite silence, not quite roar. The seats are three-quarters filled, enough bodies to stitch together a low, constant murmur, but still freckled with gaps that remind you this is not yet pri ti.
The lights dip. First bout, featherweights, two rookies shamble to center ring like foals learning how to stand. They are all elbows and nerves. Every jab lands a fraction late, every guard cos up a mont too slow, as if their thoughts are buffering.
The crowd doesn’t roar. It mutters, heckles, and waits. Yet the die-hards are there, slicing through the lull with their voices:
"Don’t back up! Swing it out!"
"C’mon, he’s right there!"
"Throw your right! Don’t think, just throw!"
The rookies, naïve to the dangers of listening, take the bait. One lunges with a wild overhand, the other panics with an equally stupid hook. Technique collapses; chaos takes over. And the hall wakes up.
It isn’t pretty, but it doesn’t need to be. This is the kind of reckless brawling that has its own gravitational pull.
The crowd laughs, then cheers, and soon the very flaws of the match, the clumsy footwork, the flailing fists, all beco the attraction.
***
By the ti the featherweights are done, the hall feels warr. New arrivals filter in, not many but enough to turn heads.
In the front row, Daigo Kirizu takes his seat beside his wife, posture stiff, but composed nonetheless.
Across the hall, Leo drifts in with his two content partners, their cara hidden in a shoulder bag, settling high in the back where the angle is widest.
And then, the one that cracks the atmosphere, Renji Kuroiwa, the Japan’s Lightweight Champion. He strides in with Kazuya Tōjō as if daring anyone to ignore him.
Murmurs spread like spilled ink.
"Wait... it’s Renji?"
"The champion himself? At a rookie tournant?"
"This is still the first round! What’s he doing here?"
Press row perks up instantly.
Sato of Tokyo Sports grins, "Kirizu with his wife, now Renji too? Don’t tell that’s coincidence."
Tanaka of Nippon Fight News snorts. "No chance. This has Ryoma Takeda’s fingerprints. Kid almost embarrassed Renji in sparring. Champions don’t forget that kind of thing."
Beside them, Aki sits quietly, hands folded over her satchel. She smiles when expected, nods when spoken to. But inside, her stomach knots.
She knows there’s more here than bruised ego. Renji’s shadow doesn’t fall lightly. Kirizu’s presence isn’t casual. Soone has laid this out like a chessboard. She feels it. But she’s the junior. For now, silence is her role.
And then there’s Reika, sitting right beside Aki, radiating the energy of soone who has been dragged into an obligation she didn’t sign up for.
Three fights down, and not a flicker of interest, her attention has been welded to the glow of her phone screen, thumb scrolling with chanical indifference.
But the mont Sato and Tanaka let Ryoma’s na slip into the air, she stirs. A spark of interest flickers as she leans closer to Aki.
"So, Ryoma is fighting after this?"
Aki, caught between politeness and exasperation, answers evenly. "No. This one’s Toru Kanzaki versus Masato Kurobane. Ryoma’s fight is after."
Reika digests the information for all of two seconds before her face resets into the sa practiced boredom.
Without a word, her gaze falls back to her phone, and the glow reclaims her. It’s not the boxing she ca for. It’s Ryoma, or nothing.
***
Midway through Toru Kanzaki vs. Masato Kurobane, the atmosphere mutates again. Still rookies, yes. But this fight has teeth.
They are bigger in size just slightly compared to featherweights. But every punch lands like furniture being dropped from a balcony. Each exchange rattles the hall.
Second round, cos one furious trade, sweat exploding under the lights. And the crowd gasping as if they’d all been struck.
"Yesss! That’s it! More of that!"
"Don’t stop, kill each other if you have to!"
Kurobane obliges, gritting forward, swinging wider, louder, and uglier. The crowd is hooked by the way he responds to them.
Kanzaki, anwhile, looks compressed, shoulders tight and fists half-holstered, as if fighting his own hesitation more than the man in front of him.
The jeers co sharp and fast:
"Stop running!"
"Fight back, Bayside!"
"Don’t be a coward!
"Swing, dammit!"
But Kanzaki doesn’t bite. He waits, breathes through the storm.
And then, when Kurobane finally shows a crack, leaving the smallest gap as he takes a breath, Kanzaki pounces.
BUG!
A thudding body blow drives the air out of Kurobane, and the follow-up straight smashes against his face.
WHAM!!!
Kurobane crumples.
That’s the first knockdown of the night, and the hall erupts.
"One!"
"...Two!"
"...Three!"
The count crawls forward as the crowd split between bloodlust and doubt. Kurobane twitches, tries to rise. But his limbs feel like borrowed weight.
"No way he beats the count."
"He’s finished."
"He’s done."
And for the first ti tonight, Korakuen tastes real electricity.
***
In the locker room, the noise from the hall carries faintly through the walls. Ryoma stands in front of the mirror, shadowboxing, sweat sheening his recovered fra.
Twenty-four hours ago, he was a husk. Now, the rhythm is back, his body once again tuned like an instrunt. His legs glide with rhythm, hands snapping sharp through the air, smooth, precise, and refined.
Nakahara, arms crossed, watches the air shift. He can hear the crowd’s roar even from here. And then, a knock rattles the door. One of the Korakuen staff slides it open, leaning inside.
"Takeda-san, Nakahara-san. You’re up. Please prepare to walk."
Instantly, Ryoma halts mid-combination. The energy in the room shifts with him. The color drains from his face, his eyes sharpening into sothing cold, almost rciless.
He no longer looks like a young fighter warming up. It’s the expression of a man stepping into a battlefield, where one mistake could cost everything.
Nakahara mirrors the change. He steps forward, sets a firm hand on Ryoma’s gloves, and holds his gaze. His voice is low but weighted.
"We both know what they’re after. This isn’t just about winning the fight. They’d rather break you. So listen. No gambling, no thrill-seeking. Restrain yourself. Don’t bet your career on a risky exchange."
Ryoma exhales slowly, jaw tightening.
He nods once. "I understand."
Hiroshi waits by the door, hand on the handle. When Nakahara gives a curt nod, he steps out first, clearing the way.
Ryoma follows, his coach just behind him. Both move with a stiffness that betrays the weight pressing on their shoulders.
And then, the mont Ryoma steps into the hall, the atmosphere shifts like a wave breaking. The crowd erupts, voices colliding into a roar.
"Ryomaaaa!!! Ganbatte-yo!"
"Give us the thrill!"
"One-round KO, do it again!"
"Wait, no... make it last this ti!"
It’s clear enough. This crowd carries the mory of Ryoma’s last fight, the night they swear they witnessed a miracle.
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