Back in the office, Sera drops into the chair in front of the desk, already pulling the keyboard closer, fingers moving faster than his breathing.
The room feels cramped with urgency, Nakahara standing behind him with his arms folded, Ryoma leaning against the wall, silent but alert.
"Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion..." Sera mutters.
He types variations into the search bar, skimming past Thai-language pages, outdated articles, half-dead social dia links. Every second stretches. He refreshes, scrolls, clicks again, jaw tightening as the minutes slip by.
"There," he says at last, stopping on a sparsely designed site.
A contact page loads slowly, as if mocking him, until a phone number finally appears. Sera reaches for the phone on the desk, dials the country code by mory, and punches in the rest.
The line rings, and he waits.
Then the call connects. A voice answers in Thai, quick and fluid, words tumbling too fast for Sera to catch.
"Hello," Sera says in English, clear and formal. "This is Takuya Sera from Nakahara Boxing Gym in Japan. May I speak with the manager, please?"
There’s a pause, and more Thai, muffled as if the receiver is covered. Then a hesitant reply in broken English.
"...Please wait."
The line doesn’t disconnect, but voices move in the background, layered with amusent Sera can’t see but sohow feels.
Finally, a different voice cos on, smoother and confident, speaking in English.
"This is Preecha Lawson," the man says. "Manager of Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion."
"Mr. Lawson," Sera replies imdiately. "Thank you for taking the call. First, I want to apologize on behalf of our managent. We only beca aware of your email today. There was no intention to ignore your offer."
A brief silence follows. Then a soft chuckle, polite but edged. "Three days is a long ti," Lawson says. "Especially when the matter concerns a mandatory title defense."
"I understand," Sera replies quickly. "And again, I apologize. The delay was unintentional. We are not avoiding Mr. Kouthai or his challenge."
"Then you will accept June twenty-fifth," Lawson replies, as if the conclusion is already settled.
Sera tightens his grip on the phone. "That date is difficult. Our champion is currently recovering from a docunted injury. We have formally requested an extension from the OPBF and are awaiting their response. We ask that you wait for..."
Lawson cuts in smoothly. "The rules are clear. One hundred and twenty days. June twenty-fifth is the deadline. Injury or not, the obligation stands unless the OPBF rules otherwise."
"We are aware of the rules," Sera answers, forcing calm into his voice. "Which is precisely why we followed proper procedure."
"Procedure does not stop ti," Lawson replies. "And missing emails does not inspire confidence, Mr. Mori."
Sera swallows. "If you allow us a little ti, we will respond officially once the OPBF..."
"I’m afraid ti is exactly what we won’t give," Lawson says, still courteous. "If you cannot commit to June twenty-fifth, we will proceed accordingly."
"With respect," Sera says, heat creeping into his tone despite himself, "forcing a decision before dical clearance puts the fighter at risk."
A short laugh answers him, lighter now.
"Risk is boxing," Lawson says. "Didn’t your champion say the sa thing after he broke Jade McConnel’s jaw?"
Before Sera can respond, the line clicks dead. And the office falls silent.
Sera lowers the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen as if it might ring again. Nakahara closes his eyes for a mont, then opens them, the weight of the situation settling heavily into his shoulders.
Ryoma doesn’t speak. But his jaw tightens, and sowhere deep in his chest, he understands this isn’t just about a date anymore.
***
Bangkok, Thailand—inside Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion, where ONE Championship titleholder Thanid Kouthai trains both striking arts and pursues OPBF boxing supremacy.
Heavy impacts echo through the training hall as Thanid works a kickboxing drill, shin smashing into pads with unforgiving force.
His build is dense and immovable, sweat rolling down his back while his breathing stays calm, eyes empty of strain or doubt. There is no flair in his movent, only repetition, and pressure.
When the round ends, he steps away without a word, boxing gloves resting nearby, untouched. He looks less like a man preparing for a match and more like sothing being sharpened.
anwhile, in the cool stillness of the office, where contracts lie open and voices trade in strategy instead of blows, Preecha Lawson has just lowered the phone. His thumb lingers on the cradle as if weighing whether to make another call imdiately.
Across the desk, the promoter and head coach, Kiet Anurak, has been watching him the entire ti. His hands rest on his knees, thick fingers flexing slightly, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow.
He understands English well enough to catch fragnts, tone more than words, and Lawson’s posture tells him everything he needs to know.
"So?" Kiet asks in Thai. "Did you corner them?"
Lawson exhales and leans back. "Not cleanly," he says in English. "But close enough."
He switches to Thai, simpler now, choosing words carefully. "They missed the email. Three days. The manager sounded desperate when he realized."
Kiet lets out a low laugh, rough and pleased. "Desperate already?"
"They apologized. Repeatedly." Lawson taps the desk once, thoughtful. "That’s important. Once soone starts apologizing, we control the pace."
Kiet’s grin spreads slowly, a boxer’s grin, one that has lived through too many hard camps and harder decisions. "Good. That ans they’re already behind."
Lawson nods. "They tried to explain about injury. Asked us to wait for the OPBF’s response."
"And you cut the call," Kiet finishes for him.
"Yeah..." Lawson allows himself a small smile. "I cut the call."
Kiet leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Good. If you let them explain, they regain balance."
He then studies the date, and looks up. "And the boy’s hand?"
"Still fractured," Lawson replies. "Which ans..."
Kiet’s eyes gleam. "No base. No conditioning. No timing."
"And no confidence," Lawson adds quietly. "Not after coming off an injury."
Silence hangs for a mont, thick with shared understanding.
Kiet breaks it with a satisfied chuckle. "If they accept June twenty-fifth, the champion enters half-built. If they refuse we push the commissioner. Mandatory defense. Clear deadline. No excuses."
"And if they hesitate?" Lawson presses.
Kiet shrugs. "Then we remind the public what hesitation looks like. Fra it as fear."
"Cowardice," Lawson hums. "That word sticks better."
Kiet laughs, loud and unashad. "Good. Very good."
He stands and walks out of the office, looking out at the training ring below, where Thanid Kouthai is working the pads, sharp and rhythmic, sweat darkening his shirt.
"My fighter is ready," Kiet says. "He doesn’t need perfect conditions. He only needs opportunity, sothing that we missed before because of his title defend in One Championship."
After a mont, he turns back, expression hardening. "What about their gym? I heard they’ve got history with the dia."
"They have a lot," Lawson says. "Their image in Japan is not that good. And we will keep feeding the dia the angle: incompetence, poor managent, a champion who doesn’t understand international rules."
The two n exchange a look, understanding sealed without another word.
Outside, the afternoon heat presses down on Bangkok, and sowhere far away, a champion is counting days he doesn’t truly have.
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