The hall feels cold, yet the tension inside is beginning to boil. A JBC official raises a hand and gives the signal.
"Ryohei Yamada, please step forward!"
Ryohei unzips his tracksuit jacket, revealing a body that looks visibly dry and sharp. As he steps onto the cold tal scale, the room falls briefly silent.
"Sixty-three point five kilograms! On weight!" the official calls out.
Ryohei steps down, releasing a breath he did not realize he had been holding. He moves to the side of the scale and waits.
Now it is the National Champion’s turn. Umoto walks forward and shrugs off his jacket with lazy arrogance, exposing a body honed brutally to et the super lightweight limit.
And behind the line of journalists, Ryoma’s eyes narrow. His pupils flicker rapidly as his Vision Grid System activates on its own, imaginary data lines dissecting Umoto’s anatomy as he prepares to step onto the scale.
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Umoto is a mirror, distorted only by weight class. If he were not cutting down to super lightweight, his body composition would be nearly identical to Ryoma’s at lightweight weigh-ins, entering the ring with a similar muscular mass.
Sera notices Ryoma’s silence and steps closer, keeping his voice low beneath the journalists’ noise.
"That look isn’t just hatred," Sera murmurs, eyes fixed on Umoto, who still hasn’t stopped glaring at Ryoma even now. "It’s like he wants to prove the Osaka version is superior."
Nakahara gives a small nod, his attention still on the scale. "I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s obsessed with moving down a division just to chase Ryoma. But even if he does, there’s no reason for an OPBF champion to acknowledge soone who hasn’t even dominated the national level."
Ryoma turns to them, and a calm confident smile forming. "Of course," he says lightly. "Because Ryohei will beat him tomorrow. There won’t be a future for Umoto to chase ."
Ryohei hears every word. And the envy that had flared earlier hardens into sothing colder, resolve settling deep into his bones.
He knows Ryoma speaks without malice, only honesty, the kind that always drives their gym forward.
I’ll prove it.
I’ll stand beside him.
And the world will know Nakahara Boxing Gym doesn’t have just one star. We have two.
There is no room left for resentnt. Ryohei’s focus narrows instead, locking onto the man in front of him: Umoto Kimitada, who still refuses to acknowledge him.
"Sixty-three point five kilograms!" the JBC official calls again. "Umoto Kimitada makes the limit!"
Umoto steps off the scale, his eyes still locked onto Ryoma, completely ignoring Ryohei standing just inches away. When they are called in for the face-off photos, the physical difference becos undeniable.
Though the scale reads the sa at 63.5 kilograms, Umoto’s fra is slightly taller, his shoulders broader, giving him a heavier, more intimidating silhouette under the bright hall lights.
Tomorrow, after rehydration, he will likely return to his natural size faster, looming even larger in the ring at EDION Arena.
***
After the weigh-in concludes and each fighter is given an hour to replenish their strength, the hotel hall becos suffocating, thick with ambition and the sharp scent of rivalry as the press conference begins.
On the stage, Ryohei Yamada and Umoto Kimitada sit apart, separated by two JBC officials acting as moderators, a thin line of authority that feels as if it could collapse at any mont under the heat between them.
A senior journalist from Boxing Magazine Japan raises his hand, his gaze imdiately fixed on the right side of the stage.
"Kimitada-san. Could you give us a comnt on your opponent, Ryohei Yamada, who earned this national title shot by winning the Class A tournant?"
Umoto leans back, crossing his legs with a lazy motion steeped in contempt. He pulls the microphone closer, his raspy voice echoing through the room in a thick Kansai accent.
"I think I’ve already said enough," Umoto replies flatly. "And I’m not going to waste more ti talking about him. He ca out of that tournant final with a lucky punch. That kind of thing won’t work this ti. Tomorrow, I’ll beat him senseless..."
He pauses, leaning past the moderator, his eyes locking with bloodthirsty intensity onto Ryoma seated in the front row.
"...beat him so badly that when I throw my challenge at the OPBF champion, there won’t be any reason left to turn down."
The room erupts instantly. Journalists whisper over one another, pens scratch furiously across notebooks, and caras go wild, capturing Umoto as he drops a narrative bomb.
Before the moderators can regain control, another reporter cuts in without being acknowledged.
"Does that an you’re willing to drop to lightweight and relinquish your national title just to challenge Ryoma Takeda?"
Umoto smiles with complete confidence and leans forward, his lips nearly brushing the microphone. Behind him, Goro Ishimaru and his managent remain silent, allowing their lion to roar unchecked.
"I’m not interested in belts," Umoto says coldly. "I entered boxing to test myself, to seek out the strongest opponents and defeat them. Right now, my target is Ryoma Takeda. And after I beat him, I’ll go challenge the world champion."
The uproar explodes again. Photographers scramble for the best angle to capture Ryoma’s reaction, while TV journalists begin live reports on the Osaka champion’s audacious declaration.
The room’s focus shifts entirely, until another question redirects it, yet still not toward the challenger.
"Nakahara-san," a journalist calls out. "What is your response to this open challenge? Will you and Ryoma Takeda consider such a super fight?"
That question becos the breaking point. It is a blatant insult, asking about a future match that does not even involve the man fighting tomorrow night.
Ryohei feels his blood boil. The offense is no longer envy, but a pure cold anger. Before Nakahara can even begin to answer a question that has nothing to do with the upcoming bout, Ryohei reaches out.
With a sharp decisive motion, he takes the microphone from in front of Nakahara. The scrape of tal against the table produces a piercing feedback screech, forcing the entire hall into silence as all eyes turn toward him.
"Coach Nakahara doesn’t need to answer that," Ryohei says. His voice is low and steady, carrying an unexpected weight of authority.
He stares straight into the caras, deliberately ignoring the champion’s amused smile lingering at the edge of his vision.
"Because tomorrow night, I’ll give the champion the answer myself in the ring." Ryohei pauses, his lips tightening into a thin sharp line. "...And after that, Umoto can go back to whining to the dia about how he lost because of bad luck."
A suffocating silence falls over the hall. For the first ti in the session, Ryohei is no longer seen as Ryoma’s shadow. They see a predator, one that has just bared its fangs.
Umoto slowly straightens his spine. For the first ti, he turns his neck and looks directly at Ryohei. The careless indifference is gone, replaced by a flash of cold anger because his authority has just been challenged by the pebble he dismissed.
The moderator quickly calls for the final photo session. And Ryohei does not wait. He steps forward, cuts the distance, and locks eyes with Umoto without the slightest hesitation.
Umoto bares a grin, still condescending, but sharpened with unmistakable intent. He takes one aggressive step forward until their chests nearly touch.
JBC officials move instantly, arms sliding between them to prevent any physical clash before the bell has even rung.
Umoto leans in anyway, exploiting the single centiter of height he has to press down with intimidation.
"I won’t just beat you," Umoto murmurs, his voice low and deliberate. "I’ll break you so completely that fear becos part of you. Every ring, every crowd, every ti you hear Osaka, your body will rember what I did to you."
Ryohei does not blink. He does not step back even an inch. He lets the words pass through him, his gaze fixed firmly on Umoto’s widened pupils.
The caras are still flashing, and then the world snaps forward.
EDION Arena, Osaka. May 18th, 2017.
The bell for round one rings, sharp and unforgiving, and Umoto proves imdiately that his words were not theater.
He explodes off his corner the instant the sound fades, cutting the distance toward Ryohei like a tiger locking onto prey, all hunger and violence, with no trace of restraint.
"He’s charging straight out of the corner. No feeling-out at all!" the comntator shouts, voice cracking with surprise. "This is completely different from Umoto’s usual style! He’s not waiting. He’s hunting!"
There is no asured entry, no familiar stoicism. Umoto does not test the waters. He simply floods them.
His feet eat the canvas in two strides. His shoulders roll forward. His gloves co flying, heavy and reckless, aid not at scoring points but at breaking rhythm, breaking confidence, breaking will.
The crowd roars, stunned by the sudden ferocity.
For a split second, Ryohei hesitates, not from fear, but caught off guard by the sudden break from Umoto’s usual self. But he plants his feet, holding his ground.
As Umoto crashes forward, intent on swallowing him whole, Ryohei pivots his left foot in a subtle half-step, turning his shoulder just enough to draw the line.
Dsh-Dhuack!
A razor-sharp one-two snaps Umoto’s head back. The impact stops him cold, his montum shattered mid-stride as the sound cracks through the arena.
"Oh! He caught him!" the comntator explodes. "Right down the center!"
The crowd surges, noise spiking as Umoto stumbles half a step, forced to reset.
"That wasn’t a warning shot," the other comntator shouts. "That was a statent. He’s not here to survive. He’s not here to run. He’s here to take the belt."
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