Ryoma watches from near the bench, studying the heavy bag as it groans beneath Okabe’s chaotic assault.
Every impact sounds less like training and more like accusation. And the accusation feels heavily, as if they are all directed at him.
Ryoma understands the source of the spiral. The curse does not belong to Okabe alone. It belongs to the new version of the Nakahara Gym.
The gym used to be a cluster of overlooked fighters chasing scraps. Now the public labels them as contenders and future champions. Outsiders call them late bloors, but everyone inside these walls knows the truth.
Ryoma is the one who shifted the gear.
He feels the weight of that realization settle across his shoulders. He has chased one singular dream: to raise this gym to the summit with him, not leaving anyone behind.
But lately, that sa dream begins to divide him. It seeps into his focus and steals minutes from his own preparation.
>
A quieter voice begins to surface beneath his breathing. The thought sounds like his own, calm and reasonable.
>
Ryoma exhales slowly, trying to ignore it. But the voice does not fade.
>
>
He tries to shift his focus back to Satoru, but Okabe’s desperation refuses to quiet down. Every ti Ryoma forces his eyes elsewhere, the sound of those reckless punches drags his attention back.
And whenever his gaze returns to Okabe, that voice seeps in again, low and persuasive, urging him to look away and let the problem solve itself.
***
Late morning, the final bell of the last session of the training rings through the gym. Gloves co off, towels wipe sweat, and conversations resu in low tones.
Usually, Ryoma would stay until late afternoon to help with the youngsters. But today, he does not linger.
He does not even stop by his mother’s barbershop, where he usually spends quiet minutes sweeping hair and listening to neighborhood gossip.
He leaves early, and returns straight to his apartnt, sits in front of the flat screen and loads every recorded fight of Okabe.
Round after round flickers across the screen as Ryoma watches in silence.
He sees a fighter who swings before he thinks. He sees shoulders that tense too early. He sees feet planted when they should pivot. He sees counters ignored in favor of brawling exchanges.
Okabe fights with spite rather than structure.
In one bout, Okabe storms forward after a minor clash of heads, his expression twisted into sothing feral. He throws first, not because the opening exists, but because pride demands retaliation.
He looks less like a trained boxer and more like a thug asserting dominance in a narrow alley.
>
The voice returns, sharper now.
>
The system’s tone almost chuckles.
>
Ryoma presses play again. And the screen shows another wild exchange.
>
The voice whispers smoothly now.
>
Finally, Ryoma exhales and answers the voice inside his own skull. "I’m not trying to change his nature," he mutters quietly. "And I know counters aren’t ant for soone like him."
>
Ryoma leans back in his chair and rubs his temple. "I thought you could read my mind."
>
The chuckle feels dry and invasive.
>
>
The words strike with surgical precision. Ryoma ignores the video mid-exchange as his concern turns inward.
He knows his own nature too well. And the system understands it because it is built from it.
If he sacrifices his preparation now and loses later, resentnt will not stay buried. It will look for a target. And Okabe will be the easiest one to be blad.
>
The voice softens, almost reasonable.
>
>
>
>
Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and the sentence remains unfinished.
It rings again, and more insistent this ti. Ryoma blinks and pushes away from the desk.
"Coming," he calls out as he walks toward the door.
After he opens it, there’s a man standing outside in a wrinkled office suit. Sweat darkens the fabric beneath his arms, and his breathing suggests he hurried here.
"Finally," the man says, forcing a tired smile. "I get to see you. I didn’t expect you to leave the gym this early. They say Ryoma Takeda is the kind of man whose effort surpasses his talent."
Ryoma studies his face carefully. Recognition flickers but refuses to settle.
"Sorry," Ryoma says evenly. "Do I know you?"
"I certainly know who you are," the man replies, extending a business card forward. "But this is our first eting."
The man keeps his arm extended, business card steady between two fingers.
"Masato Kurogane," he says smoothly. "Independent boxing manager. I handle contracts, sanctioning politics, and negotiations fighters are too busy bleeding to notice. In short, I am the man who protects your life and your career."
"I’m doing fine," Ryoma replies evenly. "Actually, I’m having the best stretch of my career right now. I don’t think I need protection from soone I just t."
Kurogane does not withdraw his hand imdiately. He studies Ryoma’s face with a faint, knowing smile.
"That confidence is good," he says. "Confidence is what makes champions. Ignorance, however, is what strips them."
Ryoma’s expression does not change. His sharp eyes remain fixed on the man, scanning every micro-expression, every controlled breath. He senses sothing polished beneath the surface, sothing rehearsed.
The man’s smile feels asured, and the concern sounds practiced. Ryoma does not see sincerity from him. He sees calculation.
"Have you ever heard of the Muhammad Ali Boxing Reform Act?" Kurogane asks casually.
Ryoma gives a short shake of his head.
"I won’t be surprised," Kurogane continues. "Most young champions haven’t. And that is usually when belts start slipping away before the first defense is even signed."
Ryoma finally takes the card, but he does so without gratitude. He glances down at it with a narrow, distrustful gaze, as if expecting the ink itself to lie. Then he lifts his eyes back to the man, a faint frown settling across his face.
"You fight under the OPBF banner," Kurogane says. "Sanctioning bodies care about paperwork, mandatory tilines, purse transparency, dical disclosures. One misfiled docunt, one poorly structured negotiation, and suddenly you are declared unavailable or non-compliant."
He lowers his voice slightly. "Don’t forget, you are negotiating a ga-event without independent representation."
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