After everything he’s been through, his body aches for rest, and so does his mind. Sadly, sleep doesn’t co gently. It drags him under like a rip current, fast and disorienting.
Then he sees Tojō in the ring, and a punch cuts through his guard like it’s made of paper. The canvas slaps him cold, and the lights blur above.
FuooOour...
Fuaiiivu...
Suiixss...
The count echoes in slow motion, each number warped and dragging through the air like it’s underwater, heavy, distorted, almost unreal.
Then he moves to another dream, a different ring, another opponent. He eats a right cross clean to the face, his vision whiteouts.
When he blinks again, he is in a different kind of nightmare. This one cheats, low blows, kidney shots behind the ref’s back. He complains, but the ref waves it off, shaking his head in super slow motion.
Then the crowd is gone, the lights flicker out. Now there’s only the sound of a truck horn, a tal blur, the sharp cry of brakes, and a burst of pain in his left knee.
And with that injured leg, he limps ho with two ice creams in hand, one for himself, one for his mom. But there he sees his mom in a body bag.
Police officers move around it with hushed urgency, and one of them holds out a hand, pushing him back like he doesn’t belong there.
He tries to speak, to move, to reach out. But everything feels slow, like he’s moving through syrup. The body bag is zipped shut. And all he can do is stand there, paralyzed.
But there’s a sudden euphoria, him holding the betting ticket at the bar, people cheer with him, raising their glass.
"Kampaaiii!"
"He betted everything for the challenger..."
"...and spotted the fatal weakness in the Champion."
"Kampai for the genius!"
Then he sees a man in black suit raise the gun, and when the bullet hits...
Ryoma jolts awake.
A sharp gasp tears from his throat, chest rising fast and shallow.
His hand flies to his sternum, rubbing where the shot landed. But there’s no blood, just sweat, and sheets tangled around his legs.
"A dream...?"
He presses his palm harder to his chest. The thump of his heart feels realer than anything else.
It takes a full minute before his breath starts to slow. But his eyes stay wide, because so dreams don’t fade with the dawn.
***
After a full day of not doing anything, Ryoma starts his daily life as a young boxer, sothing he hasn’t done for ten years.
The morning air is colder than he rembers. Concrete still wet from last night’s rain as he runs along the Tama Riverbank.
Each breath clouds in front of him, each footfall tapping out a rhythm on damp asphalt. The nightmare he had for two consecutive nights still clings to the edges of his thoughts, but he doesn’t look back.
He just runs, as if montum alone can carry him sowhere cleaner, sowhere quieter than sleep.
Before heading ho, he ducks into a small Lawson convenience store tucked beside an old pachinko parlor.
The bell chis softly as the automatic door slides open.
"Irasshaimase," the shopkeeper greets with a smile, bowing her head without looking up.
Ryoma nods back, heading straight for the chilled drinks, and grabs two bottles of Pocari Sweat. He’s already sweating more than usual. He’ll need to hydrate aggressively if he wants to stay in class.
As the shopkeeper scans the drinks, a soft thump echoes behind the counter. Fresh bundles of newspapers and sports magazines just dropped off.
Ryoma glances instinctively. There, stretched across the latest issue of Boxing Spirit Weekly, is a headline in bold white:
"The Ice Wolf Strikes Again – Renji Kuroiwa Defends Lightweight Title in Round 4 KO!"
It’s a stark, frozen image, Kuroiwa’s face half-veiled in shadow beneath the overhead lights, his right glove raised, and a championship belt draped casually over his shoulder.
Beneath his na, smaller print:
"Kirizu Gym adds another victory under Coach Daigo Kirizu’s ruthless program."
Ryoma exhales slowly, lips parting into a faint smirk.
The Kirizu Gym, that’s where they’re all coming from; Tōjō, Kuroiwa, and probably more like them. All raised under that sa brutal factory of swagger and polish.
He picks up the magazine and pays it before reading. The photos inside show Kuroiwa mid-fight; calm, crisp, rciless, the kind of rhythm that cos from not just talent, but cold-blooded repetition.
"Another wolf, huh?" he mutters. "Guess I’ll be hunting those too. Now let’s see if they have my fight too."
He then flips the pages, until he finds an article on his previous fight, except the focus isn’t on the winner.
There’s no picture of Ryoma’s raised hand, no ntion of the debutant’s na in the headline. There’s just a mid-shot of Tōjō sitting at the post-fight table, hoodie half-zipped, bruised and defiant.
The caption reads:
"Tōjō reflects on ’underestimating the mont’ after stunning debut upset."
Ryoma scans the lines quickly. Most of it dances around excuses; a rough cut, poor rehydration, lack of proper camp.
But then there it is, buried in the second column:
"Let’s be honest, anyone can get lucky when you close your eyes and swing hard enough."
Ryoma stares at the words for a mont. Then he exhales slowly, the kind of breath that cools rather than fuels.
As he steps out of the store, the morning light hits his face, and he takes a sip of the electrolyte drink. The bottle crackles softly in his grip.
"Let him say whatever he needs to sleep at night," he mutters to himself. "I’m not looking back anymore."
And with that, he keeps walking, eyes forward. But instead of heading ho, he turns right at the next light and keeps going.
His legs aren’t tired. His mind isn’t either. The streets are quieter now, and before long, the familiar awning of Nakahara Gym cos into view.
"So things never change... the cracked sign, the rusted bike rack, and that sa dented mailbox still hanging crooked by the door."
Inside, the gym slls of old tape and sweat, a scent only a fighter could find comforting. The space is quiet. Just three athletes are there, stretching in silence. One by one, their eyes shift toward him, curiosity flickering behind their steady gazes.
Ryoma doesn’t linger, and heads straight for the manager’s office. Coach Nakahara doesn’t even look up at first. He’s busy scribbling sothing into a logbook.
But the mont he hears the door click shut, the old man glances up, and his face turns thunderous.
"What the hell are you doing here in training gear?" he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut rope. "Did I not say you get a week? A full week of rest, Ryoma. That wasn’t a suggestion. That was a goddamn instruction."
Ryoma says nothing for a beat. Then he steps forward, eyes level, shoulders squared.
"Coach," he says, speaking with no hesitation. "Is it possible for to challenge the Japanese Super Featherweight Champion within one year?"
Nakahara’s pen pauses in mid-air, his brow lifts just slightly.
And silence fills the room like a second presence.
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