He can’t wait to test it himself in the ring, fighting soone by having the system’s assistance in his skull. Almost like co-op with a hidden corner man.
Across the gym, his gym mates are now slumping against benches, gulping water, chatting in tired voices. The skipping ropes are silent now, gloves half-untied, the air carrying only the slow rasp of breath after a hard day’s drills.
Ryoma finally pushes to his feet, the sudden motion drawing a glance or two. His eyes lock on Ryohei, lounging near the corner with his wraps still hanging loose around his wrists.
"Ryohei," Ryoma calls, voice steady. "Help out. I need a spar."
The room freezes for a beat.
Ryohei jerks upright, eyes wide. "Hah?! Now? After you just puked all over the mat? Are you insane?"
His voice cracks with disbelief, sharp enough to cut through every corner of the gym. Heads swivel, conversations die mid-sentence.
Nakahara turns, drawn instantly by the outburst. "Oi, Kid! Cut it out already! I know you’re desperate to get stronger. But there’s no sense in training if it breaks you. Sit down before you make a fool of yourself."
Ryoma’s stand rigid, his jaw tight, but the weight of Nakahara’s glare leaves him no ground to push back. Slowly, he exhales and lowers himself to the bench, his hands curling against his knees.
The fighters around him, sensing the day’s end, start peeling away, lifting bags, cracking jokes, drifting toward the locker room in noisy clusters.
Okabe claps Ryohei on the shoulder as they pass. "Man, what’s with your boy? First he pukes like a fountain, then he’s begging you to spar? You sure he’s not possessed?"
Ryohei lets out a baffled laugh. "Don’t ask . I thought he was gonna drop dead on the mat, and the next second he’s calling out. Guy’s insane."
***
One by one, the chatter fades through the doorway until the gym grows quieter, leaving only the old coach, his assistant, and Ryoma seated alone on the bench.
Hiroshi walks past Ryoma, making his way toward Nakahara, who’s already wiping sweat from his brow with a hand towel.
"Wait here, Ryoma. I’ll take you ho in a bit."
Ryoma lifts his eyes just slightly, his Vision Grid sharpening to life again as he observes Hiroshi’s conversation with the old man.
Hiroshi crosses his arms as he cos up to Nakahara, lowering his voice so it won’t carry.
"Coach. That girl. Reika. What did she really want with you?"
Nakahara chuckles, rubbing a towel over his face before answering. "Ah... you caught that, did you? She’s not just so nosy reporter’s friend. She’s the daughter of Logan Rhodes. You know the na?"
Hiroshi’s brows knit. "Logan Rhodes? Never heard of him."
Nakahara lowers the towel, his smile faint but tinged with excitent. "It’s the guy who runs Nexus Sporting Network. They are big overseas. Broadcasting, marketing, betting. Not promoters, no. But they have connections."
Ryoma tilts his head slightly, watching. The Vision Grid flickers alive again, lines etching across Nakahara’s lips until the words sharpen clear, his coach’s voice threading into his skull.
>
The phrase jolts Ryoma. He had followed Nakahara’s exchange with Reika earlier, but back then his attention clung to the new features of the system.
Now, with the words echoing in Nakahara’s voice in his head, the aning lands heavier than he expected.
Hiroshi shifts his weight forward, voice low but firm. "Or they could take Ryoma’s image, sell him to the highest bidder, and leave us with scraps. Companies like that don’t hand out gifts."
Nakahara smiles thinly, hope still burning in his eyes. "Always the pessimist. Why can’t you see it? This is opportunity. A chance to lift this gym. We only have four fighters, Hiroshi. Four. And it’s already so hard for us to arrange fights for Kenta and the others. Without support, we’ll stay invisible forever."
anwhile, Ryoma still follows their conversation using his Vision Grid.
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