Chapter 2: Prologue Rewritten

But fate has other plans. The moment Ryoma’s eyes flicker open, light floods into his brain, and something feels wrong.

There’s no pain, no bar, no blood, and no bullets.

Instead, he’s seated on a worn vinyl bench, wrapped in the scent of sweat, chalk, and oil. There’s duct tape on the walls. A dented water cooler in the corner.

Is this... some kind of memory? A dream? Some post-death delusion?

He lowers his head, trying to calm his nerves. But something flickers at the edge of his vision, a ripple, like heat distortion bending the air.

Core Authority: VISION GRID SYSTEM

Type: Perception-Based Combat Enhancer

Grade: Unique

Description:

Visual Processing Unlocked.

Kinetic Prediction Modules Calibrated.

Reflex Relay Preloaded.

Previous Life Combat Data Synced.

System Online.

He blinks once.

"What the hell...? Am I turning into a robot now?"

His hands twitch in reflex, and instinctively, he glances down at his legs, expecting that old familiar ache in the left, the weight, the unresponsive drag.

But no, his left leg bends cleanly beneath him, like it had never been crushed. He touches the thigh, then the knee. It’s all solid and responsive.

Still blinking in disbelief, he shifts his weight to it. And for the first time in years, it doesn’t betray him.

"Is this... really happening?"

For a second, he feels disoriented, like someone shoved two different lives into one skull and left him to sort out the echoes.

Then the system pulses again, and a second panel blooms open.

Current Location: Ryogoku Kokugikan – Locker Room B-2

Current Date: March 21st, 2015

Status: First Professional Match Scheduled in 28 Minutes

Opponent: Kazuya Tōjō

Alert: Combat scenario matches archived loss event. Combat Data Replay available for comparative analysis.

Ryoma stares at the date, his mouth dry. He is back in time, to ten years ago. And this is the exact day, the match that derailed his confidence as a boxer.

The memory of Tōjō’s taunting grin, the third-round hook, the long silence after the knockout. The way it all unraveled after that...

"I’m back... with the memory... my left leg..."

"And this system... It’s some kind of combat-assist interface, feeding me readouts like a machine."

Before he can digest everything, another notification appears.

- Y/N

Ryoma slowly shakes his head once. And the notification disappears.

He doesn’t need it. He’s already seen it hundreds of times, day after day, sometimes drunk, sometimes numb, but always full of regret.

He never believed he lost because he lacked skill. He wasn’t weak, wasn’t outclassed. He simply froze, choked under the pressure of his first pro match.

Let the lights blind him. Let Tōjō’s smug grin crawl under his skin. Got dragged into a pace he didn’t control. And when the taunts came, cheap childish jabs, he snapped and grew reckless.

Every time he rewatched that fight, he told himself:I should’ve done this. Should’ve moved here. Slipped there. Held my guard. He said a hundred variations of a better self, but none of them real.

That fight became the day he hated most. And now, by some miracle or curse, he’s standing in front of it again. The debt is still unpaid. But this time, he plans to collect.

Meanwhile, Coach Nakahara paces across the room, wearing black warm-ups and the look of a man who always expects a brawl.

Then, just before Ryoma stands, the coach pauses and crouches in front of him. His voice drops, quiet and measured.

"Listen. Most guys lose their first fight ’cause they try to win every second of it. But the match doesn’t care how many seconds you win. Only how you finish."

He places a hand on Ryoma’s taped wrist and gives it a small squeeze.

"Let the punk waste his energy looking flashy. You just wait for your moment, and when it comes, make damn sure he doesn’t get back up."

Ryoma meets his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t feel like a kid hearing it for the first time.

He nods, calm.

"I know, Coach! I know exactly when that moment is. I’ve studied him, watched his video hundreds times."

Coach Nakahara is stunned.

He has trained Ryoma since he was still in high school. The kid is naïve, always like to talk big. But now, those words, though calm and confident, carry none of the naïveté they once did.

Ryoma no longer looks like a teenager. His eyes belong to someone older, like a veteran boxer who has tasted failure, worn regret like a second skin, and lived through a past that still demands to be corrected.

Then a voice comes.

"Takeda. You’re up."

Ryoma raises and walks without a limp, without the dead drag that used to pull on his left leg like a curse. And for a terrifying second, he almost cries. Just the act of walking to the ring feels like time itself had handed him a crime of impossible kindness.

Coach Nakahara doesn’t follow. He just stands there, watching Ryoma’s back as the boy walks out of the room. There’s a crease between his brows, a tension he doesn’t name. It isn’t worry, not quite, but something close, something unsettled.

His assistant, a younger man with clipboard and towel in hand, glances over and frowns.

"Coach? You coming?"

Nakahara blinks, as if waking from a trance. Then slowly turns, and the corner of his mouth curls. It’s not in amusement, but in anticipation, like he’s standing at the edge of something big and doesn’t know the shape of it yet.

"I don’t know what it is," he says, voice low and steady, "but tonight... we’re gonna see something special."

As he gets into the ring, Ryoma’s memory takes full shape. The lights dim, and the spotlight chases across the canvas as Kazuya Tōjō enters the ring.

He soaks up the attention like it’s owed to him, arms spread wide, chin raised, strutting to the beat of his entrance song like the arena is his personal stage. The crowd responds, mostly with cheers, but some with groans. But Tōjō just feeds off both.

He winks at a girl in the front row, pounds his gloves together, then leaps over the ropes instead of stepping through them.

The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers:

"In the red corner, undefeated with four wins, one by knockout... from Kirizume Boxing Gym... give it up for... KAZUYA TŌJŌ!"

Tōjō throws his fists into the air. He doesn’t even glance at Ryoma’s corner.

Ryoma, meanwhile, stands motionless, eyes fixed only on his opponent. His vision narrows, and his system hums.

Age: 21

Height: 174 cm

Stance: Southpaw

Muscle Density: 82% optimal

Fatigue Residue: Moderate

Reaction Index: 77%

Balance Calibration: Slight lean on left heel

Body Mass Recheck: +2.3kg from weigh-in

"Subject failed to maintain optimal dehydration recovery window. Nutrient absorption incomplete. Delayed rehydration curve. Likely due to poor pre-fight prep or overconfidence."

"Analysis: Subject is fast, but sluggish in lateral footwork. Susceptible to right feints and body-to-head combinations."

Ryoma exhales slowly.

"Yeah, I know. He never even took me seriously back then. But I’m not the same person anymore."

"I’m going to beat him... and take back what he stole from me."