Chapter 2: Resolve

Renji charges forward. Ryoma pumps out jabs, trying to hold the distance, but his pace falters and the clash inevitably dissolves into another slugfest. He slips past Renji’s hooks and sneaks in a few head shots.

But the moment Renji starts mixing high and low, Ryoma’s guard begins to sink. His output dwindles, each punch stolen by the need to shield his ribs and gut.

Eventually...

Dsh!

A short hook cracks against the corner of Ryoma’s mouth. He actually saw it coming, managed to pull away, but it’s still snapping his entire body sideways.

For the first time this round, Renji’s glove hits Ryoma’s pretty face.

"It’s time for you to take a nap!" Renji snarls, cocking back a heavy straight.

Swssh!

This time, Ryoma’s sharp eyes can only see the incoming disaster. He grits his teeth, bracing for the impact.

But before it lands, the bell splits the air and the referee steps in.

It may be Kirizume’s turf, but at least the timekeeper doesn’t cheat. Ryoma is spared, saved not by skill this time, but by the gong.

A ripple of breath breaks around ringside.

"Wooaaah... saved by the bell."

"If that straight had landed, he’d be done."

Renji returns to his corner with his chest out, and Kirizume greets him with a grin.

"Good job out there. Just as we planned, those body blows have completely turned the table."

Renji waves it off. "Don’t get too excited. It’s just a spar against some rookie, remember?"

Across the ring, Ryoma forces himself to walk steady, but his legs tremble under him. Each stride looks heavy, his control slipping no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

Hiroshi waits with a stool ready. Ryoma stares at it, then at Hiroshi, reluctant to sit, as if taking the seat would broadcast his condition to the other corner.

Nakahara, however, doesn’t give him a choice. He grabs Ryoma’s arm and pulls him down onto the stool.

"Wait, Coach..."

"What?" Nakahara scoffs. "You think you can hide it from them? You think they don’t already know?"

He steps aside, giving Hiroshi space. Without needing instruction, Hiroshi kneels and starts massaging Ryoma’s thighs.

Then Nakahara leans closer, checking Ryoma’s breathing rhythm, the cold sweat running down his skin, all of those more than enough to show how much Renji’s body shots have drained him.

And it isn’t just the physical damage. Trading at close range with a champion known for his destructive punches leaves its own mark. Ryoma has done well to slip most of those heavy swings, but the pressure of standing in front of them lingers, pressing down on him all the same.

"You’ve done well to last this long," Nakahara says. "But you’re up against a champion. And his Second? That’s the man who carried him to seventeen straight wins. Of course they’ve been aiming for this."

"It’s still the second round," Ryoma says, his breath ragged. "I can still..."

"Yeah, it’s only the second round," Nakahara cuts him off. "But look at you, already sweating this much. So tell me... do you still think that one-year title hunt is realistic?"

He keeps his voice low, but not low enough to escape Aki, who’s closest to Ryoma’s corner. Her eyes widen, stunned. She knows Ryoma’s talent, but he’s still a Class-C rookie. Aiming for a title shot in a single year sounds less like ambition and more like madness.

Behind her, Reika drifts closer. She pretends disinterest, but her eyes linger a little too long on Ryoma’s condition.

Unlike Aki, Reika doesn’t bother hiding her skepticism, and her words carry just enough weight to reach Ryoma’s ears.

"Did he just talk about securing a title fight, within a year... with that wiry frame?"

Ryoma only shoots her a brief, annoyed glance before turning his attention back to the opposite corner, examining Renji’s condition.

Renji’s face looks almost untouched. Ryoma knows he’s landed clean shots. yet the champion still laughs, joking easily with a few nearby athletes as though the punches hadn’t landed at all.

A moment later, his Vision Grid System flickers to life across his sightline:

Superficial injuries detected:

Minor swelling (left temple and eyebrow ridge).

Micro-cut (mouth corner).

Structural integrity: HIGH — facial bones stable, no visible fracture risk.

Vital signs (projected): Steady breathing, consistent heart rhythm.

Combat performance impact: NEGLIGIBLE.

Opponent exhibiting high pain tolerance.

Current state: 92% combat efficiency.

Warning: Superficial damage insufficient to disrupt rhythm.

Recommendation: Target body to compromise stamina or slow mobility.

Ryoma lets out a dry scoff at the system’s recommendation. Target the body to cut down mobility, sound advice in theory, but bitterly ironic when he’s the one whose legs already feel heavy from Renji’s punishment. It doesn’t help him now, not when the Champion has already turned that very tactic against him.

Point-wise, he believes he’s ahead, landing more punches. But this isn’t an official match, there are no judges to reward volume punching, no decision waiting on scorecards. And none of it matters if he can’t endure until the end of the third round.

Nakahara’s brow twitches when he catches the faint, almost reckless smirk tugging at Ryoma’s lips.

"What’s so funny?" he asks, his voice edged. "Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind."

The smirk fades. Ryoma straightens, eyes sharpened with resolve. "You said all I have to do is survive until the end of the third round... come back here on my own two feet. Right?"

"I did say that, but..."

"Coach," Ryoma cuts in firmly, "I need you to promise me, never throw in the towel."

Before Nakahara can answer, the referee calls the fighters back. Ryoma rises from the stool without hesitation. He stomps his shoes against the canvas, testing the lightness of his feet, then gives Hiroshi a nod of quiet gratitude.

"Hey, kid..." Nakahara grips his wrist hard before he can step away. "Don’t you dare do anything stupid out there. No more trades, no slugfests. Even if you see an opening, you slip out. No risks. You hear me?"

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His silence is heavier than words, a silence that tells Nakahara he’s already resolved to ignore the warning.

As Ryoma strides off, Nakahara steps through the ropes, eyes locked on his fighter. Ambition burns in him too; thirty years in the corner without once guiding a boxer to a title fight. And it can be said that Ryoma is the best talent he’s ever had, maybe the last chance to see that dream realized.

But his hand stays tight on the towel, knuckles white. Whatever Ryoma wants, whatever promises he demands, Nakahara swears to himself he won’t let this kid be broken in front of him.

"Sorry, kid," he mutters under his breath. "I’ll protect you, even if it means betraying you."