Chapter 3: The Weight of A Promise

Ryoma’s thoughts churn. Leo’s words leave no doubt that Kirizume is indeed scheming something to break him. But what? This is the Rookie Tournament, officially sanctioned and organized under strict rules.

Even if Kirizume handpicked three fighters to target him, there’s no certainty Ryoma will even face them. It’s a bracket system where some participants will be eliminated early. A scheme like that relies on too many variables.

Before he can untangle it further, Kirizume’s voice cuts sharp from the sedan.

"Hey, boy! We’re leaving!"

Leo looks behind, and then turns back to Ryoma. He struts backward, keeps his body facing Ryoma, smirk never leaving his face.

"Just pray someone else knocks you out in the first round," he says, swagger in every word. "Because if it’s me... I’ll make sure the whole world sees your humiliation."

Only after finishing the line does he turn his back and stroll toward Kirizume’s car.

Behind Ryoma, Hiroshi arrives just in time to catch Leo’s parting jab, his brow knitting in confusion.

"Who the hell’s that? You know him?"

Ryoma exhales, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Don’t mind him, Hiroshi-san. Registration’s done?"

"Yeah." Hiroshi gives a short nod. "Let’s head back to the gym."

Ryoma lingers for a moment, his eyes remain fixed on the sedan. Once it disappears down the street, only then does he move, catching up with Hiroshi.

Hiroshi then slows to Ryoma’s side, trying to shake the stiffness in the air. "Rookie King isn’t something to take lightly, you know. Win it, and people will start talking about you. It’s the kind of stage that builds names."

Ryoma doesn’t even look at him. "I don’t care about Rookie King."

Hiroshi stops, blinking. "What?"

"I’m not aiming for that kind of title," Ryoma says flatly. "My dream is the world title."

For a second, Hiroshi just stares at him, then lets out a laugh, half disbelief, half nerves. "Don’t joke around. You’ve only fought once. Talking about a world title now is like a kid saying he’s gonna win gold at the Olympics after passing swimming class."

But Ryoma’s face doesn’t crack. His voice is calm, his eyes steady. "I’m not joking. I don’t care about stepping stones. I see myself fighting on the world stage."

Hiroshi feels the words strike something inside him. He wants to argue, to tell him to stay grounded, but Ryoma’s tone doesn’t leave space for that. It isn’t arrogance. It’s conviction, and that conviction seeps into Hiroshi’s chest before he can stop it, heavy and undeniable.

Ryoma notices the change in his expression and smirks. "What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you’re actually moved."

Hiroshi quickly looks away, his ears turning red. "Shut up. I just didn’t expect you to say something that crazy with a straight face."

"Crazy or not," Ryoma shrugs, "you’d better get ready. When I make it there, I’ll drag you with me to the world stage too."

Ryoma’s words still hang in the air as he and Hiroshi walk on. A dream of the world stage, bold, reckless, but so vivid it almost feels real.

Yet even the longest journey begins with a single step. And the first step, if taken carelessly, is the one most likely to trip you.

Not far behind, two figures are still watching Ryoma’s back as it fades into the crowd.

Aramaki tilts his head, curiosity burning. "Think you can really beat that prodigy?"

Noguchi only shrugs, hands tucked into his pockets as he turns away. "He’s got technique, no doubt. But technique alone won’t save you once you’re in the ring. In there, it’s a war zone."

He returns to his group fromAsakusa Boxing Gym, still wearing the colors of his old corner. Technically, he hasn’t left yet, though the deal he struck with Kirizume remains his own secret, unspoken even to his closest gym mates.

Aramaki, on the other hand, walks home alone. Unlike Noguchi, he had already confronted his coach about the deal with Kirizume. That honesty cost him: respect acknowledged, but expulsion swift.

For now, Kirizume has only guided him through the rookie tournament registration, listing him under his management just like what he did with Leo.

But Aramaki isn’t yet a true member of the Kirizume Boxing Gym. He lingers between affiliations, a fighter adrift, a ronin without a master.

And you might wonder how someone like Aramaki, kind, principled, stubborn about fairness, accepts such a filthy deal with Kirizume.

The answer is money, of course. But to call him money-hungry would be wrong. He simply has more than one mouth to feed.

"Da, da... da, da!"

A two-year-old bursts into a clumsy chant the moment Aramaki steps into the hut.

"Wooo... Nanako!" Aramaki lifts the child high, his tired face softening. "What are you doing all alone? Where’s your mom?"

From the back of the hut, a woman’s voice cuts through the air.

"Aramaki! Is that you?"

Still carrying the baby, he walks toward the voice and finds his wife crouched over her lettuce garden.

His eyes narrow. Disappointment flickers across his face because she has left the child alone again for the sake of her plants.

But he only exhales a long breath, because he knows the lettuce has carried them further than the money he earns in the ring.

"Kaori, I’m home!" he greets.

"I know," she says, turning with a peaceful smile. "So, how did registration go? Did Coach Murakami pay for everything?"

Aramaki nods once, slow, careful. But we know it’s a lie, because the gym has already kicked him out.

"Thank goodness," she murmurs, turning back to the plants. "If you can last in the tournament, even without winning, your name will spread. People will want to sponsor you. I know you. You won’t give up. Good things will surely come if you keep working hard."

Aramaki says nothing. He walks away, ties Nanako against his back with a cloth, then returns to kneel beside his wife in the damp garden.

He is still young, already married, already a father, though their union was never sanctioned. Their families cast them both out. Now, there is only boxing, and lettuce, their fragile foothold in the brutal city.

"You’re back too early," she says, glancing at him. "Did the coach finally knock some sense into you?"

Aramaki smirks faintly. "He knocked something, all right. Just not sense."

She laughs, quick and light, though she doesn’t press further. "You know, if boxing fails, maybe you should switch careers. You’ve got a talent for pulling weeds."

Aramaki yanks one free and tosses it aside. "Yeah? And maybe you should stop competing with the lettuces for my attention."

Her lips twitch as she tries not to smile, brushing dirt from her hands. "Don’t be ridiculous. The lettuces are winning."

For a moment, the tension eases. Then Aramaki glances sideways at her: sweat darkens her collar, her fingers raw from tearing at roots, yet she keeps working with a stubborn rhythm, jaw set, refusing to slow.

Even in her exhaustion, she looks stronger than him, like someone who won’t bend no matter how heavy the days press down.