Chapter 4: Sweat and Shiitake

Funny thing about boxing, sometimes the fight that breaks you isn’t in the ring. It’s on the scale.

Two days before the weigh-in, Ryoma is still more than a kilo over the limit. Close, yet painfully far.

The special sparring in the shrunken ring had already been scrapped two days ago. Nakahara has him back in the full-sized ring now, just to readjust his spacing.

All that’s left are mitt sessions. With Ryoma’s condition, three hard rounds of sparring would be reckless.

"One-two!"

Pat, pat!

"One-two-three!"

Pat, dum, pat!

"One-six!"

Pat, dsh!

Each call is a target, Nakahara guiding his form, tightening angles, forcing focus. The punches still snap with rhythm, the technique still sharp.

But Nakahara can feel what’s missing. There’s no weight behind the gloves. His gas tank is already dry, his arms stringy, his body running on fumes. That last kilo hangs over them like a mountain.

Two rounds on mitts so far; first for rhythm, second for precision. Normally the third is reserved for power. But this time Nakahara lowers his hands, peeling off the pads.

"That’s it for today."

Usually, Ryoma would argue, beg for more. Today he only nods, eyes dull, shoulders sagging, arms dangling as though they’ve been hollowed out.

He stumbles down from the ring and drifts toward the heavy bag, but Nakahara intercepts him, stripping the gloves from his hands himself.

"Coach...?"

"I said enough." Nakahara’s tone leaves no room. "Tomorrow, don’t bother coming to the gym. Just focus on draining the sweat. Stay in your room, turn the heater on, and chew shiitake. That’s all."

Ryoma nods, drops onto a bench, peels the wraps from his knuckles, slow and heavy. Every movement is sluggish, deliberate, like his arms are weighed down with lead. Even this simple task looks exhausting.

The gym falls quiet around him. Okabe and Kenta watch, sympathy in their eyes, but they can’t truly relate. Neither of them has ever been forced into such a brutal regime.

Ryohei, however, understands more than most. He knows the misery of cutting weight. But even then, his frame isn’t as large as Ryoma’s. The struggle isn’t the same.

Okabe shoots him a glance, lifting a brow. "He looks way worse than you did before fight day."

Ryohei exhales, almost reluctantly. "Yeah. Makes me wonder how long he can keep moving in the ring."

"Thankfully, it’s only four rounds," Kenta mutters, before turning back to the heavy bag. "Let’s just hope nobody digs into his stomach."

By the time Ryoma finishes unwrapping, he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door.

"Take care yourself out there," Nakahara says.

"Yes, sir!" Ryoma nods as he walks past Hiroshi.

Hiroshi just watches him go, saying nothing. They haven’t spoken much since that argument the other week. The distance is still there. But the concern hasn’t gone anywhere.

Even on the walk home, Ryoma drifts in and out, teetering between dreams and hallucinations. Just last month, he was a wreck, a jobless drunk wasting nights on cheap booze, drowning in hangovers by morning.

For ten years in his previous life, he hadn’t done roadwork, hadn’t touched a gym, hadn’t even stretched. Now, at nineteen again, he’s clawing his way back, step by step, punch by punch.

This body is younger, yes, but it’s not youth that keeps him upright. It’s grit, the spite, the promise he keeps whispering to himself through gritted teeth:

"I’ve lived worse. I won’t repeat it again."

Even so, every step is a war. He talks to himself just to stay awake, just to keep from collapsing on the pavement.

Once he gets home, his throat burns with dryness. Ryoma fills a glass and drains it in one go. The relief is almost dizzying, so sweet he nearly goes for another.

But he stops. His grip tightens around the glass. Then he sets it down, steady, and forces himself toward the bedroom.

Inside, he strips off his hoodie and sweat-drenched shirt, then catches his reflection in the mirror; hollow eyes, shoulders drawn thin, sweat streaks drying against the outline of a body carved by suffering, not strength.

"Heh?" he scoffs at his own look. "Think you can protect your mom? Just look at you?"

His Vision Grid flickers awake, cold and clinical, dissecting him line by line.

Chest (Pectorals):

Low to moderate volume. Definition visible due to fat deficit.

Expansion from recent growth still underfed.

Mass gap to ideal form: 0.5–0.7 kg

Abdominals/Core:

High visibility, structural power compromised.

Torque output: 58% of optimal for height.

Lateral stability: 51%

Mass gap to ideal form: 0.9–1.1 kg (lower/obliques)

Note: Energy reserves critically depleted; reduced strike conversion efficiency.

Arms (Biceps/Triceps/Forearms):

Length and reach favorable. Muscle density underdeveloped for class.

Power projection: –18.7% below mean for Super Featherweight.

Mass gap to ideal form: 1.0–1.3 kg

Profile remains deceptive—speed efficiency preserved.

Shoulders (Deltoids)

Frame widened. Posterior deltoid underdeveloped.

Instability risk under repeated impact remains high.

Mass gap to ideal form: 0.8 kg

Skeletal vs. Muscular Load Analysis

Forecast: Skeletal frame trending toward higher division baseline (Lightweight threshold).

Musculature remains lagging.

Predicted Ideal Combat Weight: 66.8–67.2 kg

Projected Peak Division: Super Lightweight (63.5 kg)

STATUS

Current registered weight class: Super Featherweight (58.9 kg limit).

Current body weight: ~60.0 kg.

Deficit to limit: ≈1.1 kg.

Achievability: Possible within 48 hrs, but with severe cost to endurance and body power.

Risk: Significant performance drop if prolonged at this class.

System Note: Subject intends to remain at Super Featherweight for minimum 12 months. Adaptation will require consistent deficit discipline, long-term muscular stabilization, and high injury risk tolerance.

Efficiency rated 37% for class sustainability.

After skimming the readout, Ryoma’s eyes drift to the small room heater tucked under his bed. Normally, it only sees daylight in the dead of winter. Tonight, it becomes his makeshift sauna.

He drags it out, sets it in the middle of the room, and clicks it on. The air thickens, heat stacking in waves. Every rising degree means more sweat, more water leaking out of him.

From his bag, he pulls out the pack of dried shiitake mushrooms he bought earlier. He rips it open, pops one into his mouth, and grinds it down. The texture is tough, earthy, almost like leather.

But that’s the point. Chewing keeps the jaw busy, tricks the body into thinking it’s eating. And shiitake, dense with fiber and low in calories, drags water into the gut, speeding the drain.

He leans back against the wall, heater blasting dry air, skin already starting to glisten. The taste is bitter, but his face twists not from that, but from the fire inside

Sweat beads and trails down his skin, but Ryoma doesn’t notice. He just keeps chewing, rage as dry and bitter as the mushroom dissolving on his tongue.