Chapter 6: The Jab That Must Speak

In the end, Kenta, the most senior, leads the group out, with Okabe and Ryohei right behind him.

"Try following us if you’re serious," Okabe says.

"Just remember, we won’t stop even if you faint in the middle of the road," Ryohei adds.

Those youngsters look reluctant to follow. A few of them mutter lowly, complaining that this wasn’t in the script. Until Kobo opens the path, and the rest finally follow behind.

Tsutome however, lingers for a while, glancing at Ryoma’s right hand. Sadly, he can’t see anything as Ryoma keeps both hands inside the pocket of his sweater.

And that glance, there’s no way Ryoma misses it. Once Tsutomu’s eyes flick up, Ryoma glares with intimidation.

"What are you looking at?"

In that instant, Tsutome fakes his smiles, rubbing the back of his head while bowing a few times.

"I’m just curious if Ryoma-aniki not joining our roadwork?"

Ryoma’s face wrinkles at the word of aniki. Already, this guy treats him like some big man in their gang.

"No," Ryoma replies flatly. "I’m still recovering from my previous fight."

"Ah, did you injure yourself somewhere?"

"Why would you care? Just leave, your friends have left."

"Ah, yes, yes... I’m leaving!"

Ryoma keeps his eyes on his back, his gaze narrowing as unease prickles in his gut. Something about this thug reeks of trouble.

A part of him wants to share his doubt with Coach Nakahara, but when he catches the old man’s expression, smiling in a way he hasn’t for a long time, he swallows the thought. Better not to spoil that fragile moment of pride.

Nakahara, perhaps sensing the weight of Ryoma’s stare, clears his throat. The smile slips into something steadier, a coach’s mask returning to place, and with a small tug of his head he turns back toward his office.

"Come, kid," he calls, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Let’s study your next opponent."

Ryoma falls in step, Hiroshi flanking him on the way in.

Inside, Hiroshi wastes no time. He switches on the monitor, slots the memory stick, and the screen fills with the familiar sounds of a match. Toru Kanzaki’s bout, recorded by Kenta, unspools before them.

For Ryoma, it’s the first time seeing this video, but his interest seems muted. His eyes follow, but his body is distant, shoulders relaxed, almost indifferent.

Only when Kanzaki drops his opponent with a clean strike does Ryoma finally speak.

"There’s not much different in him," he says.

Hiroshi blinks, turning. "You already know Toru Kanzaki?"

"Yeah. We came from the same high school," Ryoma shrugs. "He’s two years above me. He did well in the Interhigh too."

"That’s new," Hiroshi mutters, shooting a glance at Nakahara. "Never heard that before."

"Well, he reached the finals once, but never won," Ryoma replies casually. "So it makes sense if he stayed under the radar. Still, I knew he was good. The only changes I can see now are his size and his reach. Back then, he was fighting featherweight."

"That tracks," Nakahara says, his tone even, though his mind is already piecing together adjustments. "With that frame, moving up a class is natural. And unlike you, it seems he doesn’t need to cut weight just to stand there."

"And his style...," Hiroshi mutters. "He fights just like you. His rhythm, footwork, and the variation in his punches, he can mix them well."

Ryoma gives a half-smile, almost self-mocking. "There was a time I tried to copy him. But we weren’t that close. Honestly, I don’t think we ever exchanged a single word."

Yet behind the shrug and the faint chuckle, something unsettled lingers. He leaves the office soon after, rolling his shoulder, heading back toward the heavy bag as if to shake off the thought.

Nakahara and Hiroshi exchange a quiet look, both recognizing it: Ryoma’s indifference is only a mask.

The truth is, Ryoma had once admired Kanzaki, even sought him out. But Kanzaki’s dismissive words had cut deep, words that branded themselves into Ryoma’s memory and hardened into fuel.

"You’re too soft."

"You’ll never last in this sport."

"That pretty nose of yours? Girls might like it. In the ring, it’s your biggest weakness."

What Ryoma once approached as mentorship became rejection, even scorn. Kanzaki had even told him to quit, judging him too weak only based on the baby face he once had.

He had been the wall that first forced Ryoma to prove himself. And though Ryoma eventually went on to win the Interhigh, Kanzaki was already gone, beyond his reach. But now, fate had brought them back onto the same path.

Ryoma straps on a glove, only his left, and sets into the bag. Each strike lands with a sharp thud, punctuated by his muttered vow:

"Let’s see if I’m still soft. Even with just this left, I’ll make you kneel before me."

From the office doorway, Nakahara watches. He sees only Ryoma’s back, the sweat darkening his shirt, the shoulder snapping with every jab. There is fire in him, yes, more than enough to burn. But it burns unevenly, lacking direction.

Stepping forward, Nakahara catches the bag, steadying it with both hands. "Stop flailing," he says, his palm slapping the leather to still its sway. "You’re just brushing it. Remember, your jab isn’t a feeler anymore. It’s your weapon now. Put your weight behind it."

Ryoma sets his jaw, drives his shoulder, and throws again.

"Better," Nakahara says, his voice cutting but instructive. "But you’re still snapping back too quick. Drive it in. Extend. Make him respect it. If Kanzaki walks through your jab, the fight’s already over."

Ryoma exhales hard, resets, and slams another. This time, the sound shifts, less a tap, more a command. The bag jerks back on its chain.

Nakahara nods once. "That’s it. Every jab has to speak. ’Don’t take another step.’ That’s the message."

Ryoma pauses, frowning. "I get it. But if I do it like this, I lose snap. I lose speed. It’ll be too easy to read. And if I don’t pull back fast, I’m open to a counter."

Nakahara studies him for a moment, then smiles faintly, pride flickering at the boy’s insight.

"That’s the trade," he says. "You fight with one hand, so you don’t get luxury. Power or speed, you can’t have both. But maybe," he presses his palm against the bag again, "we can carve out a balance."

"Stop thinking," he says, voice steady, not unkind. "Again. Put yourself into it. Forget speed for now, just one punch at a time. Teach that left to carry the punishment. Treat it as if it is your right."

Ryoma limits himself to jabs. No hooks, no straights, because he already knows how to throw them well.

Today isn’t about variety. It’s about discipline, every repetition a lesson, each thrust of the left a drill to carve weight into the simplest punch.

He isn’t just flicking it out as a setup anymore. He’s teaching his jab to carry the force of something greater.