Chapter 9: The Weight of a Year

Coach Nakahara doesn’t answer right away. He sits there behind his desk, elbows planted, eyes half-lidded, the look of a man deciding whether to laugh or throw something.

It’s almost funny, in the wrong kind of way. Most coaches would call it ambition. But Nakahara hears it for what it is, a rookie’s arrogance dressed up as hunger.

Only two days ago, Ryoma won his first professional fight, and now he’s talking about snatching a title like it’s just another task on his to-do list.

"You know what’s funny, kid?" he speaks at last. "I’ve been in this sport thirty years. I’ve heard maybe a hundred kids having big dreams like you. Every single one thought they were special. Half of ’em quit after their third fight. The other half... they’re still nursing the injuries from trying."

But Ryoma doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.

"You beat one rookie," Coach Nakahara scoffs. "One... and you think you can run through ten, fifteen guys, climb the rankings, and take the belt from a champion who’s been defending it against killers? In a year?"

He points a finger at Ryoma like he’s identifying a suspect, lashing out with a loud shout without holding back anything.

"Are you taking professional boxing as a joke?"

The shout slams into the walls like a body shot.

Outside the office, the sharp pap-pap-pap of the speed-bags cuts short as both fighters freeze mid-combo. One keeps his gloved fist hovering in the air, the bag swaying in lazy arcs.

They glance at each other, brows furrowed, listening to the echo of Nakahara’s voice spilling from the office.

The third one stops mid–shadow-box. He yanks out his earbuds as he steps over to his friends, his expression tight.

"That... that was Coach Nakahara?" he asks, voice low but edged.

"Yeah..." his friend mutters.

"Sounds like he’s having a pretty heated debate with that kid," says the other one.

Before the air between them can settle, another roar rips out from the manager’s office, sharper now, like a punch slamming into a heavy bag.

"You’ve barely got calluses on your knuckles! And you think you can just waltz in here, skip the grind, and demand a title shot?"

The gym door swings open, and a man in a tracksuit steps inside. He’s one of Coach Nakahara’s assistants, Hiroshi Sato, 27 yo, and the gym’s go-to physio.

He freezes for a half-second, catching the tail end of the shout. His eyes shift to the three bewildered athletes, each of them meeting his glance with the same silent question:What’s going on in there?

Hiroshi doesn’t ask. He just walks toward the office, his sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor.

From inside, Nakahara’s voice is still barreling on relentlessly. "Do you have any idea how this sport works? How many years... how many fights it takes just to get noticed? This isn’t some high school tournament where a few wins gets you a trophy. This is professional boxing."

Then a desk is slammed, the sound cracks through the air.

"And this gym... this gym barely gets a footnote in the rankings. You think a champion’s gonna waste his time on a rookie from a no-name place? You’re spitting on every fighter who’s been clawing their way up for years here!"

Hiroshi pauses outside the office, a flicker of hesitation in his step before he knocks. His voice is polite, careful.

"Coach Nakahara! I brought the newspaper and magazines you asked for earlier."

A short silence answers him, thick enough to feel. Then Nakahara’s voice comes from inside.

"Is that you, Hiroshi? Just come in."

Hiroshi opens the door. He walks to the desk and sets the newspaper and magazine down, flipping straight to the page Nakahara had asked for. It’s the neat, efficient movement of a scout delivering his report.

Nakahara glances at the spread. His scowl deepens, the bitterness on his face sinking into something darker. He picks up the magazine, and when he reads aloud, his voice turns cold, the kind of cold that feels more like an insult than a shout.

"Takeda spent the entire round cornered, throwing only three jabs... all of them missing by inches. He looked moments from collapse before, by nothing short of sheer luck, landing a compact hook that turned the fight on its head."

He lowers the magazine slightly, eyes boring into Ryoma.

"Sheer luck, huh? That’s how they’re writing about you."

But Ryoma doesn’t flinch. Instead, he answers with something far too bold for a rookie to say.

"I like the way they wrote it." His eyebrow lifts, arms folding across his chest. "It proves what I did wasn’t something a commoner could comprehend."

On the surface, it sounds like arrogant bragging. But Nakahara and Hiroshi know the kid isn’t just mouthing off.

That night in the blue corner, their angle had kept them from seeing the whole exchange. But afterward, they’d replayed the footage, not once, but over and over, even frame-by-frame in slow motion.

And what Ryoma had done in that split second was no fluke. That was why Coach Nakahara had been so eager to get the morning papers, curious how the press would describe it.

Still... Ryoma walking into his office and demanding a title shot in a year, paired with the journalist’s "sheer luck" jab, leaves Nakahara less impressed and more insulted.

"I’m sorry, Coach!" Ryoma’s tone softens, both arms lowered. "I’m not underestimating professional boxing. But the way my body’s been growing... I don’t think I can stay in Super Featherweight for long."

Nakahara shuts his eyes and lets out a long breath through his nose. When they open again, they’re sharper, the eyes of a professional sizing up another professional.

"I understand," he says, nodding once. "I’ve known for a while that you wouldn’t last at Super Featherweight. My plan was to move you up next year. But challenging the Japanese champion in a year? That’s pushing it."

"But... there were Saensak Muangsurin and Vasyl Lomachenko," Hiroshi offers from the side. "Both did it in three fights."

"That was for vacant titles," Nakahara shoots back. "The only man who ever took the conventional route and did it faster was Leon Spinks. It took him thirteen months before he challenged Muhammad Ali in his eighth fight."

"Eight fights in a year," Hiroshi murmurs, almost under his breath. "With all the scheduling headaches, the downtime for recovery, the weeks you’ll lose to training camp... and that’s if you walk out without an injury..."

Hiroshi casts a sidelong glance at Ryoma, skepticism etched across his face.

"Unlike Spinks, you’ve got no heavyweight frame," he says flatly. "No freak durability. None of that natural brute endurance the black boxers use to survive wars in the ring."

"Exactly," Nakahara cuts in. "You’re no more than a wiry Japanese teenager who just won his debut, and most people think it was a fluke."

"Then what if I win every fight within three rounds?" Ryoma’s voice stays calm, but his eyes gleam with unshakable confidence. "And leave the ring without injury."

Nakahara stares at him with restrained anger. He then leaves his chair without a word. His footsteps are heavy as he crosses to the office door, swings it open, and scans the gym.

His irritation deepens, only three fighters are in sight.

Then he turns to Hiroshi. "Where are Kenta and Shimamura?"

Hiroshi only shrugs. "You know them. Showing up on time isn’t in their vocabulary."

Nakahara’s jaw tightens, a muttered curse slipping under his breath. He turns back to Ryoma, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

"You’re going to spar those three outside. Three rounds each. You have to put them down within that time. And if you so much as touch the canvas with your glove... even once, you drop this talk. For good."