It’s been more than two weeks since his fight with Noguchi, and Ryoma can already feel the weight returning. More than five kilograms up, his body now sits closer to Super Lightweight than Super Featherweight. At this pace, welterweight won’t be far.

"Maybe... I’ll just spar with Kenta next?" he says.

"Yes," Nakahara says. "I’ve been thinking the same. But before fight day you’ll be cutting weight again, and sparring Kenta when you’re drained would be too dangerous."

Kenta overhears, sweat dripping as he pulls off his gloves. Despite the fatigue, a glimmer of interest flickers in his eyes.

"Easy, old man!" he calls out with a grin. "Don’t lump me in with kids who don’t know when to hold back. Let me handle him for now. On the last week, let the others take their turn."

Nakahara gives him a nod, and then turns toward the office, already signaling the close of the day.

"Okay, that’s enough. Go home and rest."

Ryoma rises slowly, swinging his gym bag over one shoulder. He heads for the door, but halfway there, something tugs at him.

He stops, glances back at Nakahara’s retreating figure. He knows it with certainty now: what he felt in the ring today wasn’t just weight gain or strength. His body has changed. He has changed.

He is no longer fighting inside a borrowed shell. He is in sync, fully adjusted to this younger frame. And it is Nakahara’s training that has carved it into him.

For a moment he lingers. Then, without a word, he bows deeply, silent, unseen by the old man. But Kenta sees him, watching, a gentle smile adorning his face until he sees Ryoma leaves the gym.

***

The next day...

Before dawn, Ryoma is already on the road, shoes striking rhythm into the quiet streets. His usual route takes him from home to the Tama River, but today he pushes farther, following the riverside until he reaches Aramaki’s house.

The plan is simple: invite Aramaki to run with him, and then head to the gym together.

"Morning, Kaori!" Ryoma calls, spotting Aramaki’s wife by the riverbank.

She’s just emptied a bucket into the water and now startles to see him at this hour.

"Eh, isn’t it Ryoma?" she says with a smile as she walks over. "What are you doing out so early?"

"Roadwork," he answers. "I came to see if Aramaki wants to join me."

Kaori’s smile vanishes. Her face tightens. "Aramaki’s had a fever since last night. He’s not better yet."

She turns and beckons him toward the house. But Ryoma pauses on the path, guilt settling like stone in his chest, this has to be because of him

He then follows her to the house. And inside, he finds Aramaki lie on a futon in the middle of the room, a damp compress over his forehead. Their baby plays nearby with a bundle of hand-made toys.

"Oh, Ryoma! You came this early?" Aramaki tries to sit up.

Ryoma’s hand goes to his shoulder. "No, stay down."

"He wanted to invite you to join his roadwork," Kaori says.

Aramaki laughs, but the pain in his head cuts the sound short.

"Sorry. My head still feels heavy."

"Have you seen a doctor?" Ryoma asks.

Kaori and Aramaki exchange a look. Her smile is small and forced, and money is tight. Without thinking, Ryoma pulls out his phone and books a taxi.

"I’m going to take you to hospital," he says.

"But..." Aramaki starts.

"I’m responsible for this," Ryoma says bluntly. "I’m the one who hit your head."

Kaori blinks. "Hit his head? Did you have a fight?"

"No... just a spar," Ryoma stammers.

"Sparring? Aramaki, you’re boxing again?" Kaori’s surprise turns into delight. "That’s wonderful. You finally found a gym willing to take you. And it’s the same gym as Ryoma’s!"

Aramaki forces a smile. He knows how it sounds, and why his wife seems so happy. But he hasn’t got a contract, only permission to train, which is why he kept it a secret from her.

***

A few minutes later, a taxi finally pulls up. At this point, Aramaki can’t refuse anymore. The fever is too much, and Ryoma insists on covering both the hospital bill and the ride.

And just as Ryoma feared, Aramaki’s fever is because of a concussion from yesterday’s sparring session.

"You’re lucky," the doctor says, checking over the chart. "It’s not too serious. But you need to be careful from now on. I understand, boxers get these kinds of injuries often. Still, for sparring, aren’t you supposed to wear headgear?"

Aramaki manages an awkward grin and nod. Sure, he wore headgear yesterday, but pointing that out would only make it seem like he’s shifting the blame onto Ryoma, and that’s the last thing he wants.

"Protection is essential," the doctor continues firmly. "For the next month, no sports at all."

"Not even the sandbag?" Aramaki asks.

"Don’t push your luck, young man." The doctor waves him off. "This is for your own good. If your condition gets worse, come back immediately. And even if you feel better, you must return for another check-up before I clear you to box again."

Aramaki lets the protest die on his tongue. Instead, he turns to Ryoma, guilt flickering across his face.

"Sorry. Looks like I can’t help you train for your final match after all."

"It’s fine," Ryoma says. "Even if you were good, Coach Nakahara wouldn’t let me spar with you anyway. But don’t worry. Kenta’s still around."

***

As planned, Ryoma’s sparring sessions after that are always with Kenta. But Kenta isn’t Aramaki. His senior may have more experience, and his build is almost identical to Ryoma’s, but he still can’t push Ryoma to the edge.

"Careful, kid!" Okabe hollers from outside the ropes. His grin is full of mischief. "Now you’re up against a fighter two weight classes above you. Maybe now you’ll taste the suffering I’ve been putting up with all this time."

Okabe’s taunt has its own bite of truth. He’s been forced to spar with Ryoma despite being a weight class below, and to him, it feels unfair. Now he gets to enjoy the reversal.

But the jeering doesn’t land. Ryoma doesn’t even flick his eyes toward Okabe. His focus stays locked on Kenta, breathing steady, movements sharp.

Kenta peppers him with jabs, stiff, heavy, heavier than any jab Ryoma has ever absorbed in his career. But Ryoma blocks them clean, shoulders rolling with each impact.

Even when Kenta mixes in hooks and straights, the rhythm doesn’t shake him. He absorbs, deflects, and returns fire.

And Kenta, too, remains unshaken. Ryoma’s fists slip through now and then, thudding into the guard or brushing his ribs, but Kenta takes it in stride. His style doesn’t crack, his breathing doesn’t change. He stays calm, his composure never wavers.

And Maybe that’s Ryoma’s problem. Aramaki used to draw something raw out of him, recklessness, danger, heat. Every exchange felt like it might spiral into chaos.

But with Kenta? It’s different. He’s too calm, too measured, never overcommitting. His punches are heavy, but they carry no sting of intent.

There’s no malice, no threat. There’s nothing Ryoma can truly feel to push him to the edge.