The A-License Promotion fight day is getting closer.

The fever before the match has already spread like a winter cold, not just in Tokyo, but spilling out into Chiba as well.

Posters line the station walls, banners hang above the arcades, bold red letters printed over Ryoma’s name and Ayano’s.

"The Clash of the Next Generation."

That’s what they’re calling it.

Every sports magazine runs the same photo, Ryoma mid-punch, sweat flying, eyes locked forward.

The local TV networks aren’t staying quiet either. For the past two weeks, they’ve been airing reruns of Ryoma’s fights from the Rookie Tournament, trying to stir up excitement before the big day.

This morning, as Ryoma runs along the roadside, a delivery truck rumbles past him, its back plastered with a bold poster, his face and Ayano’s, under the bright letters announcing the A-License Promotion Fight.

"Heh, feels like a celebrity."

<< Don’t get ahead of yourself. Everything can collapse in one night if you lose focus. >>

"I know, I know," Ryoma exhales through a grin as he pushes on.

Inside Nakahara Gym, the noise outside feels like a different planet.

And Ryoma’s back to mitt session under Nakahara’s call...

"One-two!"

"Slip!"

"Counter!"

From the small radio in the corner, someone’s voice leaks through the static, sports talk show, live from Tokyo.

"Ayano’s been training up north, rumor says he’s sparring with top lightweights now. He promised to knock Ryoma out in three rounds."

Okabe laughs from across the room. "Three rounds? That guy’s dreaming."

"Did you hear, Ryoma?" Ryohei calls. "Guy’s been calling you coward so many times."

But Ryoma doesn’t respond. His eyes stay fixed on his own reflection in the mirror.

He’s not thinking about Ayano, only focuses on his form.

And maybe, faintly, about Aramaki. About how that man still showed up sick, still tried to train.

"You good?" Nakahara asks.

Ryoma wipes sweat from his jaw. "Yeah. But, Coach... maybe put more focus on Aramaki. I’m fine by myself. It’s the fat-burning phase anyway, right?"

Nakahara glances at Aramaki, watching him move through drills a few steps slower than usual, then looks back at Ryoma.

"Fair enough," he says quietly. "I’ll hand you over to Hiroshi for now."

As Ryoma moves away, Nakahara exhales quietly. His eyes drift between Ryoma and Aramaki, both needing attention he barely has time or energy to give.

***

At least the reporters have stopped crowding the gym lately. But that doesn’t mean things are running smoothly for Ryoma.

If anything, the diet’s been harder than ever. Not because of discipline, but because of winter itself.

Two weeks left before the weigh-in. By the final three days, he needs to drop from 64 to 63, just a single kilo of fat. But he has to do it without losing a shred of muscle.

On paper, it sounds simple. But in this weather, it’s hell.

He’s run more than ten kilometers every morning and evening, but it’s hard to even break a sweat when the air bites like ice.

It’s been two days since he started the fat-burn phase. But every morning he steps on the scale, and every morning the number back to 64.

And this morning...

"Damn it! Back to 65? You’ve got to be kidding me."

<< Relax. You still have time. >>

"What’s the point of time if my weight keeps bouncing back every morning?"

<< I told you to show restraint, but you still devoured two bowls of Shimizu’s soba last night. >>

Ryoma clicks his tongue, steps off the scale, pulls on his clothes and sweater, and heads out of his room.

"Maybe I should just fast altogether."

<< Don’t be stupid. Hiroshi told you to burn fat, not your muscles. Stop whining and go run. >>

"Yeah, yeah. You’re such a nag."

Unlike usual, his mother is already awake. The smell of miso and grilled fish drifts from the kitchen, steam curling faintly in the cold air.

She glances toward the stairs as Ryoma appears, muttering under his breath.

"Why all the complaining so early? Did something happen with Kaede?"

"Kaede?" Ryoma blinks. "Yeah, she never stops nagging. I haven’t even washed my face and she’s already yelling at me to go jogging. It’s freezing outside."

<< Hey, hey. Don’t compare me to your girlfriend. Even if I were born human, I wouldn’t be some girl. >>

Fumiko chuckles softly. "She must care about you."

"But she’s such a pain," Ryoma mutters, reaching for the door.

The cold rushes in the moment he opens it. And just as quickly, he shuts the door again, from the inside.

"Brrr. It’s freezing out there."

<< Weak! >>

Ryoma’s brow twitches.

Muttering under his breath, he yanks the door open once more before stepping out into the cold.

"Damn... this feels like trying to set an ice cube on fire. How’s that supposed to work?"

***

Days slip by like this.

Three days before the weigh-in, and still, every morning the scale mocks him with the same number: 64.

In the end, Ryoma gives up on burning the fat. Now it’s all about dehydration, squeezing every drop of water out of his body to make weight.

Is it easy? Not even close.

Sweating in winter is just as hard as melting ice with a lighter.

But at least now, thanks to his recent fight stipend, he can afford a sauna pass.

Steam curls around him, thick as fog, blurring the world into a hazy blur of white. His skin burns, his head spins slightly, and every breath feels heavier than the last.

He leans back against the wooden wall, eyes half-closed.

"Man... this must be what vegetables feel like when they’re being boiled."

<< Correction: vegetables don’t sweat, genius. >>

"Yeah, but they still suffer."

<< You’re delirious. Drink some water. >>

"I can’t. That’s literally the opposite of what I’m supposed to do."

<< You’ll pass out. >>

"Then catch me when I fall."

<< ...You’re hopeless. >>

Then, somewhere through the haze of steam, the door slides open with a low creak. An old man shuffles in, towel around his waist, face red and swollen from last night’s booze.

"Damn sake..." He grumbles under his breath as he sits on the opposite bench, a half-empty water bottle in hand. "Gotta sweat it all out..."

Ryoma barely notices him. He’s slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded, mumbling something that makes no sense to anyone but the voice in his head.

"This better be worth it," he mutters. "All this for three stupid kilos."

<< You’ll make it. You always do. >>

He smiles faintly. "Yeah... but next time, I’m fighting as a middleweight."

Then he chuckles weakly. His lips are dry, his reflection faint on the fogged-up glass in front of him.

"Kaede... remind me... what’s it like to die dehydrated?"

Finally, the old man stares, brow furrowed. "...Hey, kid. You’ve been mumbling to yourself for a while. You okay there?"

Ryoma tilts his head slightly toward the voice, but his focus drifts somewhere far away.

His mouth opens, but no words come out, just a dry sigh. And then his whole body starts to lean sideways.

"Whoa... hey!"

The old man lurches up as Ryoma slumps sideways, barely catching him before he hits the bench.

"Oi! Kid! You’re gonna cook yourself alive in here!"

Steam swirls thicker around them as he shakes Ryoma’s shoulder, panic creeping into his voice.

"Hey! Somebody... I need some help in here!"