Ryoma tilts his chin slightly, eyes unblinking. "You’re barely clinging to the bottom of the national contender list, Sekino. And you talk about teaching me a lesson. Maybe try teaching your juniors properly, so I wouldn’t have had to teach them the hard way."

The words land like a blade drawn slow. Sekino’s face stiffens; the muscle in his jaw jumps once, then again. For a moment, no one breathes.

But Sekino can’t just argue now. Kanzaki’s arrogance, the blind hungry pride that’s been rotting his gym from the inside, is something he’s seen himself.

Still, knowing that doesn’t make the humiliation easier to swallow. His hands tremble, half from rage, half from the truth pressing down on him.

Kobo and Tsutomu shift uncertainly, glancing between the two men as if a single word might ignite the air.

The silence stretches, taut as a wire. Until then, headlights sweep across the curb, washing them all in harsh white as a taxi slows to a stop.

"Taxi?" the driver calls through the open window.

Ryoma doesn’t look at Sekino again. He steps forward, pulls the door open, and slides in without a word. Aramaki follows, still giving an unsure nod at Sekino and his gang.

The taxi merges into the road and disappears. Under the sodium glow, Sekino stands rooted, fists clenched.

And somewhere behind a column, Aki just exhales quietly from her hiding spot, her heartbeat still quick.

She knows she just witnessed something rare tonight.

***

By the time Ryoma reaches his bedroom, the quiet feels too heavy. He stops before the mirror, sweater and shirt already tossed aside, skin cooling in the faint draft from the window.

He was going to change, maybe collapse straight into bed. But instead, he just stands there, his reflection staring back, eyes darker than he remembers, shadows bruising the space beneath them.

Then the voice stirs again in his head, low and cutting, threading through his thoughts like smoke.

<< It’s a decision you made. You want to move up with them. Want to help old man Nakahara. Want to make the gym big. So for now, you have no choice but to endure it... their underestimation, their smug certainty you’ll never rise above them. >>

Ryoma just stays silent, pretending not to hear.

<< Well... it should be more challenging than just becoming a champion or having a good career by yourself. Now just pretend it doesn’t sting. Hehee... >>

Somehow, his reflection seems to move on its own, lips curving slightly, as though the mirror were the one speaking.

Ryoma could call it a hallucination, but the voice makes too much sense to dismiss.

<< But then again, it’s not too late to change your mind. Call Logan Rhodes. He must have some connections out there. Ask him looking for a world level promoter for you. Move on. >>

Ryoma exhales slowly, breaking eye contact.

This time, he doesn’t engage. He just changes his clothes, and goes to sleep, though even with his eyes closed, the voice lingers, insistent, indistinguishable now from his own doubts.

And he can’t just turn it off, as there’s almost no different between this voice and his own doubt. Whether it’s the system talking or simply him, he can’t tell anymore.

***

Despite the restless mind and late sleep, Ryoma wakes before dawn. Habit overrides exhaustion; his body rises almost automatically, trained by repetition more than will.

The house is still, shadows stretching long across the floor. He cooks breakfast for himself and his mother, the sizzle of the pan the only sound filling the room now.

He eats in silence, glancing once at his mom’s closed bedroom door, then scrolls through his phone briefly before leaving for roadwork.

But then he stops before the door as a headline catches him:

"Renji Kuroiwa vs. Elliot Graves Ends in Controversial Draw."

His stomach tightens. "Don’t tell me..."

He swipes quickly through the feeds, opening article after article.

’WBA International Bout Ends Even — Judges Split on Close Contest.’

’Local Hero Holds Ranked Contender to a Draw in Tokyo Thriller.’

’Controversy Erupts as English Camp Disputes Decision.’

"A draw? Impossible... Not after the way Elliot controlled that fight."

<< But then again... it was Kirizume’s event. That alone tells you enough. We both know how Kirizume works, how his influence could seep through the judging panels. >>

Ryoma scrolls deeper and finds a still image frozen mid-fall, Elliot off balance in the eighth, glove brushing the canvas.

The caption reads:

"Officially scored a knockdown, though replay suggests a slip."

Some articles call it a legitimate shot. Others, a stretch. Either way, Ryoma knows the math: one knockdown each only cancels out. The rest of the rounds belonged to Elliot.

Another headline catches his eye:

"British Camp Outraged: ’A Disgrace to the Sport,’ Says One Observer."

And yet, there’s restraint from the Elliot himself. In a short post-fight interview, Elliot’s words appear in text, polite but sharp between the lines:

" I understand. They want to build momentum for their national hero. I get it. These things happen. But for me — it doesn’t change anything. "

Ryoma stares at the quote for a long time, thumb still on the screen.

The same voice now appears again.

<< That’s just how it works... when you have someone powerful on your side. >>

Ryoma just lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head, the kind of laugh that carries no humor, only fatigue.

"Whatever," he mutters to the empty kitchen. "Not my business."

He pockets his phone, slips on his running shoes, and steps out into the pale morning air.

His breath fogs with each stride as he starts his roadwork, the rhythm of his shoes hitting the asphalt drowning out whatever thoughts still echo in his head.

***

Later, by the time Aramaki arrives at the gym, the sun has only just cleared the rooftops. Ryoma is already there, shirt damp with sweat, feet gliding across the floor in a steady rhythm.

He isn’t throwing punches, just moving, repeating the pendulum step over and over until the motion becomes instinct.

His breathing syncs with the shift of his weight, the soft slap of shoes marking time in the still morning air.

Aramaki drops his bag near the bench, rubbing his eyes. "I heard the fight last night ended in a draw. That true?"

Ryoma doesn’t stop. He shifts forward and back, the rhythm unbroken.

"Yeah," he says, almost flat. "Read the news this morning."

Aramaki frowns. "How?"

"Who knows." Ryoma’s answer comes quiet, distant.

He doesn’t even glance up, the steady motion of his feet never faltering.

The gym fills only with the sound of his rhythm, Sera’s metronome, and the steady whisper of shoes gliding against the canvas.

Whatever happened last night, whatever bias or noise filled the headlines, it’s far behind him now. His focus has narrowed again, fixed only on what’s next: the fight with Sekino.

No matter how little it excites him, it’s still part of the path he’s chosen, the one that might lift the gym higher, carrying everyone along with him.

Yet the voice keeps whispering in his head, and the temptation won’t fade either.

<< You could end this grind anytime, you know. A single call, a single message, and you’d have a promoter overseas who actually sees you. >>

<< No politics, no waiting behind second-rate fighters. >>