"Often confidence burns brightest before it falters."

Before dawn, before the first light touches the Tama River, Ryoma finds himself staring again at his phone screen. It’s another headline, another opinion piece about his next fight.

It’s everywhere now, the hype surrounding his upcoming match with Sekino. Every outlet, every comment section, every boxing forum has turned it into a circus.

He’d told himself it was just marketing noise. But seeing the words printed out, the insults thrown at Nakahara and the gym, still grates at him.

"And if Nakahara thinks that’s something to be proud of, maybe he should stop calling himself a coach."

That one came right after the match was officially announced.

And yesterday, another headline joined in, calling Nakahara a small-minded trainer, selling integrity just to move tickets.

And yet, as he scrolls further, the numbers tell another story: nearly three-quarters of the tickets already sold.

"The Fastest Presale in Minato Bayside’s History"

Ryoma snorts at the headline. "What a bunch of hypocrites."

He slips his phone back into his pocket and heads out, lacing his shoes for the morning roadwork.

The sky is still gray, the streets empty. The rhythm of his steps and the cold wind against his face help push the noise from his mind.

But the words won’t quite leave him.

He’s tried to tell himself it doesn’t matter, that the fight means nothing, that Sekino isn’t someone who can stir him.

And yet... after watching Okabe’s comeback last night, and Renji’s last international bout, the thought creeps in uninvited.

Am I really that good?

Or have I just been sailing through calm waters, collecting wins against weak oppositions?

As much as he hates to admit it, his record tells its own truth. Every opponent so far has been another rookie like him.

Two of those matches had pushed him harder than he’d ever expected, forcing him to rely on instinct more than skill.

All his fights had ended early. Even his longest match, the fight with Aramaki, barely made it to the fourth round.

But Sekino will be different, a veteran, experienced, the kind of fighter who knows how to drag you into deep water and drown you there.

And Ryoma knows what that means: stamina, composure, patience.

Yet there are only six days left before the weigh-in, six days to cut weight, when what he really needs is endurance.

***

Even as the morning sun climbs higher, the thought lingers. No matter how many times Ryoma tells himself to focus, it stays there, a quiet unease that seeps through every punch he throws.

By midday, the gym is alive again. The heavy bags sway in uneven rhythm, skipping ropes slap the floor, and the air smells faintly of leather and sweat.

Nakahara waits by the ring, mitts already strapped on.

"Let’s go," he says.

The twelve-round sparring rhythm has been dropped. No long endurance drills, no in-ring mock fights. Now it’s all about burning fat, and drills that keeps Ryoma sharp, keeps him fast.

Ryoma starts slow, testing his range; one-two, slip, and then hook. But even he can tell it lacks bite. His punches land light, without that old snap.

Nakahara doesn’t say anything at first. He just moves with him, calm and composed, letting Ryoma throw combinations against the pads.

Pap. Pap. Pap.

The sounds echo flat, no weight behind them.

Across the gym, Ryohei’s session with Sera is the complete opposite. His punches crack like small explosions, sharp and clean, each impact pushing the mitts back an inch.

Ryohei’s physique has filled out, his shoulders broader, his frame stronger, a man built for Super Lightweight now.

Every hit sounds like conviction. And Ryoma feels the difference, not just in sound, but in purpose.

Now Ryoma throws another flurry; left jab, cross, and a hook.

Pap. Pap. Pap.

But his rhythm falters halfway, timing off. His focus slips, just a fraction, but Nakahara catches it.

Bap! The mitt slaps harder than expected, smacking Ryoma’s guard aside.

"Where the hell’s your mind?" Nakahara’s voice cuts through the noise. "You’re not hitting me. You’re daydreaming."

Ryoma blinks, panting, sweat trickling down his cheek.

"Sorry..."

"Sorry?" Nakahara snorts, lowering the mitts. "If you’re like this in the ring, Sekino’s gonna pound you flat before the second round."

The gym falls quiet for a moment. Even the rhythmic thuds from Ryohei’s side seem distant now.

Ryoma exhales slowly, tightening his fists, forcing his focus back. He knows Nakahara isn’t wrong, and that’s what stings the most.

***

Finishing mitt session with Nakahara, he heads to the heavy bag, throwing himself into the next routine.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound should be steady, but today it isn’t. His rhythm breaks between every set, his breath uneven. His body moves, but his mind doesn’t seem to follow.

From across the room, Nakahara watches silently, arms crossed. He doesn’t need to say it. He’s seen this kind of slump before.

Meanwhile, Sera has just finished Ryohei’s final round. He unstraps the mitts, and glances toward Ryoma’s corner.

"He’s off," he mutters under his breath.

Nakahara gives a faint nod. "Yeah. It started since morning. His punches lost their weight."

"Too much cutting?" Sera frowns.

"Maybe..." Nakahara exhales through his nose. "But it’s not just that. He’s thinking about something."

Sera leans on the ropes, eyes narrowing as he watches Ryoma move to the pendulum step drill.

Normally, Ryoma’s footwork looks sharp and smooth, flowing like second nature. But now, his timing stutters. His steps drag by half a beat, and the balance between each sway looks forced.

"You’re right," Sera says quietly. "He looks like... he’s somewhere else."

Nakahara doesn’t answer right away. He watches Ryoma pivot again, before shaking his head slightly.

"Damn kid’s letting the noise get to him," he mutters. "I’ve read the damn news myself. It did get under my skin a bit. But the kid can’t let it drag him this far. If he keeps this up, Sekino won’t even have to try."

But the thing is, Ryoma’s focus isn’t really lost. It’s just buried.

His legs swing back and forth in rhythm, the pendulum step gliding across the floor. But his eyes aren’t on his feet. They’re distant, tracing invisible opponents, replaying imaginary exchanges in the ring.

Each shift forward is a test, each retreat a calculation. He’s running quiet simulations in his mind, how to pace himself over ten rounds, how to spend stamina only when it matters, how to make every move serve a purpose.

To anyone watching, it looks like his concentration is fading. But beneath that blank expression, Ryoma is already fighting. Not against the drill, but against the limits of his own endurance and the shadow of Sekino that won’t leave his thoughts.