"A man who carries everyone else’s weight often forgets the load on his own back."

It’s an old saying Nakahara used to throw at stubborn fighters who overtrained, but now he’s become the living example of it.

In these past few days, he edges dangerously close to that very risk, carrying the entire gym, every fighter, every negotiation, every expectation, all on shoulders already worn thin.

He grows busier by the hour, juggling phone calls, paperwork, sponsor confirmations, and final approvals from the Commission.

Even so, he never lets the workload pull him away from training. He still runs every session, correcting forms, giving instructions, and watching over the fighters with the same sharp eye as always.

But it becomes clear that he is paying especially close attention to Ryoma.

"Come on, kid. Hop in the ring," Nakahara says, slapping the mitts together once. "Your body’s changed. Your rhythm needs to follow."

"On it," Ryoma says, getting prepared for mitt session.

The changes in Ryoma’s build are already visible. His legs have strengthened, giving him a more stable base without sacrificing his range of motion.

His hips drive power a bit more naturally now, and every step looks slightly firmer than before. With that progress, Nakahara increases the focus on refining Ryoma’s technique further.

Nakahara slaps the mitts together and raises them.

"One–two!"

Pak, pak!

He shifts the angle of his right hand.

"One–two–three!"

Pak, pak, pak!

A step back, a small nod.

"Double jab, two!"

Pak, pak, pak!

Then he drops the left mitt low, inviting the shot.

"Slip right... upper!"

Swish, pak!

After a few sessions, Nakahara stops and turns silent for a moment.

"What’s wrong?" Ryoma asks.

"I think we need to adjust your uppercut a bit," Nakahara finally says. "I’ve shown you the swift transition for the compact version, the quick one that slips between the guard. Now that you finally have the build for it, let’s start using those legs more."

He shifts into a low stance for a demonstration, left foot forward and right foot back, knees noticeably bent.

"For training purposes, touch the floor with your lead glove. In the fight, you won’t touch the canvas, but I want you to understand where the power starts."

He lowers his left glove until it almost grazes the canvas, coils his legs and torso, and then rises sharply, driving an uppercut through the air with a crisp, explosive snap.

"This is an uppercut from the floor. The power comes from your legs, not your arm. Try it."

Ryoma mirrors the stance and taps the floor lightly with his glove before driving upward with an experimental uppercut. The mitt pops sharply on contact.

"Again," Nakahara says. "Build the motion."

Ryoma repeats the movement several times, each strike sounding more solid than the last.

"You can do it on the right side too," Nakahara adds. "Just reverse your stance. Practice until your body remembers it."

Before Ryoma can switch sides, Okabe’s voice rises dramatically from across the gym.

"Oh, perfect. More special training for Ryoma," he complains, clearly wounded. "Even though some of us have a Class A tournament fight coming up in a few days. You know... actual days."

Neither Nakahara nor Ryoma reacts.

But Okabe keeps going. "I swear, Coach, you’re giving him a whole new punch. Meanwhile I get, what, shadowboxing?"

"Then go shadowbox," Nakahara replies flatly without even turning around.

Ryoma sighs. "Okabe, you’re loud. Focus on your own training."

"Oh, look at that," Okabe mutters. "Now he talks like he runs the gym."

Nakahara raises the mitts again, ignoring the outburst entirely. "Ten more repetitions. Then we’ll add footwork."

Ryoma nods and resumes the drill while Okabe continues to grumble in the background, unheard and unacknowledged.

The mitts crack steadily as Ryoma practices, and Nakahara stays locked on him, refining every angle until the movement becomes natural.

***

When the session finally winds down, Nakahara steps out of the ring and lowers himself onto the nearest bench.

His breathing is steady, but his shoulders sag more than usual; the fatigue he normally hides is written plainly across his face.

Okabe, however, is relentless.

"Coach," he calls, arms crossed. "Don’t think I didn’t notice. You’ve been hovering around Ryoma way more than me."

Nakahara rubs a hand over his face. "If you want extra work, ask Sera. He’s better at this than I am right now. I hired him to lessen my work load, damn it."

"That’s not the point!" Okabe snaps, voice slipping into something almost childish. "It’s not about who’s better. It’s about you treating him special."

Nakahara exhales, a thin weary sound, and then pushes himself back to his feet. The bench creaks as he rises, joints stiff.

"All right, all right," he mutters, slipping his hands into the mitt pads once more. "If you’re going to complain, let’s settle it."

He steps back into the ring and jerks his chin at Okabe.

"Come on," he says, voice flat but resolute. "Get in here."

Okabe brightens immediately, scrambling between the ropes. He bounces lightly on his toes, and meets Nakahara at center ring.

The old man raises the mitts, shoulders squared, face pale but steady.

"All right," Nakahara says, tapping the pads together. "Warm-up first. One–two."

Pak! Pak!

Okabe fires the straight combination, sharp and eager.

"Again."

Pak! Pak!

"Add the left hook."

Pak! Pak! PAK!

"Turn your hips sharper on the hook. Your rotation’s getting lazy."

Okabe grumbles but resets his stance.

"One–two–three."

Pak! Pak! PAK!

Nakahara shakes his head. "Again. Crisper. More compact."

Pak! Pak! PAK!

"Better," he mutters, though his breath is already thinning.

He lowers the mitts slightly. "Next. Head movement. Keep rolling, don’t stop. I’ll tap you in."

Okabe nods. Nakahara flicks the mitt forward toward his head, not to hit, but as a cue.

"Roll–roll–roll... now counter the body!"

Okabe dips and drives a right to the mitt...

THUD!

And suddenly Nakahara’s knees wobble. The mitts drop, and his body tilts sideways.

"Coach?"

Okabe lunges forward and catches him before he hits the canvas.

The gym freezes. Gloves stop mid-swing, jump ropes fall silent, and every head snaps toward the ring. For a split second no one moves, just wide eyes, open mouths, and disbelief, before chaos erupts.

Ryohei vaults through the ropes, Sera sprints from the far corner, Hiroshi shouts for space, and half the gym scrambles in a panic, tripping over bags and benches as they rush toward their fallen coach.

"Okabe! Did you hit him!?" Ryoma snaps.

"I didn’t!" Okabe’s voice cracks, panic rising. "I... I only hit the mitt! I swear!"

Nakahara slumps in his arms, half-conscious, breath shallow.

Sera rushes over, checking the old man’s pulse. "Call an ambulance. Now."

Chaos ripples through the gym, the youngsters pacing in shock, the metallic smell of panic settling thick in the air.

Ryoma glares at Okabe, jaw tight. "You should’ve stopped complaining. He was exhausted."

"I didn’t know he was that bad!" Okabe fires back, voice trembling. "He didn’t say anything! He never says anything!"

***

The sirens arrive fast. They load Nakahara onto the stretcher. His eyes flutter open just once, confused, unfocused.

At the hospital, the diagnosis is clear: Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. Overwork.

The doctor’s tone is firm, almost scolding. "He needs real rest. Days of it. No training, no gym, no meetings. If he keeps this up, he’ll collapse again, and next time it could be much worse."

The room falls silent. Hiroshi stands stiffly with his arms crossed, jaw tight.

Sera exhales shakily, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if fighting off guilt of his own. Even Kenta, usually unshakable, lowers his head.

The weight that Nakahara had carried, all alone, finally shows its price. And for once, they become so eerily quiet.