For the next three weeks, the gym settles into a quiet kind of grind.

The building phase isn’t glamorous. Ryoma still does everything he normally does; roadwork at dawn, bag drills, mitts, sparring, footwork, pendulum step drills, shadowboxing.

But now each day ends with an extra session, targeted, precise, and merciless.

There are more pulls, more scapular activation, more rotational chains that make his latissimus muscles burn like they’re being peeled from bone.

Hiroshi calls it "punch engine work," and Ryoma takes to it without a word. He never complains, never asks for breaks. He simply checks the clock, checks the next line on the whiteboard, and gets started.

At 0.4 kilograms a week, he should reach 65 by the end of the third week. And he does, almost on the dot, exactly as planned.

They weigh him on June 28th.

Ryoma steps onto the scale with the same expression he uses for brushing his teeth. Hiroshi crouches beside the display, tapping the button twice like the machine might lie to him.

The number settles: 65.1 kilograms.

Hiroshi lets out a short whistle. "Well... You really hit it on the nose."

Ryoma shrugs. "You wrote the plan."

"I wrote the plan," Hiroshi says, "not the part where you actually listen."

Nakahara, watching from the corner, lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. He doesn’t smile. But his shoulders drop half a centimeter, the closest thing he shows to relief.

"Alright," he says. "Now we begin the real work."

Ryoma steps off the scale. "Thought we already were."

"Not even close," Nakahara murmurs.

***

The adjusting phase comes next.

This time, more pendulum step drills, more elastic footwork patterns, more shadowboxing in a resistance suit that makes his movements drag like he’s underwater.

For three weeks straight, Ryoma moves in silence, tuning into every inch of balance, every shift in weight.

His body isn’t fully used to the new mass yet. His jab lands heavier but slower. His pivots feel tighter but slightly delayed.

So he needs to adjust, and adjusts, and adjusts again.

By mid-July...

Ryoma’s movements snap back into place. His shadowbox looks lighter, sharper, the canvas barely whispering under his feet.

Nakahara watches the rhythm return to his legs. He glances at Sera and nods once.

"Good... his spring’s finally coming back."

Sera folds her arms, eyes narrowed. "Not as fast as the old Ryoma... but this version? This is the real one."

***

And then comes the one-month adaptation phase, the part Ryoma likes least. The volume goes up, everything goes up.

Rounds double, mitt sessions stretch, heavy bag drills lengthen until even Hiroshi’s shoulders ache just watching him.

But the biggest change is the sparring.

Nakahara rotates Aramaki, Ryohei, and Kenta through him like clockwork; Aramaki for pressure, Ryohei for timing and rhythm, and Kenta for durability.

Only one person is kept out: Okabe.

At first, nobody mentions it, and Okabe acts like he doesn’t care. But day by day, his stares toward the ring grow sharper, heavier, and bitter.

He watches Ryohei wipe sweat from his eyes between rounds. He watches Aramaki take deep breaths after one too many body shots. He even watches Kenta, the calm Kenta, get suddenly serious when Ryoma pressures him against the ropes.

And all the while, he stands at the sideline taping his gloves slower and slower, like he’s waiting for someone to hand him a reason to snap.

It happens on the 22nd of July.

Ryoma finishes a six-round flow with Aramaki and steps out of the ring. He’s barely breathing hard. Even sweat looks reluctant to stick to him now.

And Okabe steps into Nakahara’s path before the old man can say a word.

"So that’s it?" Okabe says. "You can use everyone else, but not me?"

Nakahara exhales slowly. "You’re a featherweight. He’s too big for you right now."

"That’s crap," Okabe snaps. "You think I’m made of glass? I’ve sparred him a hundred times already."

"That was before," Nakahara says. "Not now. Not with this weight. Not with his current build."

Okabe lets out a low, mirthless scoff. "Unbelievable. You honestly think that kid would break me? No wonder he’s been walking around like he owns the place. You’ve treated him like he’s something special

from the start."

Ryoma doesn’t speak. He just stares at Okabe with that flat, emotionless look he’s been developing lately.

But to Okabe, his silence is the worst insult.

"What?" he barks.

Ryoma steps past him. "You’re in the way."

The entire gym stiffens.

Okabe even shoves Ryoma’s chest lightly, enough to make his point, not enough to start a fight.

"Get in the ring," he snarls. "I’m done being treated like I’m below you."

Nakahara tries again. "Okabe..."

Okabe glares back. "Let. Me. Spar."

Ryoma climbs through the ropes without waiting. Okabe smirks, but his eyes show something else, a tremor. Maybe fear, maybe excitement, or maybe both.

Nakahara exhales tiredly. He really doesn’t have the strength to argue anymore.

"Three minutes," he says. "You stop when I say stop."

Ryoma nods once. And Okabe rolls his shoulders like he’s preparing for war.

***

The bell sounds.

Ding!

And the first ten seconds, Ryoma throws nothing. His expression stays perfectly blank, keeping his footwork smooth, shoulder rolls, and light feints.

Okabe starts circling, too light on his toes, too bouncy, breathing harder than the pace demands. It’s not his style, not an infighter’s approach at all.

He’s forcing a rhythm that isn’t his, like he’s trying to prove he can move like Ryoma or Ryohei instead of fighting as himself.

And his emotions show in every twitch. His right glove flares out for distance. His left hand shakes slightly.

He throws first, a long jab, too tense. Ryoma slips away, barely moving his head.

Okabe tries again, another jab, and then a wide right hand that whistles through empty space.

This time, Ryoma steps in on the exhale, short, clean, and surgical.

He flicks his right, a feint, and then throws a left hook to the liver.

Thud!

Just one punch, so deep, and Okabe’s body folds instantly. He drops to his knees, choking on air, glove pinned to his side like he’s holding himself together.

Aramaki winces. Hiroshi freezes with the stopwatch in his hand. But Ryohei bursts out laughing.

"Ohhh, man! Okabe, that’s a new record. Less than thirty seconds!"

Okabe wheezes, confusion and terror washing up his spine. He’s sparred Ryoma for more than a year now. But he has never felt this kind of pain from him.

He staggers up, face white, still shaking.

"I’m not done," he gasps. "Again."

Nakahara calls out. "Enough, Okabe. Stop. You’re hurt."

"Don’t you dare," Okabe grunts. "I’m not losing face to him."

Ryoma’s jaw flexes once, not anger, just decision.

Okabe raises his gloves. "Come on!"

And Ryoma answers in kind. He moves in without warning, a smooth silent slide of feet on canvas.

Double jab.

Dug, dug!

Both hard enough to force Okabe’s guard upright like a puppet on strings.

And Ryoma pivots, just a fraction, but enough, before driving a tight left hook behind the raised guard, landing square on the jaw hinge.

Dhuack!!!

Okabe’s head knocked sideway, and he slowly goes sprawled on the canvas.

And the gym falls silent.

Even Ryohei doesn’t have a joke ready, slowly lowers his water bottle

"Damn..." Kenta mutters under his breath.

And Hiroshi stares like he’s witnessing a new animal being born.

Ryoma stands over Okabe for one slow breath. Then he kneels, lowering his voice so only Okabe can hear.

"You forgot... why they call me the Cruel King."

Okabe doesn’t answer. He just can’t.

Ryoma straightens, eyes cold, detached. "Get up when you’re ready to grow up."

He steps over Okabe and leaves the ring like the spar was nothing more than mitt work.

There’s no swagger, no mockeries, not apology either. It’s just the quiet, terrifying acceptance of what he’s becoming.