August 20th, 2016.

The day Kenta is supposed to be at the gym by noon; gets prepared, focused, and ready for his fight. Instead, he’s inside his parents’ fruit shop, hunched over a stack of crates, arms burning as he drags them toward the storeroom.

The shop smells like ripe peaches and cardboard, afternoon heat sticking to the back of his neck. And from behind him, Goto Moriyama, his father, keeps barking instructions:

"Kenta! Don’t scrape the floor! Lift... Lift the crates! Don’t drag!"

Kenta bites down a reply and keeps working. One more crate, one more tray of oranges, one more thing that isn’t supposed to be happening today.

By the time he pushes the last box into place, sweat slicking down his back, he wipes his hands on his apron and approaches the counter.

"Dad," he says, breath steadying. "I should go. Coach wants everyone at the gym by..."

But a loud rumble cuts him off. Another mini-truck pulls up outside, brakes hissing.

His father looks toward it with a satisfied grunt. "Good. Next shipment came faster than I expected. Go help unload."

Kenta freezes. "Dad. I can’t. My fight is tonight. I need to..."

"It’s tonight," his father snaps. "Not now. Move the new items first and then go swing your little punches."

Kenta swallows, jaw tightening. "I need to be prepared, Dad. I can’t show up exhausted."

That word, exhausted, makes his father turn slowly, eyebrows rising like a storm cloud.

"Exhausted?" he repeats, voice low and dangerous. "You’re tired? You’re tired?"

Kenta stiffens, realization kicks in. It’s a wrong word, and he knows it instantly.

His father steps forward, pointing at the shop, at the shelves, at the crates, at everything he’s built.

"I work from morning to night," he says, voice rising with every syllable. "Every damn day, for years, to feed this family. Including one twenty-seven-year-old son who still lives in my house, eats my food, sleeps under my roof, and now has the nerve to tell me he’s exhausted?"

Kenta opens his mouth, but the man barrels on, heat pouring out of him like steam from a cracked pipe.

"I don’t get to be exhausted! I don’t get to chase dreams! I don’t get to disappear for hours doing something that doesn’t pay the bills!"

"I help too," Kenta shoots back, frustration finally cracking through, but still restrained. "Ever since I finished school. I only spend four, maybe five hours training... and the rest of the day I’m here. I work right beside you. For free."

Unfortunately, that was the second wrong word. His father reels like he’s been slapped.

"For free?" he echoes, incredulous. "For free you said?"

He slams a hand on the counter, leaning forward.

"You think this shop runs itself? You think the electricity is free? The rent? The water? The food in your stomach? Your gloves, your shoes, your bandages... who paid for all that? The world doesn’t owe you anything! And you..."

He jabs a finger at Kenta’s chest.

"You waste half your life in that gym. For what? For a fight that comes once a year... if that... When was your last one? Two years ago? And how much did you bring home from it?"

Kenta draws in a long breath, telling himself to calm. Telling not to explode.

"Please, Dad," he says quietly. "If you want to talk about money... they’ll pay me three hundred thousand yen tonight."

His father’s mouth stops mid-sentence. There’s a flicker of hesitation, but only a flicker.

"So that’s it?" he snaps. "One year of training, for three hundred thousand yen? You should quit. You hear me? Quit."

Something in Kenta finally snaps. Without a word, he unties the shop’s apron, rips it off, and slams it onto the counter. The sound cracks through the shop like a dropped plate.

His father blinks, once, twice.

"What the... Hey, Kenta! Get back here!"

Kenta doesn’t turn. He walks straight toward the door.

"KENTA!"

Finally he stops, comes back, but not to stay.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out three slightly bent tickets, and places them on the counter beside the apron.

"For you," he says quietly. "And Mom. And Izumi."

His father stares at the tickets, expression twisting with anger, disbelief, and something else buried far beneath.

Kenta steps back, turns, and walks toward the door again.

"Kenta!" his father calls again, voice sharper than before. "Kenta! You get back here!"

Kenta doesn’t answer.

"Kenta! I’m not coming to your fight! You hear me? No one will take care of the shop!"

But Kenta just keeps walking away, until he disappears from the father’s sight.

Moriyama stands frozen behind the counter, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

Anger. Frustration. Something raw beneath both.

Slowly, his glare shifts downward, to the apron crumpled on the counter, and to the three tickets lying beside it.

His jaw works. He snatches the tickets with a rough irritated motion and storms around the counter. His steps are loud and angry against the tile as he intends to throw the tickets into the bin.

***

Ota City General Gymnasium, Ota Ward, Tokyo

By early evening, Ota Gym is already buzzing with people.

Near the entrance, the Cruel King’s Army has gathered earlier than anyone expected. They’ve taken over a corner of the venue to rehearse their chants, adjusting their drums, banners, and coordinated black-and-red shirts.

Stacks of flyers sit neatly in boxes, Ryoma’s silhouette printed over bold lettering: CRUEL KING.

Kenji Matsuda, the army’s prime general raises his hand.

"Alright, one practice!"

The group straightens.

Three slow drumbeats follow, loud and steady, echoing through the half-prepared hall.

Doom... doom... DOOM.

Then the chant rolls out in one unified voice:

"Long live the Chameleon King... Cla-clap-clap!

Crown of the cruel, rule of the ring! Cla-clap-clap!"

"RYO-MA! Cla-clap-clap!"

"RYO-MA! Cla-clap-clap!"

"RYO-MA! Cla-clap-clap!"

"RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!"

"CRUEL KING... RYO-MA!!!"

The sound is sharp enough that some people stop just to glance over. Some shake their heads; others smile despite themselves.

Half an hour later, Kenta’s family arrives, stopping by the crowd noise spills out onto the street. His mother looks around uncertainly, clutching her small purse with both hands.

"Is... is this really the place?" she asks, turning to her husband.

Moriyama snorts. "How should I know? I shouldn’t even be here in the first place."

Before the tension can build, Kenta’s younger brother Izumi, an eager third-year high schooler, suddenly points toward the group clustered near the side of the building.

"Ah! Mom, look! Those guys! They must be the Cruel King’s Army! Kenta-niichan told me about them! They’re all Ryoma’s fans!"

Kenta’s mother blinks, almost offended by the idea. "Fans? Of Ryoma? He’s... he’s just a kid!"

Izumi laughs. "Mom, he graduated more than two years ago. Yeah, he’s young, but he’s the main event tonight. Everyone knows that."

His eyes shine with excitement.

"Man... I want to be like him someday. Maybe I should start boxing too..."

"Absolutely not," his father snaps instantly. "Don’t say stupid things."

Izumi flinches, looking away. His mother clicks her tongue softly and grabs her husband’s wrist before he can continue.

"That’s enough," she mutters, pulling him toward the entrance. "We’re going inside. Kenta needs our support."

"Yeah, of course, "Moriyama scoffs. "I don’t think he has his own supporters."

***

Inside Ota Gym, the sold-out atmosphere hits immediately; a humid wall of noise, lights, and restless anticipation. Every seat is filled, the aisles packed with spectators shuffling for position.

But beneath the chaos, a sharper presence hangs in the air. The Lightweight contenders have slipped into the audience one by one, spread out across the arena, pretending to be ordinary spectators.

And half-hidden behind a white hygiene mask, the Lightweight Champion himself, Sinichi Yanagimoto, watches from a middle row seat.

Yet even he isn’t the center of attention tonight. That honor belongs to the foreign trio seated in the front row.

Logan Rhodes sits relaxed with one arm over the back of his chair, wearing a fitted black shirt and a calm smile.

Beside him sits Featherweight World Champion Marcus Hale , his expression sharp with curiosity rather than politeness.

And on Hale’s other side is his coach, Frank Donovan , a broad-shouldered veteran with silver at his temples and the unmistakable posture of someone who has spent a lifetime ringside.

The three of them don’t bother blending in. They don’t need to. They couldn’t even if they tried.

Their presence alone alters the atmosphere around them, stretching it wider, heavier, as if the entire event is suddenly being watched, measured, and judged by the outside world.

Even from a distance, Tanaka and Sato can see them, and recognize their faces.

"...Why would someone like Marcus Hale show up here?" Tanaka mutters. "Don’t tell me he’s interested in Aramaki."

"I doubt it," Sato replies, though he sounds unsure.

Aki leans over from the next seat. "More likely they were invited by Reika’s father. I heard they specifically came to see Ryoma."

Tanaka and Sato blink, equally puzzled. They exchange a look, one part curiosity, one part disbelief, as the noise of the arena swells around them.