Chapter 124: Between Hunger and Glory
The days blur together after that first punishing session. Every morning starts the same: Ryoma jolting awake at four, dragging his aching body into the cold, lacing his shoes by muscle memory.
The streets are empty except for his steady breath puffing white and the slap of sneakers against asphalt.
And the Vision Grid keeps tally, its flat tone filling his ears where music once did.
<< Body weight: 65.8 kg. Net loss: 1.5 kg. >>
By midweek, the number ticks down again.
<< Body weight: 64.9 kg. Net loss: 2.4 kg. >>
Ryoma spits onto the pavement, hair plastered to his forehead. "Tell me when I get to minus thirty. Then I’ll vanish and we’ll all be happy."
The gym doesn’t spare him either. Nakahara hammers him with mitt sessions that shred his lungs, the old man barking corrections like machine-gun fire.
"Tighten the guard! Faster on the slip!"
Every mistake earns another round. And when Nakahara’s done, Hiroshi swoops in with conditioning.
Ryohei and Okabe sometimes hover at the edge of the ring, watching with grim fascination.
"Dude," Ryohei mutters, "he looks like a zombie cosplaying Rocky."
"More like a cabbage roll someone left out overnight," Okabe adds, shaking his head.
Ryoma glares through the sweat dripping into his eyes. "Shut up before I throw this medicine ball at you."
"Oh, try it," Ryohei shoots back, grinning. "Like you still have the strength to do that."
But even they can’t hide their concern. Ryoma’s cheeks begin to hollow now, eyes sink deeper, but the weight keeps dropping.
And by the seventh day, the Vision Grid flickers another update across his fading vision.
[ Body weight: 63.7 kg. Net loss: 3.6 kg. ]
[ Compliance satisfactory. Proceed to Phase Two. ]
Ryoma leans against the wall, chest heaving, every muscle thrumming with fatigue. He drags his hoodie up, muttering to himself.
"Phase Two, huh? Guess the real torture starts now..."
Only six days remain before weigh-in, and the scale still mocks him with more than four kilos to go. Normally, the final three days are reserved for the brutal part; the fluid drain, the sauna, the spit bottles.
But that works only if he enters them no more than two kilos over. Any higher, the cut turns reckless, the toll on his body dangerous.
If he can’t bring it down now, the last stretch won’t just be harsh. It’ll be survival.
***
Three days before weigh-in.
The morning feels heavier than the air itself. Ryoma stares at the scale like it’s mocking him, digits freezing at 61.9. Still nearly three kilos to cut, and time has run out.
The program changes here. There will be no more lifting, no more fuel. Now it’s only about stripping him down.
He pulls on the sweat suit, thick vinyl, hood zipped tight, and every step feels like climbing a hill already. His mouth tastes of cotton, lips cracking from dehydration.
Breakfast doesn’t exist anymore; Hiroshi allows him only half a boiled egg and a few cucumber slices to his morning diet, barely enough to chew. Water is rationed to sips so small it feels cruel.
At the gym, Nakahara gives Ryoma one long silent look, then nods at Hiroshi. The old man knows: this isn’t about fighting anymore. The fight is with the scale.
Hiroshi straps him into the resistance cords, even though Ryoma can barely stand.
"Shadowbox. Ten minutes. Don’t stop."
Ryoma lifts his fists, and they feel like cinder blocks. Each jab slaps weakly at the air, his body creaking like it’s breaking itself apart.
"You wanted Super Featherweight," Hiroshi says, standing just out of reach. "Now prove it."
The Vision Grid flickers across his sightline, merciless:
[ Hydration level: 54% ]
[ Warning: performance capacity dropping ]
<< Well, proceed anyway... >>
Ryoma grits his teeth, lungs wheezing. Three days left. And the real hell has begun.
***
The gym feels hotter than the streets outside. Afternoon light slants through the shutters, turning the air thick and gold.
Ryoma’s sweater clings like wet paper, sweat dripping from his hood, soaking the wraps beneath his gloves. Every breath tastes like copper.
In the ring, Coach Nakahara waits, mitts raised, eyes sharp as razors. No pity, no softness.
"Up here," Nakahara barks. He slaps a mitt and snaps it forward. "Jab."
Ryoma shuffles in, legs heavy as stone. His fist slaps leather, but it’s weak, and too slow.
"Again! Faster!"
He throws another jab, then cross, and then hook. His arms tremble with each punch, shoulders screaming.
"Keep moving your hands!" Nakahara snaps. "You think Serrano’s gonna wait for you to breathe? When you empty your tank in the ring, that’s when your will and determination are tested."
Ryoma grits his teeth and swings again. His sweat stings his eyes, lungs clawing for air. Each punch lands softer than the last.
"Jab-cross-hook. Slip. Counter."
He obeys, barely. His slip is lazy, counter slower. Nakahara smacks him hard in the ribs with the mitt.
"You call that sharp? You’re drowning in your own fat, kid."
Ryoma snarls through gritted teeth. "Then I’ll... drown swinging."
The next hook lands harder, his body twisting with the last drops of anger left in the tank. But the follow-up jab drags late, arm wobbling like it might give out.
"Guard! Guard!" Nakahara barks.
Ryoma drags his gloves back up, though his elbows sag. His knees nearly buckle.
"Pathetic," Nakahara mutters, lowering the mitts. He studies Ryoma’s heaving chest, his sweat-darkened sweater, the glaze over his eyes. "That’s it. Any more, you’ll break before the fight."
Ryoma stumbles forward, desperate for one more round. "I can still go...."
"You’ll go when I tell you," Nakahara cuts him off, voice flat as a hammer. "This is what it takes to stay in Super Featherweight! I told you to move up, but you still cling to this class. What the hell are you chasing? You want every belt from feather to welter?"
Ryoma’s head droops, breath ragged. His words scrape out, soft but steady.
"Yeah... exactly that."
Silence stretches as Nakahara squints at him, trying to decide if the kid is still conscious or just babbling through exhaustion. He flicks a glance toward Hiroshi, who is now raising his brows like, Did I hear that right?
Nakahara exhales through his nose, somewhere between disbelief and irritation. "This idiot... either he’s delirious, or he’s the craziest fighter I’ve ever trained."
Hiroshi smirks faintly. "Both can be true."
Ryoma sways, then slumps against the ropes, sweat raining onto the canvas. His chest rises and falls like a dying engine. Every muscle screams for rest, but in his head the Vision Grid flickers across his sightline:
[Output efficiency: 62%]
[Dehydration: advancing]
[Performance threshold: critical]
He hisses air through clenched teeth.
"Critical, huh? Same as yesterday..."
Nakahara hears him mumbling, and shakes his head.
"Idiot kid."
He gestures toward the floor, where Hiroshi is already waiting with his damned whistle and that smug smirk.
"Done here," Nakahara says. "Try not to kill him before the weigh-in."
"Don’t worry," Hiroshi grins. "I’ll just make him wish he was dead."
Ryoma groans, dragging his gloves off as he stumbles down the steps. His arms feel hollow, his legs jelly.
And yet, deep in his gut, he’s grinning too. He survived another round in hell.
But hell isn’t finished with him.