Nakahara shoots him a sharp glare. But Ryoma just raises a hand, gesturing the old man to be calm and patient.

Then he covers the mouthpiece, and whispers, "They're considering… seven hundred thousand."

"That's good enough," Nakahara mutters through his teeth. "Take it before they sober up."

Ryoma shakes his head slightly, returns to the call.

"Look, we can always host our own card now, fill it with our guys. But if you want me on your event, better give more slots for our fighters too."

A long pause, then, Ryoma nods once.

"Alright. I'll let Coach Nakahara know the details."

And he hangs up the phone.

"So?" Nakahara asks.

"They'll add one opener for us. Offered two hundred thousand yen."

Nakahara frowns. "Just one?"

"And it can't be Aramaki. For some reason, they don't want him."

"Figures," Nakahara sighs. "If Sekino's moving up to lightweight, they've got no one left in Super Feather."

"Then I'll make sure he regrets moving up at all," Ryoma says, standing.

From the entrance come the voices of Ryohei and Okabe, loud, competitive, and already halfway through an argument about something irrelevant.

"You can give that opener to one of them," Ryoma says.

Nakahara grimaces, facing with a new dilemma: whichever one he picks between Ryohei and Okabe, the other will be unhappy.

Ryoma glances at the desk, grabs Nakahara's bike keys, and pockets them. Then he takes the old man's jacket off the sofa, the one that smells faintly of coffee and regret, and slips it on.

"Where are you going?" Nakahara asks.

"To the bank."

"Be quick. I need that bike later."

Ryoma just waves a lazy hand as he walks off.

Near the front door, Aramaki appears, surprised, and then grinning wide.

"Oh, you're back! Thought that fever was gonna kill you."

Ryoma chuckles. "It was just normal flu, not Covid-19."

Aramaki tilts his head at the unfamiliar word but lets it slide, smiling awkwardly. Then, as if remembering about something, he stops, turns, and rushes outside.

"Hey, wait!"

Ryoma keeps walking, glancing back. "What is it?"

"It's the money you lent me before," Aramaki says, already digging through his bag. "I was gonna stop by your place to return it."

"It's fine," Ryoma says, stopping by the bike. "Just keep it."

Aramaki freezes mid-search. "Man... it's two hundred yen. Not exactly pocket change for me."

Ryoma shakes the envelope in his hand. "Well you helped me earn this one million yen. Consider it a finder's fee."

Aramaki laughs awkwardly. "I didn't help you. You made that bet with Logan yourself. You put your own purse on the line."

"Yeah," Ryoma says. "But I knew you'd pull through."

The words land heavier than he intends. Aramaki blinks, caught between confusion and something else, that small unguarded warmth that sneaks up when someone believes in you before you've earned it.

Ryoma brushes it off, turning back to the bike. "Anyway, come with me to the bank. You can play bodyguard."

Aramaki hesitates, then grins. "Yeah, sure!"

He hops on behind Ryoma, and they cut through the late winter air.

One pretends a million yen is just pocket money. The other takes his new role as "bodyguard" far too seriously, eyes darting like expecting an ambush at every traffic light.

***

The fever at Ōta Gym only lasts another week before being replaced by a new one, not viral this time, but contagious all the same.

Two top-ranked Japanese lightweights are set to clash for the vacant championship belt Renji left behind. For Ryoma, who's quietly building his own path toward that same belt, there's no way he'd miss it.

His own bout with Sekino remains nothing more than a handshake, no press, not even fixed date yet. Nakahara insisted on giving him rest time, and for once, Ryoma didn't argue.

Now, April 12, 2016, Ryoma sits among hundreds of spectators inside Ryōgoku Kokugikan, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of sweat, lacquer, and overpriced yakitori.

The arena is full, not just of fans, but of ghosts. Every fighter who ever dreamed of a belt has left something behind in places like this.

From his seat halfway up the stands, Ryoma watches the ring under the harsh white lights. To his left, Aramaki leans forward with the posture of a kid at a theme park.

"Man… can you imagine fighting here someday?" he whispers, voice barely audible over the pre-fight announcements.

Ryoma doesn't answer right away. He's too busy imagining it, the weight of the belt, the heat of the crowd, the way the ring might smell of blood and adrenaline.

"Yeah," he finally says. "I'll be there soon."

A small smile flickers across Aramaki's face, part awe, part disbelief, and maybe a little faith.

Behind them, Ryohei and Okabe have claimed the seats, already arguing about whose division has better fighters.

Kenta's missing, as usual, the kind of absence that no one comments on anymore because it happens too often to be news.

The group blends into the crowd easily, a pack of gym rats lost among real fans. But Ryoma stands out, even when he's trying not to.

A few people nearby recognize him, a quick whisper here, a sideways glance there. No one approaches, no one asks for photos.

The curiosity stays neatly hidden, folded under polite disinterest. After all, Ryoma isn't a star tonight. And, he isn't the only boxer in the audience.

From his seat, he spots them: the familiar silhouettes from rankings and sports magazines, men whose names have weight, whose records fill the space between reputation and threat.

The arena is noisy and restless, but Ryoma's Vision Grid cuts through it with precision, tracing outlines and identifying faces even in the chaos of the crowd.

There's Domoto Nariaki, ranked fourth, sharp eyes, heavier now than the last time he fought.

Harada Tanimoto, fifth, flanked by two sponsors pretending to be friends.

And Hisashi Murai, still hovering near lightweight, though everyone knows he's overdue to move up.

The faces blur, the names click into place, and for a moment, the audience stops feeling like a crowd.

Okabe leans closer from behind, following Ryoma's gaze. "Already scanning your targets, huh?"

"I might end up fighting one of them after beating Sekino," Ryoma says.

Ryohei whistles. "Already seeing your victory, huh?"

"Of course," Ryoma replies flatly. "If you want a belt, you can't just train for a fight. You have to picture how you'll win it."

"Yeah, yeah…" Ryohei shrugs. "Manifestation, right?"

Down in the ring, the announcer's voice booms through the hall, running through introductions that everyone already knows by heart.

Ryoma, of course, has studied both men out of habit.

Naegi Jurobei, ranked second, 31 years old, a veteran with 35 fights and the durable look of someone who's been punched more often than paid.

And Shinichi Yanagimoto, ranked third, 24, with barely half that record, sixteen fights, all aggression and youth.

Both men have two losses. Both handed to the same person: Renji Kuroiwa, the former champion, the benchmark of Japanese lightweight boxing for the past five years.

"So," Aramaki says, leaning closer. "What's your call?"

Ryoma studies the ring, calm and clinical.

"Hard to say. Jurobei's got the experience. He can take punishment and stay on his feet. Yanagimoto's younger, faster, and being a southpaw makes things unpredictable. But…"

He leans back slightly.

"I'm betting on old man Jurobei."

Aramaki stares at him. "You bet again?"

Ryoma grins. "Coin toss this time. I'm pacing myself."

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