Meanwhile, at NSN headquarters.

Logan ends the call and slowly lowers the phone onto his desk. The moment it touches the surface, his expression hardens, his face darkening with a mix of irritation and reluctant respect.

For a few seconds, he says nothing.

Then he turns his gaze toward the man standing by the glass wall overlooking the city, silhouetted against the sprawl of the city far below.

Logan lets out a slow breath, rubbing a thumb along the edge of his desk before lifting his eyes again.

"So you're back in America now, Frank?" he says, voice low, edged with something between annoyance and resignation. "You're not going to push it any further?"

Frank doesn't turn. He stands with both hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, gaze fixed on the vast sprawl of the city beyond the window. The late-afternoon light casts a pale reflection of his face on the glass, calm and steady, edged with something harder beneath.

"I don't think he'll change his mind," Frank says. "The kid knows what he wants… and he clearly knows how this business works. Better than most grown men in the industry."

Logan snorts softly at that, leaning back in his chair with a humorless smile.

"Well, that call wasn't from him. It was from his gym," he says. "The kid's moving into the OPBF now. They've already secured a fight with the Philippine Champion."

Frank finally glances over. "Paulo 'Hurricane' Ramos, huh?"

Logan nods.

Frank lets out a short breath. "Well… they've got guts, I'll give them that."

Logan shakes his head once, almost disbelieving. "That alone should tell you he doesn't hesitate. Not even a little. He didn't blink at the contract you offered him."

Frank finally shifts, pulling his eyes from the skyline just long enough to give Logan a faint nod.

"That's fine," he says. "I wasn't counting on him signing now anyway."

He turns fully, adjusting his jacket as he heads toward the door.

"Let him do what he wants. Let's see how far he can go."

He pauses at the threshold, a brief glint in his eyes, something between curiosity and challenge.

"Either he rises… or he breaks. We'll know soon enough."

Then he steps out, leaving the office in a heavy thoughtful quiet. And with that, whatever plan Logan had crafted to bring Ryoma to America has collapsed, cleanly, and decisively.

He lets his eyes settle on the phone, the gears already turning behind his calm expression. Plans may fall through, but the business never stops moving. Markets shift, leverage changes hands, and opportunities, if they aren't there, can always be made.

Logan leans back slightly, already considering his next angle, his next opening. Ryoma may have slipped from his grasp today, but nothing in this world stays out of reach forever.

***

Even before dusk settles over Tokyo, Aki's article is already live, and the effect is immediate.

Within minutes it begins rippling through Japan's boxing community, carried across forums, social media threads, and gym group chats with equal parts shock and excitement.

A rookie challenging an OPBF top-five, the Philippine Champion is rare enough. A rookie doing it while half the country still doubts him is unheard of.

Most people don't read the full piece at first. They gravitate straight to the boldest lines, Aki's highlighted pull quotes that hit like punches of their own:

"I won't bow down. Not to the critics, not to the alienation, not to the silence from those who refuse to face me. To the Cruel King Army… stay with me. I'm not done. I'm stepping into the OPBF, and we're taking this step together."

"I've challenged Paulo 'Hurricane' Ramos, the Philippine Champion and OPBF No. 4. And unlike certain champions in our own backyard… he didn't hesitate to accept."

The lines spread like wildfire, stirring debate, admiration, resentment, disbelief, anything but indifference.

By the end of the hour, one thing has already become clear: Ryoma has thrown a stone into a very still pond. And Japan is watching the ripples form.

***

The following week turns Nakahara Boxing Gym into something it has never been before, chaotic and crowded, louder than any training session Ryoma has ever led inside it.

Reporters gather at the entrance from the moment the shutters rise in the morning, cameras clicking before the fighters even finish greeting each other.

Vans from sports networks clog the narrow street. Curious fans hover by the windows, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the gym's newest storm.

Tokyo is full of larger, richer, more decorated stables. Yet somehow, every eye has turned here, to this small, humble gym.

Even the analysts and commentators who once joined the domestic champion's camp in criticizing Ryoma are now swept up in the momentum he created.

The narrative is too big to resist: a rookie stepping straight into the Pacific. It's reckless, ambitious, and impossible to ignore.

Inside, the fighters struggle to move between drills as journalists poke their heads in, calling out Ryoma's name, begging for a statement.

Nakahara does everything in his power to stop them.

"No interviews," he repeats for the tenth time since morning. "He's training. You'll get nothing today."

But they press harder, polite at first, then persistent, their questions overlapping, their cameras trailing him even when he steps outside to catch a breath.

Eventually, they surround him instead, pelting him with inquiries he has no time or patience for.

"Coach Nakahara, isn't moving Ryoma into the OPBF this early a huge risk?"

"He's only had seven fights. Aren't you worried the pressure could derail his entire career?"

"Do you believe he can handle Paulo Ramos?"

"Is this fight a response to the Japanese champion avoiding him?"

"Is this revenge? A statement? A gamble?"

Nakahara finally stops walking. He looks at the reporters, tired but composed, as if he knew this confrontation would come.

"Yes," he says clearly, "Ryoma's goal is the world. It always has been."

The crowd stills. A hush falls over the reporters, the kind that happens only when someone says something they weren't expecting.

Pens freeze mid-scribble, cameras rise in unison, and every lens sharpens on Nakahara as if they're afraid to miss even a breath of what he might say next.

For the first time since they swarmed the gym, they're not talking over each other. They're listening, capturing every word, every expression, as Nakahara's statement settles into their coverage like a small explosion waiting to spread.

And Nakahara continues. "Winning the Japanese title is one route toward that goal, but we're not fixated on it. Whether he takes that belt or not, you will see our answer to the critics in time. Not with words… and clearly not here, but on the international stage."

Before they can react, he turns, marching toward his bike. The reporters follow, firing more questions like sparks behind him.

"Nakahara-san! Is that a confirmation he'll skip the domestic title?"

"What do you mean by 'the critics' will have their answer'?"

That's when his patience snaps. "I still have work to do!" Nakahara barks, spinning around sharply. "I've got a fight to build from scratch. If you keep blocking my path, this event might never happen. So either move or let me go through you."

A stunned silence falls, and then the crowd parts instantly, clearing the way.

Nakahara pushes past them, disappearing into the side street with the weight of the entire event on his shoulders, leaving the press scrambling to piece together the meaning behind every word he just said.

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