Chapter 120: Ghost of Youth
The steady rhythm starts to grate on Ryoma. Jab, guard, pivot. Again. And again. Each exchange feels like water dripping on stone, grinding away his patience.
Ryoma’s chest tightens with irritation. If he lets this drag on, it’ll be nothing more than glorified padwork. He wants more. He heeds more, needs something real.
Finally, his guard dips for half a beat as he growls, voice sharp enough to slice through the gym air.
"Come on, Kenta! Are you even trying? Or are you just here to dance with me?"
The words snap the silence harder than any punch.
"Watch your mouth, brat!" Okabe barks from ringside, tone thunderous. "Don’t forget who you’re talking to!"
Ryohei follows, his voice calmer but firm. "Kid, don’t get ahead of yourself. Kenta’s still your senior. Show some respect."
But Kenta? He doesn’t so much as blink. His breathing stays even, his rhythm unbroken. Jab, jab, tight guard, pivot, jab. As if Ryoma’s outburst meant nothing at all.
That indifference, that silent dismissal, cuts deeper than any strike. And it gnaws at Ryoma with every passing second.
The bell rings. Three rounds in the books, and no one can honestly say who had the edge. Kenta has taken Ryoma’s best shots without so much as a stumble, his guard ironclad, his counters steady, measured.
He’s strong enough to absorb Ryoma’s power, mature enough to control the pace without making it look like a sparring clinic.
Tch.
Ryoma clicks his tongue, dragging air into his lungs as he heads toward the ropes. Dissatisfaction weighs heavier than fatigue.
He knows Kenta has been holding back, carefully restraining himself the entire time, which makes him even more annoyed.
"Hey, kid!" Kenta’s voice follows him. "Word of advice, don’t let your emotions show so easily in the ring. You don’t want your opponent using that against you."
Ryoma’s shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t look back.
"Shut up!" he snaps, leaping down to the floor.
Kenta chuckles, wiping sweat with his forearm. "I’m serious. I’m saying this for your own good." His grin lingers, just shy of teasing.
"Hey, that’s enough," Nakahara interjects from ringside, his tone steady. "He’s still young. And no one his age is mature enough to read him like that anyway."
"But what if he fights a veteran?" Kenta presses, eyes narrowing. "Someone like me? Honestly, Coach, he made it way too easy for me to read him. Every time he got frustrated, it was written all over his face. Might as well hold up a sign: here comes my punch, get ready to counter, why don’t you taste this. He practically tells you when and what he’s about to do."
"He’ll grow out of it," Nakahara says. "With experience. That’s how every fighter learns."
Their voices fade into the background as Ryoma slumps onto the bench. Sweat drips from his chin, tracing dark spots across the gym floor.
He grabs his towel, but his mind isn’t on the sweat, or the ache in his shoulders. It’s on Kenta’s words. Because as much as he wants to ignore them, Kenta’s right.
He isn’t like other nineteen-year-olds. He’s lived this before, ten years older in another life, a man who’s carried the weight of failure and regret. Mentally, he should be past the naivety, past the impatience. He should know better.
And yet, here he is, snapping at advice, letting his emotions bleed into the ring, chasing thrill over patience. And it gnaws at him.
What stings even more isn’t just Kenta’s blunt honesty, but Nakahara’s defense. The old man’s words were meant to shield him, but all Ryoma heard was indulgence.
Telling him he’s still young, he’ll learn in time. As if he were just a kid. As if his mistakes were forgivable only because of his age. But he isn’t just nineteen. Inside, he’s twenty-nine adult.
"Damn it..."
His fists tighten against his knees. Recklessness. Impatience. He doesn’t need anyone to point them out. He knows them too well.
And yet, no matter how badly he wants to cast them off, they cling to him still, stubborn ghosts trailing from both lives.
***
The truth is, Ryoma isn’t the only boxer being coddled. Somewhere else, his upcoming opponent, Leonardo Serrano, is receiving much the same treatment, though under very different circumstances.
Right now, Serrano is in the middle of a spar at Kirizume Boxung Gym, paired against his senior, Kazuya Tōjō, the very same man Ryoma had flattened in a single punch.
Lately, Tōjō has been considering a move up class, testing himself against heavier opposition. But Serrano? Serrano treats the sparring session like a game.
He bounces on his toes, shoulders loose, feet shuffling in exaggerated rhythm. His punches come in irregular bursts, one here, one there, nothing committed. He toys with distance, eyes half-lidded as if the man in front of him barely warrants attention.
After landing a spear-like straight at Tōjō’s guts, the bell sounds, ending the round. And Serrano shakes his head in visible disdain.
"Really, Shigemori-san?" he scoffs toward the coach in the corner. "Why pair me with someone who got knocked out by a kid in one punch? You think this helps me?"
The words hit harder than any jab. Tōjō stiffens, jaw tight, but says nothing. The sting of his loss to Ryoma is a wound that hasn’t healed, a scar too visible to hide.
And Serrano... this isn’t the first time he sparred with him. And every spar between them has turned into the same humiliation, Serrano treating him like little more than a punching bag.
From the side of the ring, a gymmate calls out, voice sharp. "Oi, Kazuya! You’re just gonna take that? Say something would you?"
"Or better yet, shut that gaijin up yourself!" another adds.
Laughter ripples, half-joking, half-serious. But Tōjō doesn’t answer. His pride is already hanging by a thread.
Still, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him. He wants to shut Serrano’s mouth badly. The question is, can he?
Moments later...
Ding!
The bell rings for round three.
Tōjō surges forward, abandoning his careful out-boxing style. Recklessness burns in his chest.
I don’t care if he’s got a match coming up. I’ll make him pay.
He feints once, drawing Serrano’s guard just high enough, and slams a hook deep into the ribs.
"Take that, bastard!"
Serrano grunts, but before he can reset, Tōjō fires again, a savage hook upstairs...
Swssh!
...but his glove only slices through air.
Serrano has bent his entire torso back, impossibly far, his feet planted, pivot untouched. He leans away like a whip pulled taut.
And then he coils back, with a punch coming from below. But it isn’t an uppercut. It curves sideways, a short hook from a strange, unreadable angle.
Dhuack!!!
Tōjō never sees it coming. And it smacks clean against the side of his headgear, rattling his skull.
Still, he staggers, balance gone.
And then...
BAM!
...the follow-up crashes straight onto his face before Serrano even finishes straightening his posture.
The impact sends his head whipping back. His legs give, knees slamming into the canvas.
The gym goes quiet for a beat.
And Serrano stands over him, lips curling into a smirk, eyes dripping with disdain.
"See?" he says coldly. "He’s too weak. No wonder Ryoma flattened him in one punch."