Chapter 6: The Amateur Tank
The cold tiles of the bathroom floor stung Rukio's feet as he paced back and forth, clad in a hoodie and sweatpants, drenched in his own sweat. The mirror was foggy from the steam of his hot shower, now long finished. Drops of sweat rolled down his temples, dripping onto the floor, but it still wasn't enough.
He glanced down at the digital scale sitting in the corner. It had blinked out a week ago—broken, unreliable. Now, it was just a square plastic lie. He didn't know how much weight he had shed, and that mystery gnawed at his nerves like a parasite.
He wiped his face with a towel and checked the time: 6:17 AM. The weigh-in was at seven sharp. There was no time left to wonder. Every second had to be spent actively losing more water weight. He spat into an empty water bottle, counting each mouthful like it might tip the scale. He tried to urinate again but only a few drops came out.
His legs trembled—not from weakness but from the tension coiled inside his body. The stakes were heavy. If he even grazed 67kg, he'd be disqualified from the welterweight bracket. He couldn't let three weeks of grueling training crash and burn now.
"I shouldn't have eaten dinner last night," he muttered. "I should've skipped it."
The quiet house around him buzzed faintly with the muffled chatter of his siblings downstairs. He sighed, dried himself off, and pulled on his driest clothes. No more wasting time.
The locker room of Fujiwara Gym was unusually quiet. A slight chill lingered in the air, the kind that bit under your skin if you were dehydrated.
Rukio stood in front of the medic, peeling off his hoodie and shirt with methodical calm. Coach Haruto sat nearby, clipboard in hand, tapping a pen lightly on his thigh.
"Whenever you're ready, Akami," the medic said with a neutral tone.
Rukio stepped forward, exhaling slowly before placing one foot, then the other, onto the scale. His heart pounded against his ribs.
A pause.
Then the number flashed:
65.8kg
He felt his knees weaken—but not from exhaustion. Relief. Pure, glorious relief. His shoulders sagged as the tension melted off.
"You're good," the medic said.
Coach Haruto nodded without looking up. "You'll float back to 67 by lunch."
As Rukio pulled his shirt back on, he moved toward the exit—his dry throat screaming for water. Just before he pushed the door open, it swung the other way.
In stepped Oharu Kiyama, a duffel bag over his shoulder. His gaze locked with Rukio's—a flicker of amusement behind his usual stone-faced demeanor. Oharu gave a tiny nod, not of greeting, but declaration.
Rukio's breath caught.
So that's today's version of Oharu.
A monster in human skin.
Rukio sat on a bench near the gym wall, a bottle of Pocari Sweat in one hand and a half-eaten rice ball in the other. He scarfed down food with restraint, chewing slowly even though his stomach growled for more.
The salty tang of the drink revived his senses, pushing back the fog from his morning dehydration. As the liquid trickled down his throat, a shadow of doubt tried to surface.
What if I can't last three rounds?
What if I get overwhelmed?
What if this plan I've been building is useless against someone like him?
Joji, who had just finished wrapping his hands nearby, plopped down beside him and nudged his arm.
"Stop worrying so much," Joji said, flashing a casual grin. "You'll make the food taste bad."
Rukio chuckled weakly. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one about to get hit."
"Not today, at least," Joji replied, kicking his feet lightly. "But soon enough."
The ring was set, and the gym lights cast dramatic shadows across the mat. A few folding chairs had been placed around the ring, filled by gym regulars, students, and the occasional curious friend.
Rukio stepped through the ropes, every step deliberate. His gloves were snug, wrists taped tightly. Across from him stood Oharu, now transformed into something sharper, faster—his lean figure radiating controlled aggression.
Coach Haruto stood between them.
"Three rounds. Controlled power. Smart fighting. You know the rules."
They bumped gloves.
Then, the bell.
Oharu moved like lightning. From the very first second, he launched a triple jab-cross combo that forced Rukio on the defensive. The hits came faster than Rukio anticipated, forcing him to block high, low, and slip by instinct. The ring echoed with the thump of gloves and the squeak of shoes.
"He's faster than in the footage," Rukio thought, gritting his teeth. "Way faster."
But he couldn't panic. He had to weather the storm.
By the time the bell rang again, Rukio's ribs ached, his guard shaken. The second round began, and Oharu didn't let up. His footwork was smoother now, tighter, like he was dancing on a rhythm only he could hear.
Rukio fired back with a body shot and tried to roll under a counter, but Oharu's timing was nearly perfect. He weaved, ducked, and launched a snapping uppercut that grazed Rukio's jaw.
Outside the ropes, Joji leaned forward in his chair, fists clenched.
Near the wall, hidden in the back, Mina watched silently, eyes wide. She had snuck in with the small audience out of curiosity, planning to surprise Joji later. But now, her attention was trapped on the two inside the ring.
Coach Haruto, arms folded, stood like a statue.
Still not enough, he thought. But he's adjusting.
Round three. Rukio's breathing had steadied. He wasn't rushing anymore. He watched Oharu's rhythm—jab, shuffle, jab, feint, lead hook. Always the same half-second reset before going for a kill shot.
Rukio danced backward, inviting him in. Then, on cue, he stumbled slightly and dropped his guard by an inch. A small bait. Just enough.
Oharu took it.
He lunged in with a lead hook—fast, clean, brutal.
And walked straight into Rukio's trap.
The counter came like a whip. A straight right, sharp as a knife and perfectly timed. It landed flush on Oharu's cheek, twisting his head mid-air.
The impact was silent.
Then Oharu hit the mat.
Gasps filled the gym.
No cheers. No roars. Just the collective silence of awe.
Oharu sat on the stool, breathing hard, ice pack pressed to his face. Rukio sat opposite him, still catching his breath, arms resting on the ropes while the medic checks if they have any minor injuries.
"Not bad," Oharu muttered, his voice hoarse but steady. "That counter wasn't luck."
Rukio gave a tired smirk. "Nope. You just took the bait."
Oharu stood, unwrapping his gloves and preparing to leave. "I'm going pro soon. And when I do, I want a real match."
Rukio nodded, sipping water. "Just make sure you're still fast by then."
The sky outside the gym had turned soft orange. Mina walked alone down the street, her hands stuffed into her jacket pockets.
Her heart still raced—not from nerves, but from excitement.
She hadn't expected amateur boxing to look like that. She hadn't expected that kind of pressure, that kind of clash. She had come to wait for Joji, but the moment she saw the crowd gather around the ring, she followed.
She didn't regret it.
But as she walked, her thoughts turned to Joji. That was the level he'd face one day. Fighters like Oharu and Rukio—fast, brutal, and strategic.
She looked up at the sky.
"Joji," she whispered, "you better be ready."
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[End of Chapter 6]