If anyone asked Ryoma what kind of power he wanted most, he would say the Sharingan. Not the fancy bleeding-eye, space-warping kind. Just the two tomoes are enough. Enough to copy a boxer's jab, dodge a sucker punch, or set a perfect counter. With that alone, he could dominate any boxing match.
Even Trafalgar Law's devil fruit power would do. Room, slice space, and then casually moonwalk into a bank vault. Commit the greatest heist in history without leaving a fingerprint. Get out rich.
He's not asking for much, just a way out, one real edge. And the joke is, he actually has one, a unique ability.
It's not from some weird looking fruit or a ninja bloodline. But it's something that sparks in his brain after an accident, something wrong behind his eyes.
Now he notices everything, too much of everything. The staggered rhythm of a man's breathing. A loose thread on someone's sock across the train. Details no one's supposed to notice. And details that bury themselves in his mind and refuse to leave.
But he gained it the same moment he lost the ability to properly use his left leg. It doesn't help him fight, doesn't help him live.
So now he's here, ringside at a title match, front row, center seat. The ticket cost the last of his savings.
"What's with that clumsy footwork?" Ryoma shouts, half whining. "How the hell did you get here with technique that ugly?"
He used to dream of being in there himself, fighting, owning a belt. But that was before a truck came out of nowhere on a rainy Tuesday and crushed his left leg, his future, his everything.
Now all he has is a sharp eye, and a crumpled betting ticket in his hand. He's put everything on the challenger, every last yen.
Not because the odds are good. Because the champion's defending his title for the seventh time tonight, undefeated, untouchable. Almost everyone in the arena is riding on him. So, if the challenger wins, Ryoma walks out of here the richest man in the block.
But if he loses… he isn't planning to wake up the next morning.
Unfortunately, the challenger is getting torn apart. He's been on the defensive since round one. There's no spark in him, just stubbornness and a chin that hasn't broken yet. He fights just like Ryoma lives: cornered, desperate, and barely hanging on.
"Come on!" Ryoma gestures in frustration, shifting his weight off his dead left leg. "Did you even train? Step it up next round!"
Then the bell rings. Round three begins, and the match surges forward. Ryoma isn't watching like a fan. He's analyzing, dissecting, betting on the only thing he has left: his sharp eyes.
And then, he sees it. There's a tiny delay in the champion's guard reset, a half-twist in his posture, and the way his upper body dips when backing out of close range.
Then the challenger lands a soft body shot, not much but just enough to make the champion wince.
Ryoma's breath catches. He shoots to his feet, heart hammering.
"THE LEFT RIB! AIM AT THE LEFT RIB!"
The champion hears him, even glances at him. Suddenly, his rhythm falters, and his footwork slows. He grows cautious, too cautious.
"I knew it," Ryoma whispers, clutching his ticket. "HE MUST HAVE HURT HIS LEFT RIBS DURING TRAINING. AIM FOR IT!!!"
But the challenger doesn't hear him. And the bell rings again, ending the third round.
The champion walks back to his corner. He is still in control, but the confidence has left him.
"What's wrong?" his Second asks. "Why didn't you end him there?"
But the champion doesn't answer. His eyes stay locked on Ryoma.
"Who is that guy?"
No one answers, no one knows. Because Ryoma is just a nobody.
"Why you look so spooked?" his Second asks.
"I did injure my left ribs during the last spar."
"And you only tell me now? Is that serious?"
The Champion turns quiet. But his face is enough to tell everything.
The bell rings again. But Ryoma has already left his seat. The betting ticket is still clutched in his hand, only because of his anger.
And then…
WAAAA!!!
The crowd erupts.
Ryoma turns and there he sees the champion is on one knee, clutching his left ribs. The challenger has just grazed the same spot again.
But this time, the pain shows, and the Champion's mask has completely gone. He gets up, but he's not the same.
The challenger sees it now, he smells blood. Then he gambles everything, throwing himself at that one weakness, betting his life on the line.
And…
"ANOTHER DOWN!"
"That's twice in a minute!"
"Can he stand? Can he continue?"
"Oh my god… The challenger pulls off the most tragic upset in championship history!"
The crowd freezes, stunned, completely silent.
And Ryoma? You might think he is the happiest man in the building. But the win tastes like nothing he expected.
As he pushes out through the arena doors, past stunned bettors and muttering security guards, the night air hits his lungs like ice.
He should be grinning, should be screaming. Instead, he just stands there on the steps, ticket in hand, the cold bleeding through his coat, and a voice echoing in his skull.
"You said you'd find something else. But all you found were excuses."
He'd replayed that moment a thousand times. Wondering what would've changed if he'd done something different. If he hadn't been so broken. If he still had the gloves on.
***
Later… at a bar near the Ryogoku Kokugikan arena, Ryoma is a god among mortals. He stands at the center of the bar, flushed with victory, bathed in neon and praise, surrounded by strangers calling him a genius.
"Drinks on me!" he shouts, holding the winning ticket high. "Drink like it's the end of the world! I may not have the money, but look at this ticket."
Sake flows, and music booms. A waitress kisses him on the cheek. People lift him like he's some kind of prophet.
He grins so hard it hurts. For once, he feels seen. For once, he wins. But the joy never stays, because it ends soon after the bar door creaks open.
Three men walk in, black suits, silent, and cold.
Ryoma turns, blinking. "You wanna have a drink too?"
Instead of an answer…
BANG, BANG!!!
Two bullets, punch through his gut.
People scream, chairs topple, and the hitmen simply walk out without a word.
Ryoma collapses to the floor, gasping. Blood spreads beneath him. The ticket is still clutched in his hand, red soaking through the paper.
His eyes remain open, still sharp, still seeing everything in great detail. But it doesn't help him now.