After hearing Renji's words, and seeing the weight behind them, Kazuya Tōjō feels his purpose for barging into the office start to unravel. Every confident line he'd fed the press last night suddenly sounds hollow in his own head.
But still…
No… it can't be.
He shuts his eyes tight, shaking his head as if he could rattle the doubt loose. His mind claws for anything to hold onto, piling excuse after excuse like sandbags against a flood.
It was just a fluke…
I was careless…
I took the fight lightly...
I didn't prepare enough...
Each one feels thinner than the last. And underneath them all, there's one truth he can't erase: he doesn't even know how he lost.
"Kazuya!"
Coach Kirizume's voice snaps him out of the spiral.
Tōjō's eyes open, and for a split second, the dread in them is naked.
Then it's smothered, replaced with a brittle determination that looks strong from afar but creaks under its own weight.
"Coach… please." His voice is hoarse, unsteady, yet carrying a desperate resolve. "I want a rematch with that kid. This time, I'll give everything, train until I drop, follow every word you say. Just… Please, I can't live with this loss."
Renji glances at Tōjō without a word, then rewinds the footage. He leans back in his chair, chin propped on one hand, eyes fixed on the screen like a man savoring a good movie. But what he keeps watching isn't the knockout, just Ryoma's entrance as he walks toward the ring.
"The fact you still have the nerve to ask for a rematch…" His voice is calm, but the edge in it cuts clean. "I can't tell if that's pure stupidity… or just blind ego. Maybe both."
He lets the words hang, then smirks as if realizing he's just coined something worth remembering.
"Ha. I should write that one down." He pauses the video, fishing out his phone. "Yeah, I'll post it on X. Feels like it'll get traction."
Tōjō's jaw tightens, but he refuses to bite. He turns back to Kirizume instead.
"Coach, please…" He bows low. "Call his gym and lock in a rematch before they schedule him for someone else."
Kirizume takes a long breath, his eyes weighing the request before he finally speaks.
"Forget it. Beating him does nothing for you. He's just a rookie, one fight on his record, no ranking. I set that match before only to give you rounds without risking your momentum. Didn't know he was that good. If you lose again, your stock plummets. If you win, it's barely a footnote. Too much to lose… nothing to gain."
Tōjō slowly lifts his head, face clouded with desperation.
"Nothing to gain…?" he murmurs. "He has just tarnished my legacy, my zero loss. I can't accept it. I…"
"Meh…" Renji scoffs. "Talk about legacy with your four wins against nobodies?"
"So what?" Tōjō shoots back. "You even start treating me this way only after that one loss. If I just let it slide, where the hell am I supposed to hide my face?"
"It's not about that one loss," Renji replies, finally turning to him. "It's about how oblivious you are with that loss, clueless about the monster you underestimated, clueless about how stupid it is to demand a rematch without the slightest idea how he beat you."
"That's… that's just…"
"Let me ask you," Renji cuts his words. "Do you even know what knocked you down that night?"
Tōjō doesn't answer. His mind doesn't even try to piece it together.
"How many punches did you throw in that round?" Renji asks again.
There's still no response from Tōjō.
"How many landed?"
Tōjō swallows hard, forcing out, "I don't remember exactly. But I believe half of my punches connected. I even forced him into the corner."
"Some of your punches did connect," Coach Kirizume says with a nod. "But none of them land clean. You might feel the impact, the resistance when your fists hit him. But every single one was nullified, parried or caught with perfect precision."
"And the thing about you forcing him into the corner…" Renji plays the video again. "Why don't you see it yourself?"
He moves the reply fast forward where Tōjō begins to put more pressure, throwing more punches. But then he stops it at one moment, just before Ryoma begins to move back toward the corner..
"Look at those eyes," Renji says. "Do they look like the eyes of someone being driven into trouble?"
Tōjō steps closer, his gaze narrowing. The longer he looks, the tighter his throat feels. Once he sees what Renji asked him to see, he swallows hard, his face is a mixed between dread and confused.
"During this fight, he only threw four punches," Coach Kirizume says. "Three jabs after the bell, all missed. But then he stopped throwing any punch for more than a minute, and focused on the defense."
"But it wasn't because he couldn't hit you," Renji adds with a scoff. "It's because he was enjoying himself, finding the thrill in slipping past your punches. Those eyes… they're the eyes of a man in the zone. He let you keep swinging because it amused him."
He then lets the video play, until Ryoma is trapped in the corner. Or at least, that's what Tōjō believes.
Renji slows down the video again, letting Tōjō see how Ryoma's expression slowly sharpening with every punch he evades.
And then, seconds before the down, Tōjō sends a sharp right hook. But a smirk flickers in Ryoma's lips, and Renji stops the video again.
"That smile… and those wide eyes," Renji says. "That's pure curiosity. It's like thinking: what if I put my hand here… what happens next? And… Bam! A short, compact right hook straight to your jaw, landing before your own even grazes his temple."
Renji then plays the video in normal speed, and lets Tōjō sees how pathetic he looks the moment he is back to his consciousness in bewilderment. And he pauses it again right at that moment, capturing Tōjō's complete oblivion.
He rises from his chair, and stands right in front of Tōjō. Bringing his face closer, he asks one last question.
"What's in your mind at that moment?"
Raising his brows slightly, he lets that question hang in the air, as if waiting for an answer. But he isn't expecting any answer from him, just forcing Tōjō to confront it.
"You believed you hit him," Renji says. "But then you saw yourself alone in that corner, and started questioning your reality. Am I right?"
Tōjō lowers his head, shoulders folding inward, swallowed by his own reflection.
Renji simply walks toward the flat screen, unplugs the memory stick, and then presses it into Tōjō's hand.
"Take this home. Go to your room. Shut the door, draw the curtains… and watch it. Over and over. Then come tell me if you still have the guts to ask for a rematch."