Moving up a class is supposed to make things easier, or so people who've never done it like to say. But Ryoma doesn't buy. The moment he made the decision, he already knew: nothing about this would be simple. Every extra kilogram has its own personality, its own rebellion to tame.
Lightweight tops out at 61.2 kilograms, but Hiroshi's plan pushes Ryoma's walk-around weight to 65. That way, he can cut the four kilos before weigh-in, and regain them back before stepping into the ring.
He will need to be above that weight limit, because his opponent will do the same. Hiroshi calls it effective weight, mass that doesn't just exist, but moves on command. Every gram must earn its keep.
Ryoma likes the sound of that, even if he's still learning what it feels like. Now he's flat on the bench press, the frame uneven, padding torn at the corners.
The barbell's older than he is, iron plates mismatched, one side heavier, as if the past itself leans harder.
