The next morning, the air in Osaka was sharp and cold. Taiga's ribs still ached from yesterday's sparring with Kenzaki, but Genji's orders were clear:
"You want lungs, you run. Every morning."
So he ran.
Past shuttered shops, through narrow alleys and empty road, over the crumbling sidewalks of the industrial district. The streets were still empty—just him, his breath, and the sound of his sneakers slapping the ground.
Every step burned. His legs were dead. His hoodie stuck to his back with sweat.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
This wasn't just about a fight anymore. It was about everything he'd never had. Every person who looked at him like he didn't belong to the world. Every second he spent forgotten on the streets.
At the top of the hill overlooking the harbor, Taiga stopped. Osaka stretched out below—gritty and endless. His chest heaved. His fists clenched.
He whispered to the wind: "Three weeks."
He goes back to Glory Gym, Genji had them doing mitt work.
Taiga's arms and legs were already sore from the run, but he powered through. Each punch snapped into Genji's pads like gunshots. Sweat poured down his face. His breath came ragged.
"Too wide," Genji barked. "Keep your elbows in!"
Taiga adjusted. Threw again.
"Better. Now jab, jab, hook. Reset."
The rhythm drilled into his bones. Hit, move. Breathe. Tighten the core. No wasted motion.
Nearby, Rikuya was shadowboxing in the mirror. Even without music, he had rhythm—like he was dancing with ghosts. His eyes flicked to Taiga for a moment.
"You're getting cleaner," Rikuya said between sets. "But don't lose that edge. You punch like someone who's had to fight to live."
Taiga smirked. "That's cause I have."
Genji's voice cut in again. "Then you better fight to win, not survive."
Later, in the locker room, Taiga sat alone. Wrists unwrapped. Shirt soaked. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn't rest.
He thought of Kenzaki. The way he move. The way Genji said: "He didn't listen."
Was that how all fighters ended up? Broken and forgotten? Just stories told in old gyms? Being in a forgotten posters?
The door creaked.
Genji walked in, carrying a duffel. He sat on the bench across from Taiga, unusually quiet.
"You know," Genji said, voice low, "I've trained a lot of kids who thought they wanted this life."
Taiga stayed silent.
"They had fire. Talent. But when it came time to bleed for it—to hurt for it—they ran away. Boxing doesn't give you anything easy. It strips you down until only the truth's left. It's not for the weak"
He met Taiga's eyes.
"You ready for that?"
Taiga didn't flinch. "I didn't come here to be easy."
Genji studied him for a long second. Then nodded.
"Alright. Tomorrow we start sparring drills again. Rikuya's gonna teach you some real footwork. Your first opponent's a counter-puncher. Fast hands. Smart. You slip up, you get dropped."
Taiga stood, fire in his chest.
"Then I'll just have to be faster."
That night, he didn't sleep much.
He replayed every mistake in the ring. Every punch that missed. Every breath that burned.
And he smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time…
He wasn't fighting just to stay alive.
He was fighting for something more.
For a name.
For a legacy.
For glory.