Sakamoto – Novice Amateur Debut – 6 Days
The numbers glared at him like a ticking bomb. Six days. A line that couldn't be crossed.
Taiga Sakamoto stood on the scale for the third time that morning. Sweat trickled down his temples, and his breath was short, even though he hadn't thrown a punch yet.
155.6 lbs.
He stepped off, fists clenched.
"Still too much," Genji said without looking up from his clipboard. "You've got six days to lose one and a half. Cut the salt, reduce your water. And don't touch rice."
"I'm starving," Taiga muttered.
"You're a boxer," Genji replied flatly. "Get used to starving."
This part of boxing wasn't glamorous. It wasn't about knockouts, rivalries, or roaring crowds. It was about discipline—more brutal than any uppercut. The final week before a debut was a quiet war waged against your own body.
Taiga had been through hell on the streets, but nothing compared to watching every grain of rice on his plate and still going to bed hungry.
That afternoon, he was outside in a thick hoodie under the sun, running laps near the riverside path. The sweat soaked through his clothes. His breath came ragged.
Rikuya ran beside him in a tank top and looked completely unbothered. "You thinking about the weigh-in?"
"Every damn second."
"You'll make it. You've dropped more than this before," Rikuya said. "You just didn't have a scale back then."
Taiga didn't respond, but he ran harder. If he had the strength to think, he had the strength to push.
Back at the gym, Masaki passed him a bottle of lukewarm water and a dry towel.
"You look like you lost a fight to the sun," Masaki joked.
"Almost lost to my own stomach," Taiga grunted. He wiped his face and leaned against the wall, the cool concrete soaking into his back.
"Don't worry," Masaki said. "You'll make the weight. You've already got that dead-eyes, zombie look. That's how the pros look near fight week."
Taiga let out a half-hearted laugh. It was true. The mirror had started showing someone leaner. Meaner. His cheekbones were more pronounced. His torso cut like stone.
Then came pad work with Kenzaki. Light and rhythmic, no power—just flow.
Jab. Pivot. Hook. Duck.
"You're moving better," Kenzaki noted.
"I feel like I'm dying."
"That's how you know you're close."
Later, Genji stepped in, face lit by his phone screen. "Kazuki Ren just posted on social media. He's already at 153.5. Bragging about cutting early."
Taiga exhaled through his nose. "He's making a statement."
"He's trying to get in your head," Rikuya said from the side. "Let him. That just means you're already in his."
That night, Taiga lay in his dorm bed. The fan above spun in lazy circles, doing nothing to help the heat. His stomach growled quietly. His body was sore, depleted. But his mind—his mind was locked in.
Six more days.
He had no control over what Kazuki did. No say in what the world expected.
But he could endure. He would endure.
Because glory didn't come to those who waited.
It came to those who suffered for it.