Whiteboard:
Sakamoto – Novice Amateur Debut – Tomorrow
The sun barely pierced through the thick Osaka clouds when Taiga stood barefoot on the scale. Sweat still clung to his neck, his hoodie draped around his shoulders. This was the moment it all funneled into. The number. The weight. The gate to war.
154.0 lbs.
"Right on the mark," Genji muttered, more relieved than impressed. "Don't drink anything until after the check-in."
Taiga stepped off, keeping his breath steady. His limbs felt light—maybe too light—but his focus had never been sharper. The weigh-in was being held in a cramped hall within a downtown boxing gym used for amateur events. A row of chairs was set up along the back wall, media guys with cheap cameras and clipboards loitering near the corners. Not many eyes were on Taiga—yet.
Until Kazuki Ren walked in.
He wore a black windbreaker and sunglasses indoors, chewing gum with the kind of swagger you could smell before you saw it. His hair was spiked and dyed a harsh platinum blonde, and three silver rings gleamed on his right hand.
Kazuki locked eyes with Taiga, then smirked.
"Thought you'd look bigger," he said, removing his glasses. "You're lighter than I imagined."
Taiga didn't blink. "Guess you imagined wrong."
"Guess we'll see tomorrow if you're worth the hype," Kazuki grinned. "Or if this was just a charity match."
The officials began calling fighters forward. When it was Kazuki's turn, he dropped his jacket, revealing a chiseled but wiry frame covered in faint scars—likely not all from the ring.
153.5 lbs.
He flexed for the camera, throwing a fake left jab into the air as if posing for a photoshoot. His trainer gave a nod from the side, sunglasses and all.
Taiga's turn followed. He stepped onto the platform quietly, didn't pose, didn't move. Just locked eyes with the number:
154.0 lbs.
He nodded once and stepped off.
The official weigh-in photo was next. Both fighters stood shirtless, arms crossed, facing the camera. Then, the face-off. Inches apart.
Kazuki leaned in. "I heard your old man used to fight dirty in the underground. Guess the apple fell far, huh?"
Taiga didn't flinch. "You'll see how far when I drop you."
Kazuki grinned wider than before, but his eyes flashed something else—surprise? Annoyance?
"Watch your jaw, rookie."
"Watch your ego, clown."
Officials stepped between them, breaking the tension.
As the crowd dispersed, Genji patted Taiga on the back.
"You didn't flinch. That's good. That was the first round—you won it."
Back at Glory Gym later that day, the mood was different. Quieter. Focused. The heavy bags weren't swinging, the ring was empty, and only a few people remained. Kenzaki was taping Taiga's hands lightly—not for sparring, but for shadow drills. Nothing intense.
"Relax the shoulders," Kenzaki said, standing just beside him in the ring. "When you fight a guy like Kazuki, who throws wild, you need to be like water. Let him come to you. Let him get emotional."
Taiga jabbed forward into the air. "He likes to taunt. I saw that in the footage."
"And that's his weakness," Rikuya added from the apron. "Guys who need attention usually can't take being ignored. Let him try to rile you up. Stick to Genji's plan."
Taiga nodded.
Genji stepped in, arms crossed. "You remember the combinations?"
"Yeah. Body-body-head. Jab, slip, hook. Cut angles. Use footwork."
"Good," Genji said. "Because he's not gonna respect your fundamentals. He's gonna think you're just another street rat with gloves."
"He's not wrong," Taiga said with a half-smile.
"But he's gonna learn you're the kind who survives," Kenzaki added.
The drills wrapped, and Kenzaki tossed Taiga a towel. "Tomorrow, don't think about winning or losing. Just do what we trained. Execute. Breathe. Control the tempo. And don't look for the knockout—it'll come."
As the others started clearing out, Genji walked up to Taiga alone. He held a sealed envelope. Inside was Taiga's amateur license card. Name printed in bold: Sakamoto Taiga.
"You've earned that," Genji said. "Ain't many kids who get this far from nothing."
Taiga held the card, staring at it in silence.
"You nervous?" Genji asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. If you weren't, I'd worry. Nerves mean you care. Just don't let it freeze you."
"…You ever froze?" Taiga asked quietly.
Genji looked off for a moment. "Once. Long ago. And I still regret it."
There was a silence between them. One of understanding.
That night, back at the dorm, Taiga sat on his bed. The card still in his hand. His bag was packed. Gloves, wraps, mouthguard—all checked.
His body ached. His stomach turned in knots. But his mind… it was still. Focused.
Tomorrow, it wasn't about revenge. Or proving something to Osaka. Or honoring his father's name.
It was about him.
The kid who had nothing. The boy who fought in alleys. The teenager who stepped into a broken gym and found something worth believing in.
No corner to retreat to. No towel to throw in. Just glory—or silence.