A month before the fight, Ryoma has settled into his new weight. The scale holds steady back at 64 kilograms, and this time, it doesn't feel like a fight to stay there.
The pendulum-step drills Sera gave have paid off. The sway in his rhythm, the way his weight shifts without hesitation, it's all back. It looks smooth, controlled, and efficient.
From the corner of the gym, you'd barely notice he's heavier now. The frame is broader, the muscles sharper, but his movements still look effortless.
Except for the sound.
Bag, bag, bag, PAM!
Each combination still lands heavier, the pop of the leather turning into a crack.
Nakahara catches the last hook cleanly on the mitt, his stance rooted, eyes never leaving Ryoma. He doesn't praise him yet, just a slow exhale through his nose.
"You're forcing it," he says.
Ryoma's breathing steadies. "Felt good, though."
"Good isn't efficient." Nakahara raises the mitts again. "You're building too much before you throw."
