The Kamogawa Boxing Gym looked even more intimidating in broad daylight.
Ippo stood outside the entrance, his stomach doing backflips as he listened to the sounds of training echoing from within. Heavy bags thundering under powerful punches, speed bags rattling like machine guns, and the sharp whistle of jump ropes cutting through air.
"Second thoughts?" Takamura asked, noticing his hesitation.
"No," Ippo said firmly, though his voice shook slightly. "I'm ready."
"Good. Because once we walk through that door, there's no going back to being the weak kid who got beat up under bridges."
Ippo nodded, thinking of Yuto's memories—a thirteen-year-old orphan who'd walked into a boxing gym with nothing but determination and his father's dying words.
"I understand."
The moment they stepped inside, all activity seemed to pause. Boxers stopped their training to stare at the nervous-looking teenager following behind Takamura.
"Everyone, listen up!" Takamura called out, his voice carrying easily across the gym. "This is Ippo Makunouchi. He starts training here today."
A few snickers echoed through the gym. Ippo looked exactly like what he was—a skinny high school student who'd probably never thrown a real punch in his life.
"Nice to meet you all," Ippo said with a deep bow, his politeness so genuine it caught several boxers off guard. "Please take care of me."
"Aw, look at that. Kid's got manners," laughed a burly boxer working the heavy bag. "That's rare around here."
"Yeah, but manners don't win fights," another added, though not unkindly.
Ippo continued his rounds, introducing himself to each boxer individually. His sincerity and respectful attitude gradually won over the gym members, who were used to cocky newcomers trying to prove themselves on day one.
"Takamura, where'd you find this kid?" asked Aoki, one of the gym's veteran fighters. "He's so polite I almost feel bad for what's about to happen to him."
"Found him getting the crap beaten out of him by some high school punks," Takamura replied. "But he's got something special. You'll see."
"TAKAMURA!"
The voice boomed across the gym like a gunshot, making everyone freeze. An elderly man with sharp eyes and an intimidating presence stormed toward them, his face twisted in anger.
"Coach Kamogawa," Takamura said, his earlier confidence evaporating. "I can explain—"
"What the hell do you think you're doing bringing some nerdy little wimp into my gym?" Kamogawa barked, looking Ippo up and down with obvious disdain. "This isn't a daycare center!"
Ippo felt his confidence crumble under the old man's withering glare. Every instinct told him to apologize and run, but he forced himself to stand straight.
"I'm sorry, sir," Ippo said, bowing again. "I know I don't look like much, but—"
"You're damn right you don't look like much!" Kamogawa interrupted. "Skinny arms, soft hands, probably never been in a real fight in your life. What makes you think you can be a boxer?"
Takamura stepped forward. "Coach, I know how he looks, but trust me—this kid has potential. Real potential."
"Potential?" Kamogawa snorted. "I've heard that before. Every week some delusional kid walks in here thinking they're the next champion."
"Then test him," Takamura said firmly. "Put him in the ring with someone. If I'm wrong, I'll personally throw him out myself."
The gym fell completely silent. Everyone knew what that meant—a newcomer's first sparring session was usually a brutal reality check that sent most people running.
Kamogawa's eyes narrowed as he studied Ippo more carefully. Something about the boy's stance, the way he carried himself, seemed different from the usual wannabes.
"Fine," he said finally. "But when this goes badly, it's on your head."
He turned and scanned the gym until his eyes landed on a young man with elegant features practicing combinations on the double-end bag.
"Miyata! Get over here!"
Ichiro Miyata was everything Ippo wasn't—tall, graceful, technically perfect, and blessed with natural talent that made boxing look effortless. He approached with the fluid movement of someone born to fight.
"Yes, Coach?"
"This is the kid Takamura wants to train. I want you to spar with him. Four rounds. Show him what real boxing looks like."
Miyata looked at Ippo with analytical eyes, taking in every detail. "Are you sure, Coach? He doesn't look like he's ever been in a ring before."
"That's the point. Either he's got something, or he doesn't. We'll find out soon enough."
Ippo felt his mouth go dry. This Miyata guy moved like a professional, every gesture precise and controlled. The difference in their skill levels was obvious to everyone in the gym.
"I'll go easy on him," Miyata said, not unkindly.
"Don't," Kamogawa replied sharply. "If he wants to be a boxer, he needs to see what he's up against. No mercy."
Ten minutes later, Ippo found himself in the ring wearing borrowed gear that was slightly too big for him. The gloves felt heavy and awkward on his hands, and the mouthguard made it hard to breathe normally.
Across from him, Miyata looked like he belonged there—relaxed, confident, completely in his element.
"You sure about this, kid?" the referee asked. "It's not too late to back out."
Ippo thought about Yuto's memories, about a boy who'd faced impossible odds every single day and never backed down. Somewhere deep in his mind, he could feel the presence of a world champion—not as separate memories, but as if those experiences were his own.
"I'm sure," he said.
The bell rang.
Miyata came forward with his typical measured approach, throwing a probing jab to test his opponent's reactions. It was the same jab that had overwhelmed dozens of beginners before.
But Ippo's head moved.
Not a wild, panicked duck like most newcomers would do. A subtle slip to the right, minimal movement, just enough for the punch to miss by millimeters. His feet stayed planted, his guard remained up, and his eyes never left Miyata's chest.
The gym went dead silent.
"What the hell?" someone whispered.
Miyata's eyes widened in shock. That head movement had been perfect—economical, technically sound, the kind of defensive skill that took years to develop.
"Lucky," Miyata muttered, and threw another jab, this one with more speed behind it.
Ippo slipped that one too, this time to the left. His movement was so smooth it looked like he'd been boxing for years.
"Impossible," breathed one of the veteran boxers watching from ringside.
But for Ippo, it felt completely natural. His body moved as if guided by instinct—or rather, by the accumulated experience of a world champion whose defensive mastery had been legendary. He didn't understand how he knew where the punches were going, but somehow he could read the subtle tells in Miyata's shoulders, the shift in his weight, the direction of his eyes.
Miyata, now genuinely concerned, stepped up his pace. He threw a quick one-two combination that should have overwhelmed any beginner.
But again, impossibly, Ippo was ready.
His head movement was crisp and economical—slip the jab, duck under the cross. For a split second, he found himself in perfect position, inside Miyata's guard, close enough to counter.
Without thinking, Ippo's right hand shot forward.
The punch came from a low angle, driven by his entire body weight, carrying the kind of devastating power that had made crowds gasp when he'd hit the heavy bag. But now it was guided by technique he didn't even know he had—perfect form, ideal timing, thrown with the precision of a master in-fighter.
Miyata's eyes went wide as he threw himself backward, the punch missing his chin by inches. The wind from Ippo's fist actually ruffled his hair.
If that punch had connected, it would have ended the fight instantly.
The entire gym erupted in shocked exclamations.
"HOLY SHIT!" Takamura roared from the corner. "Did you see that? Did you fucking see that punch?"
"No way that was a beginner's technique," someone shouted.
"Where did he learn to throw like that?"
Kamogawa's experienced eyes had caught every detail. The punch had been thrown with perfect in-fighting form—body weight behind it, proper hip rotation, devastating power focused into a precise point. It was the kind of technique that separated world-class fighters from amateurs.
"Incredible," he muttered under his breath.
Miyata backed off, his usual composed demeanor cracked. "That punch... how did you..."
But Ippo didn't answer. He was already pressing forward, his feet moving in patterns that felt familiar despite being completely foreign to his conscious mind. His approach was textbook pressure boxing—cutting off angles, forcing Miyata toward the ropes, making every step uncomfortable for the out-boxer.
"GET HIM, IPPO!" Takamura bellowed from the corner. "THAT'S IT! PRESSURE HIM!"
Miyata found himself being pushed back for the first time in months. This supposed beginner was applying pressure like a seasoned professional, using footwork that belonged in championship fights.
They came together in the center of the ring, and suddenly it was Ippo's fight. At close range, his power was monstrous. Each punch he threw carried enough force to end the match, guided by technique that made every movement count.
Miyata tried to clinch, to buy time and space, but Ippo worked inside the clinch like a veteran—short, brutal shots to the body that made Miyata wince and try to escape.
"This is impossible," Miyata thought, struggling to create distance. "He's fighting like a world-class in-fighter!"
The crowd was on its feet now, completely invested in what should have been a routine beatdown but had turned into something extraordinary.
"Where the hell did this kid come from?" Aoki shouted.
"Look at that body work! He's destroying Miyata at close range!"
"That's not beginner's luck—that's real technique!"
But as the round wore on, Ippo's inexperience in actual boxing matches began to show. His conditioning, while impressive, wasn't at the level needed for sustained high-intensity fighting. His punches started coming a split second slower, his movement became slightly less crisp.
Miyata, sensing the opening and desperate to regain control, created space with a perfectly timed straight left. Then, using his superior reach and fresh legs, he began to pick Ippo apart from the outside.
But even as he landed clean shots, Miyata couldn't shake the feeling that he was fighting someone far more dangerous than any beginner had a right to be.
"Time!" the referee called.
Ippo stumbled back to his corner, his face already showing the signs of battle but his eyes bright with an intensity that hadn't been there before.
"Kid!" Takamura grabbed him by the shoulders, his face flushed with excitement. "What the hell was that? Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"I... I don't know," Ippo answered honestly, breathing hard. "It just felt natural."
Across the ring, Miyata sat in his corner with a puzzled expression, touching his jaw where Ippo's punch had nearly landed.
"Coach," he said quietly, "there's something wrong about this kid. That wasn't beginner's technique. That was real in-fighting."
Kamogawa nodded grimly. In forty years of training boxers, he'd never seen anything like what he'd just witnessed. A complete amateur moving with the technical precision of a champion, throwing punches with enough power to knock out professionals.
"Keep your guard up in the next round," he advised. "This kid... he's dangerous."
As Ippo sat in his corner, he could feel something stirring in the depths of his mind—memories that weren't quite his own, but felt as real as his own experiences. The ghost of a world champion, guiding his movements, sharing his knowledge.
He didn't understand what was happening to him, but he knew one thing for certain.
He was finally alive.