Two months passed.
The boy who once threw wild punches in alleyways was gone. What stood now in his place was a sharper weapon — unrefined, still rough around the edges, but undeniably dangerous.
Goro had started bringing in sparring partners — older teens, local fighters from underground gyms, some looking to test the "kid with fire in his eyes." Most left bruised. A few left broken.
Kazahiro was relentless. He didn't smile. He didn't celebrate. He simply bowed, wiped the blood from his lips, and asked for another round.
"You're getting cocky," Goro said one day after a particularly brutal spar.
"I'm getting better."
Goro tossed him a towel. "Getting better's the easy part. Staying grounded — that's where most fall."
Kazahiro didn't respond. His thoughts weren't in the ring anymore. They were in that binder — those suited men, those shadowy fights. He hadn't asked about it again, but the image burned in him. It was a different kind of hunger now. Less about rage. More about purpose.
That's when the doors to the warehouse creaked open.
Goro didn't move.
Kazahiro turned and saw a boy — about a year older, taller, with slick black hair and eyes like polished obsidian. He wore no expression, just walked in with the confidence of someone used to being underestimated.
"Kazahiro," Goro said, "meet Akira Tsukino."
Akira gave a curt nod. "Heard you've been making noise."
Kazahiro stared at him. "You here to spar?"
Akira smiled faintly. "I'm here to evaluate."
Kazahiro's brow furrowed. "Evaluate?"
"Don't worry," Goro said. "He's not just anyone. His father is part of something larger. He's already in the ring behind the curtain."
Kazahiro's fists clenched. "The ring…?"
Akira looked amused. "You really don't know anything, do you?"
"I know enough to win."
"That's cute."
They squared off in silence.
The sparring match wasn't like the others. Akira was calm — ice to Kazahiro's fire. Where Kazahiro surged with aggression, Akira flowed with eerie precision. Every strike Kazahiro threw, Akira dodged or redirected like it was instinct.
Kazahiro finally landed a solid elbow to Akira's ribs, but the other boy barely flinched. Then Akira countered with a sweep that sent Kazahiro crashing to the mat.
He didn't gloat.
He didn't offer a hand.
He simply walked past and said, "You've got spirit. But in the real game, spirit doesn't mean shit if your body can't cash it."
Kazahiro stayed on the ground, breathing hard, heart pounding.
The fire in his chest was back. Not anger. Not shame.
Determination.
Goro watched in silence, a ghost of a grin on his face.
Maybe the boy was ready.