He approaches Narisawa near the ringside, bowing slightly. "Thank you again for today," Nakahara says. "It was a great opportunity, for all of us. I learned a lot just watching."

Narisawa gives a faint nod, his smile practiced, his eyes already drifting elsewhere. "It's nothing," he says. "I'm just glad your boy handled himself quite good… didn't make us look bad before our guests."

His tone is polite but cold, every word carefully flattened to hide the trace of condescension beneath.

Even after everything Ryoma showed in the ring, his composure under pressure, the defiance in his rhythm, Narisawa still refuses to acknowledge it. Not a word of praise, not even the courtesy of genuine respect toward Nakahara.

But Nakahara bows again, still smiling. "We'll keep working hard. Please continue to guide us."

"Of course," Narisawa replies, voice cool.

The words hang between them, formal and empty. Nakahara knows better than to push. He steps back, excuses himself, and returns toward his team.

Narisawa stays where he is, hands clasped behind his back. From where he stands, he can see the small crowd gathering around Ryoma.

Journalists hold their recorders, cameras raised, flashes bursting in quick staccato bursts. They swarm him with questions, their voices rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

They've done Elliot already, interviewed the foreign star, got their money quotes, their sound bites. But somehow, Ryoma has stolen their attention again.

In fact, there's still Shoji, the Japanese Super Featherweight Champion, leaning against the far ropes. But none of them spare him a glance.

Narisawa's lips press thin. His shoulders remain still, but the faint crease between his brows betrays what he feels. He doesn't like it, not one bit.

He tells himself it's fine, it's just press noise, but the logic doesn't settle. He knows how fragile attention is. Once it slips, it rarely returns.

And of course, Shoji feels it too.

He's been standing quietly. The laughter and chatter around Ryoma sting worse than the bruises on his ribs. The flashes make him squint. His own trainer's silence makes him feel smaller still.

So he leaves, quietly, slipping away down the narrow hallway, through the smell of sweat and resin, until he's out of sight.

"Tch… what a joke," he mutters under his breath.

It's easier to accept being forgotten when you're not around, than to stay and feel invisible.

"When it's my turn to face that gaijin," he mutters, fists tightening around the towel, "I'll finish him in the first round. Then we'll see who the real champion is."

***

But three days later, when his time finally comes, the fight doesn't go the way he imagined.

From the opening bell, Elliot's rhythm swallows him whole.

Shoji tries to press forward, jabbing to break through, but he's caught in a current he can't fight. Every time he lunges, Elliot's timing shifts, just half a beat, but it's enough.

Shoji's punches land on air, his balance slips, and before he can reset, a few light slapping jabs tag him on the guard, precise as a metronome.

Pak, pak-pak, pak!

Pak-pak… pak!!!

By the end of the first round, Shoji's breathing is uneven. By the second, and his rhythm is gone.

Elliot doesn't taunt or chase. He simply controls the space, the tempo, the air itself.

And Shoji's movements reduced to reacting, not fighting.

"This is the one who looked mortal against a rookie… against an unranked kid with a brand-new A-license…"

"And I can't even graze him?"

He manages to last the full three rounds, longer than Junichiro did. But it's clear to everyone, he's surviving at Elliot's mercy.

The world ranker holds back just enough, careful not to humiliate Japan's champion in front of his own crowd.

***

But then, on the fourth day…

"Come on, gaijin! Spar with me again!" Shoji shouts from the ring, his voice sharp with leftover pride.

Elliot doesn't react this time, focused on his warm-up routine. He doesn't understand the words, or maybe he just chooses not to listen to him.

Shoji turns to Satoshi, the interpreter. "Tell him! I'm calling him out!"

But Satoshi shakes his head. "Forget it. He's cutting weight. He can't spar now."

Shoji clicks his tongue, the anger boiling beneath his breath. Now that Elliot's in his weight management phase, the chance to prove himself is gone.

He rips off his headgear, throws it onto the floor, and steps out of the ring without another word.

But Elliot still doesn't look his way. He's already back to his drills, every motion the same unbroken rhythm.

His mind is locked on one thing only: the coming fight with Renji Kuroiwa.

***

Meanwhile, at Nakahara Boxing Gym, Ryoma's new training routine begins to shift.

The gym feels quieter now, the mood subdued after the exhibition. Even the sound of the heavy bag seems slower, heavier, as though the place itself is catching its breath.

As planned, Sera doesn't throw him straight into the full Soviet style. Instead, he focuses on the foundation, the pendulum step.

The first drill is simple in shape but demanding in execution. Sera has taped a rectangle on the floor, dividing it into four equal quadrants.

"Alright, let's start," Sera says, phone in hand. "Get into position."

Ryoma steps inside, both feet planted diagonally across the box; left on the top-left quadrant, right on the bottom-right. This is the neutral stance, the starting point.

"Go."

He begins the pendulum motion: stepping to the top position, left foot sliding outside the rectangle while right foot shifts to the top-right quadrant, then returning to neutral.

Ryoma repeats it eight times, every step falling precisely on the metronome's steady tick.

"Now the second cycle."

From neutral position, Ryoma moves to the bottom position; left foot on the bottom-right, right stepping out of the box, then back to center.

Each movement follows a strict tempo. The Vision Grid keeps the rhythm exact, every step landing at 500 milliseconds on the dot.

The pattern continues, over and over, the sound of shoes brushing against floor merges with the digital metronome in a strange harmony of friction and precision.

And finally…

"The full pendulum. Go."

Ryoma flows through all three positions in sequence: from neutral to top, back to neutral, down to bottom, and back again to neutral before stepping to the top, another eight repetition.

In these two days straight, Sera has drilled him on the same sequence; eight repetitions per cycle, a short break, then back again.

For at least half an hour, Ryoma moves in that same pendulum rhythm, over and over, like a dance he can't stop.

***

On the third day, Ryoma finally begins to move fluidly. And so Sera changes the conditions.

"You've got the drill now," he says, adjusting the metronome. "Now let's slow it down."

He dials the metronome to 700 milliseconds.

Ryoma blinks. "We're changing the beat already?"

"It's not for rhythm," Sera says. "It's to train your legs to hold the weight. Slower means more time under pressure."

Ryoma exhales through his nose, nods once, and resets his stance.

The difference is immediate. Each step now lingers just long enough to make the legs burn. The motion feels a bit heavier.

Sera watches silently, checking the timer, not interfering.

The slower pace forces Ryoma to control his weight transition, to sustain every pendulum longer before switching direction.

It's no longer a dance of speed; it's endurance, precision, patience.

***

And that's not the only drill Sera adds.

The next day, Sera makes a circle on the floor, drawn in white tape, intersected by eight lines like a compass.

"This time, circular pendulum," Sera says. "Same rules. Constant rhythm. Steady balance. Each step on beat."

Ryoma nods. Sweat darkens his shirt.

He begins again, his lead foot shifting from the circle's outer edge to the center, then back again, turning slightly as he rotates from one spoke to the next.

The motion feels alien at first, but slowly, it begins to click.

Now, his rhythm isn't just forward or back. It's rotation, the pendulum in motion, eight directions, continuous flow.

Since the first time he started this drill, never once Ryoma questioned Sera's method.

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