"Seven!"
The referee's voice rang through the fog in Isamu Hayate's head like a hammer on sheet metal. For the first time in his life, his cheek was mashed against the cold, sweat-stained canvas of the Nakamura Gym. His skull pounded, each throb like an alarm he couldn't shut off.
What… what even happened? I was just moving in… I was winning… Wasn't I?
A sharp inhale rattled his chest. Everything felt distant—muted—the blurry outline of the fluorescent lights above him flickering in and out.
"Eight!"
The number sliced through the haze like a knife.
A spark fired off inside him. His eyes widened.
No. No way. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
He pushed his palms down, arms trembling but determined. He rose to his knees, the canvas burning against them.
From somewhere in the ring of spectators, words floated to him:
"Downed…? Already?"
"Is that really Hayate?"
Another voice, quieter:
"I heard he was good…"
Isamu clenched his teeth.
Shut up. All of you. Shut up.
He forced himself upright, boots slipping before catching traction. Before the referee could continue—
"I can fight, damn it!" Isamu snapped, stumbling forward, breath ragged. "So stop counting!"
The referee paused, narrowed his eyes at Isamu's unstable footing, but then gave a curt nod.
Isamu exhaled sharply, glaring across the ring.
His opponent stood there.
Him.
Short spiky hair, plain face, eyes that looked tired or maybe just sad. A scrawny build hidden under oversized gloves. A beginner who looked like he'd wandered into the gym by accident.
Someone Isamu would never accept losing to.
The boy stared back at him, expression softening. For some reason that made it worse.
He stepped forward, lifting his gloves in a panic.
"Are you okay?" the boy asked breathlessly. "I didn't mean to knock you down! I swear, I—"
Isamu slapped his reaching hand away, disgust curling his lip.
"Don't pity me," he growled. "You think I need that from you?"
The boy flinched, eyes dropping for a moment.
The referee wedged between them swiftly.
"Ushi! Isamu!" His voice boomed. "It may be a spar, but take it seriously."
Isamu clicked his tongue as the referee stepped back, arms crossed.
"BOX!"
Isamu snapped into his signature stance—hands hanging loose at his hips, fingers twitching. It wasn't really a stance. It was an insult to every boxing coach in Japan. But it worked for him. It always worked.
He's a beginner. He'll crumble the moment I pressure him.
He lunged forward, landing a jab on Ushi's high guard. Another jab. Another. Sharp, stinging impacts that snapped Ushi's head back slightly each time.
But the boy didn't fight back. He didn't flinch.
He just stayed there—solid—his gloves glued to his face.
What kind of guard is this? He's just… letting me hit him?
Isamu scoffed and threw more punches—straights, jabs, light combos. Ushi absorbed them all. The recoil stung Isamu's knuckles.
"Fight back!" Isamu snapped. "Try to hit me at least once!"
He stepped in with a committed straight, aiming to blow apart that rigid guard.
But in that instant—
Ushi's eyes sharpened.
The beginner slipped the punch cleanly, pivoting around Isamu's extended arm with surprising finesse.
What—!?
A straight rocketed in.
A perfect, textbook right down the middle.
CRACK.
White flashed across Isamu's vision.
Then—
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Ushi didn't hesitate.
Jab.
Straight.
Hook.
Uppercut.
A flawless combination, not too fast, but timed with merciless precision.
"W–wait—! Don't you dare—!" Isamu choked, trying to guard against the flurry of blows.
He's reading me—! He's… actually reading me!
Another straight smashed into his cheek, bursting stars behind his eyes.
"Why aren't you blocking…?" Ushi murmured mid-flurry, voice trembling but steady enough to sting Isamu's pride.
Then Ushi stepped in.
The final punch—a brutal shot to the liver—landed with a dull, sickening thud.
Isamu's body seized.
Air left his lungs in a strangled gasp. His legs gave out.
His mouthguard slipped free, blood smeared across it as it bounced on the canvas.
He collapsed face-first.
His brain felt like it was sloshing in tar.
The referee didn't even begin a count.
"That's it! Ushi wins!"
The roar of the gym muffled instantly, replaced by a dull rushing sound in Isamu's ears.
He could barely see shapes. But he felt something—a presence leaning over him.
"Isamu—! Isamu, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to go that hard!" Ushi cried, voice cracking with panic. "Please—say something!"
Isamu wanted to scream at him.
To tell him to shut up.
To stop acting like he cared.
But his mouth wouldn't open.
His eyelids wouldn't stay up.
I… lost?
To… him?
Someone like… him?
No… no, no, no—
Everything flickered.
Ushi's worried silhouette blurred at the edges.
Darkness pushed at him—soft at first, then greedy, swallowing everything.
His last half-conscious thought echoed bitterly:
I'll never let it end like this…
I won't… lose… to a nobody.
But the darkness had already claimed him.