Nakahara kneels beside Okabe, checking his pulse and pupils with quiet efficiency. His hands tremble slightly, maybe fatigue, maybe anger, or maybe both. But he says nothing about the knockdowns or the spar that has just turned the gym upside down.
Okabe groans in confusion, still too shaken to understand what exactly has broken him.
But Ryoma doesn't spare him a glance. He wipes his gloves clean, walks to the heavy bag, and resumes his routine as if the spar has been nothing more than a warm-up.
The thuds echo through the gym, steady and merciless. And in the quiet between each strike, something stirs at the back of his mind.
<< So this is the path you're choosing >>
The system whispers, its voice smooth and taunting, like someone watching him from a darkened balcony.
<< No more patience for weaklings… no more pretending to be the nice one. >>
Ryoma ignores it, throwing another stiff right to the ribs of the bag. Sweat flew off his chin.
