The roar of the crowd rose and broke like waves against the Arena's high ceiling.
Neon lights from the district banners bled into the white of the ring ropes, giving everything a fever-dream glow.
Sweat hung in the air like mist.
Tomo Kisaragi sat in his corner, tape half-undone, breathing slow.
His ribs pulsed with each inhale, but his eyes were calm — the quiet before something he didn't yet understand.
Across the ring, Kyo Endo stood from his stool.
Every motion was textbook — guard tight, feet light — but there was heat behind his stare.
He wanted this. Not for points. Not for glory. For something deeper.
The bell rang.
Round One — Precision
Kyo moved first.
A sharp jab — perfect distance.
Tomo slipped left, letting the wind graze his ear.
Another jab. Then another. Each tighter, meaner.
Kyo's rhythm was relentless — clean mechanics, zero waste.
Every strike carried intent, a surgeon's pace.
Tomo's mind traced everything — stance width, shoulder roll, timing.
He saw the pattern. He just wasn't angry enough to break it yet.
Then —
A clean right hand dug into his ribs.
Short, crisp, from the pocket.
The sound echoed like a bat meeting a ball.
Pain sparked through him. Not deep, but enough.
Alright, he thought.
He earned that.
Tomo exhaled once, stepped in, and pivoted hard on his rear heel —
a short right straight.
Not full power. Barely half.
It tore through Kyo's guard like glass under pressure.
The crowd gasped.
Kyo's head snapped, body rocking backward, boots sliding half a meter before he steadied himself.
He spat blood, smiled.
"That all you got?"
Tomo's reply was simple.
"For now."
Round Two — Fire
Kyo came in sharp.
Hooks and uppercuts. Tight pivots, cutting off the ring.
He drove Tomo back, pressuring him chest-to-chest — the kind of fight you can smell.
His coach's voice cut through the noise.
"Make him respect you, Kyo!"
Tomo blocked the first hook, parried the second, ducked the third.
Every dodge was lazy-looking, but perfect.
When he countered, it wasn't from anger — it was rhythm.
Kyo slipped in close again, body compact —
short left hook to the ribs.
The impact landed solid. Tomo's breath hitched, muscles tightening around the pain.
Fine.
Tomo shifted stance — shoulder roll, slip —
then fired back with a straight right, tighter than any he'd thrown all night.
Less than fifty percent.
But it broke Kyo's guard clean open.
The punch crashed home like a thunderclap.
Kyo's mouthpiece flew. His legs folded beneath him.
He hit the canvas flat.
The ref's count blurred into static.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Kyo didn't move.
Knockout.
"Winner by knockout — Combat Club Captain, Tomo Kisaragi!"
The arena erupted.
Flashes. Screams. Stomping feet.
But Tomo didn't raise his hand.
He just stood there, chest heaving, watching Kyo's coach and medics climb through the ropes.
Kyo was breathing — out cold, but alive.
"You're strong," Tomo muttered under his breath.
He turned for his corner—
—and then came the clap.
The Man Who Stepped In
Once.
Twice.
Slow. Deliberate.
From the aisle, a broad figure stepped under the arena lights.
A bomber jacket. A towel slung over one shoulder. Scarred knuckles like cracked stone.
Every veteran in the audience straightened immediately.
Takuro Endo.
The Iron Jaw.
Kyo's father.
"That's my boy you just put down," he said, voice gravel-deep, carrying through the crowd.
Tomo blinked, half-tired, half-wary.
"He's strong," he said quietly.
"Yeah," Takuro nodded. "Too strong for most kids. Not for you, though."
He stepped closer, grin turning sharp.
"Tell me, Eraser — did you hold back?"
Tomo hesitated. "He was hurt."
Takuro's grin twitched. "That's not an answer."
Rika shouted from the apron, clipboard shaking.
"Sir, the match is over—"
Takuro didn't even look at her.
He turned to the ref. "Special Exhibition Clause. One round."
Then he looked at Tomo again. "If the kid's half what they say, he won't say no."
The ref froze.
Takuro bent, picking up an old pair of black gloves from the stool in the corner.
He slipped them on — slow, casual. The leather cracked like thunder.
"Relax, kid," he said, grinning. "Call it an exhibition. Just me and you."
Tomo sighed. "Do I get a choice?"
"You always do," Takuro said. "You just don't like backing down."
Round Three — The Iron Round (Exhibition)
Bell.
Takuro moved first —
no wasted motion, just pure economy.
His jab was heavy, deliberate — a weapon designed to test structure, not score points.
The first thudded into Tomo's guard.
The second slammed into his ribs — short left hook, deep and mean.
Tomo's breath caught. His entire body tensed.
Pain spread hot beneath the tape.
"What's wrong, Eraser?" Takuro's grin widened. "Can't erase the years?"
Tomo fired back on reflex — a counter right.
Clean connection.
It landed square on Takuro's jaw.
The gym echoed with the sound.
The audience gasped.
Takuro didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He grinned wider.
"Iron Jaw, kid. You'll need more than luck."
Then came the payback.
A shoulder bump. A shift in weight.
And another short left hook to the body.
It sank deep, folding Tomo halfway down.
Takuro caught his shoulder, steadying him before he fell.
"That's a punch with intent. Learn the difference."
Rika slammed her clipboard against the bell.
"Enough!"
Takuro stepped back, raising both hands.
"Lesson's over."
Aftermath
Aya was already there, pressing an ice pack against Tomo's ribs.
"You're crazy," she said softly.
Tomo winced, smirking. "He hits harder than he looks."
Takuro wiped his face with the towel slung over his shoulder.
"Minato Gym. Five a.m. Bring what's left of that ego."
He turned for the ropes.
"And don't worry — my son'll be waiting."
He left to silence and the sound of rain against steel.
Tomo stayed sitting, ribs throbbing, pride heavier.
Jin crouched next to him, wide-eyed.
"Bro… Prez just got erased."
Kei nodded solemnly. "By the original file."
Tomo laughed once, tired and low.
"Guess I just met my first teacher."
Rooftop Night
Hours later, the city was quiet under soft rain.
Tomo sat on the school roof, hoodie up, watching the neon bleed across puddles below.
Aya joined him, setting two canned coffees between them.
"He's really going to train you?"
"Didn't sound like I had a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Not with people like that."
They sat in silence a moment.
"Tomo," she asked quietly, "what are you fighting for?"
He thought about it.
"Maybe for the first time… for myself."
From below, Jin's voice echoed up the stairwell:
"PRES! HE SAID BRING GLOVES AND A SHOVEL! I'M NOT DIGGING MY OWN GRAVE!"
Tomo sighed, smiling faintly.
"Guess training starts early."
He looked out toward Minato Bay as lightning flashed across the skyline.
"Hope they've got coffee," he murmured.
[END OF VOLUME 1 — "The Iron Jaw's Son / The Iron Round"]
Next in Volume 2: After-School Combat Club — The Minato Gym Arc