Following the end of the Shūka Shō, the nation settled back into its familiar rhythm, the brief eruption of spectacle folding neatly into the unrelenting pace of everyday life. Trains glided along their lines with clockwork precision, morning traffic threading its way through the arteries of the city as though nothing had changed, as though history had not just been written on the turf the day before. People returned to their routines, the salaryman pressing through another grueling sixty-hour week, the retail worker restocking shelves beneath fluorescent lights, each of them moving forward in a world that never slowed and never stopped, no matter how loudly it had cheered the night before.
And yet, beneath that steady cadence, the aftershock lingered.
The news cycle had seized upon Melody's victory with unrelenting fervor, replaying the moment from every conceivable angle, commentators dissecting every step, every decision, every fraction of movement that led to that final overtake. Pundits filled entire segments breaking down her technique, her pacing, her composure under pressure, while towering digital billboards across the city displayed side-by-side comparisons between Melody and Lucky Strike, analysts drawing lines and overlays to study the precision of the Royal Flush maneuver as though attempting to capture lightning in a bottle. Across social media, her name surged without pause, hashtags spreading like wildfire as clips of her final spurt were shared, reshared, and dissected on a global scale.
For Melody, the sudden surge of attention had been nothing short of overwhelming. Requests had poured in faster than Tracen could process them, interviews, talk show appearances, feature segments, each one clamoring for a piece of the story, for a chance to stand close to the moment that had captivated the nation.
Hana had shut it down with quiet efficiency, making it clear that every request would pass through her hands first, her scrutiny sharp as she filtered through the noise. Though she never voiced it aloud, there was a particular name she watched for with careful intent, one she had no intention of allowing anywhere near her trainee. In the end, the sheer volume of positive coverage had drowned out any attempt to stir controversy, the wave of praise too strong for dissent to find its footing.
Within Tracen itself, the shift was unmistakable.
Something had changed.
A new wind had begun to move through the academy, subtle at first, but impossible to ignore, carrying with it a sense of momentum that settled into the bones of every student and every aspiring trainer who walked its grounds. Melody's victory had done more than secure a title, it had ignited something, a quiet but undeniable belief that a new era was beginning to take shape, one where the boundaries of what was possible were being redrawn in real time. The established names still stood at the pinnacle, their legacies intact, their presence undeniable, yet beneath them, a new generation had begun to stir.
Trainers like Okino, Jo, even Fumino had turned their eyes forward, their ambitions sharpening as they set their sights on the seat currently held by Hana Tojo, knowing full well that it was only the first step.
Because beyond that seat, lay the coveted throne.
For Ginjiro Musaka, however, that particular dream had long since passed him by, not in bitterness, but in the quiet understanding that comes with time and experience. He had made his peace with it years ago, accepting that he would never stand among the likes of Logan Deschain or Richard Gunn, never be elevated to that rarefied pedestal where names turned into legends and legacies were celebrated on grand stages. There would be no conventions held in his honor, no roaring crowds gathered to relive the triumphs of the umas he had trained, no larger-than-life myth built around his career.
And yet, none of that left a hollow in him.
Because when he looked back, truly looked back, there was nothing lacking in what he had built. He had carved out a career that carried its own weight, one earned through years of grit, instinct, and hard-fought victories, shaping runners who had found their own place on the track, even if they never stood at the very pinnacle. His name had been etched firmly among the alumni of Tracen's respected greats, not the brightest star perhaps, but one that endured, one that held steady, and within the circles of the URA, his reputation still carried meaning, still spoken with a measure of respect that no fleeting glory could replace.
Musaka sat behind his desk, the late morning sun spilling through the wide glass windows in long, quiet streams, stretching across the lacquered floor and catching against the polished wood in a soft, reflective sheen. The office carried the weight of years within it, its walls lined with framed photographs, old newspaper cuttings, trophies, and awards collected over the course of a long and storied career, each piece a fragment of a past that refused to be forgotten. Off to the side, a portable whiteboard stood cluttered with blue, red, and black marker lines, arrows cutting across one another in a web of strategy, notes scrawled in haste, and the occasional poorly drawn uma sketched in the margins, magnets pinning up printed sheets detailing course layouts and race data.
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against the desk, his fingers steepled before him as his gaze remained fixed behind the dark lenses of his shades, though there was nothing idle in it. His mind churned, caught in a relentless loop that dragged him back to that conversation, to the words Rufus had spoken, each one settling heavier the more he turned them over. There was something about it that refused to sit right, a tightening in his chest, a slow, persistent unease that coiled deeper with every passing second.
He had known that boy once.
Back when Rufus had been nothing more than a bright-eyed kid in the grandstands, watching races with a hunger that had seemed almost admirable at the time, something raw but unrefined. But somewhere along the way, sometime during those years he had vanished from the scene, that hunger had changed. What had returned was no longer the boy he remembered, but something colder, something far more dangerous, every bit the figure the rumors had painted him to be.
And now, that gaze had turned toward Tracen. Not with curiosity, not with admiration, but with intent.
There had been something in his eyes, that greenish-gold glint that seemed to catch even in the absence of light, something that lingered in the mind long after the moment had passed. It was not the look of a competitor seeking victory, nor even that of a rival chasing dominance, but something more primal, more unsettling, a presence that felt closer to a predator measuring the worth of its prey, searching for something that might finally satisfy its appetite.
Musaka had never considered himself a man easily shaken. He had grown up on the harsher edges of Tokyo, spent years navigating places and people far less forgiving than most, and had come through it all with his footing intact, his instincts honed and his resolve unbroken.
And yet, even with all of that behind him, with every scar earned and every hard lesson carved into bone and memory alike, Musaka felt the tension settle deep within his shoulders, refusing to ease no matter how slowly he drew in his breath and let it out again. It lingered there, heavy and unmoving, coiled tight beneath the surface in a way he had not felt in years, not since a time when the world had been far less forgiving and far more uncertain.
For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself the honesty of it, stripping away the bravado and the quiet confidence he wore so easily, acknowledging what lay beneath without dressing it up into something more palatable or easier to accept.
He was rattled.
Not by the return of Rufus alone, nor even by the man he had become, but by the quiet, undeniable certainty that had come with him, the kind that did not need to be spoken aloud to be understood. It was there in his words, in the way he carried himself, in the cold precision behind his intent, a certainty that something had already been set into motion long before he had stepped foot back into Tokyo.
And what unsettled Musaka most was not the threat itself, but the feeling that followed it, the creeping realization that whatever was coming next would not be something easily resisted, let alone stopped, as though the pieces had already begun to fall into place in a game far larger than any of them had anticipated.
The door slid open with a soft, familiar hush, breaking the stillness of the room as Musaka lifted his gaze. Belno stepped in, dressed in a sleek gray business suit that sat neatly against her frame, several manila folders held carefully in her arms. Her ears twitched almost imperceptibly as her eyes settled on him, the briefest pause in her movement enough to tell that she had already picked up on the shift in the room, on the weight that lingered behind his otherwise composed posture.
"Musaka-san," she greeted, her tone polite but warm as she moved further inside. "Good morning. I've brought the files you requested." She approached the desk with quiet efficiency, setting the folders down in a neat stack before him.
"Ah, thank you," Musaka replied, straightening slightly as he drew his arms off the table and rested them against the chair's armrests. He then reached for the top file and flipped it open. His gaze settling on the photograph clipped inside, and for a moment, the tension in his expression eased, replaced by something more familiar, something reflective. "By God… time really does have a way of slipping past you."
A soft chuckle followed as he turned the page. "Most of the girls will be graduating by the end of next year. Oguri, Super Creek, Inari One…" He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Even Rudolf herself. Makes you wonder who they'll put forward as the next Student Council President."
Belno tapped a finger lightly against her chin, considering it for a moment before answering. "If I had to guess," she said, "it would likely be McQueen-san."
Musaka let out a low, playful grin at that. "Thank God," he muttered. "If you'd said Gold Ship, I might've needed a doctor on standby." He leaned back slightly, nodding as he considered it. "McQueen's a strong candidate, no doubt about that. Though I can't help but feel she might turn the whole council into a proper Mejiro coven if given half the chance."
Belno let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Musaka-san, that's a terrible thing to say," she replied, with clear amusement. "McQueen-san is far too responsible to let something like nepotism take root. I'm sure she'd handle it with fairness."
Musaka flipped another page, his expression settling as his tone shifted just slightly, losing some of its earlier lightness. "In my experience," he said, "people are always more than ready to present themselves as virtuous. Right up until they're handed power." His gaze lingered on the file in front of him. "I've seen it happen more times than I care to count." A faint breath escaped him. "Hell, I can't even pretend I wasn't tempted myself when I was your age."
Belno's ears twitched again, her tail giving a small, restless flick behind her as she tilted her head, studying him a little more closely now, the earlier lightness in the room no longer quite enough to mask what she was picking up from him. "Musaka-san… is something on your mind?" she asked. "Does it have anything to do with the young man you were speaking to back in Kyoto?"
Musaka lifted his gaze, caught off guard for a brief moment before a faint, knowing breath slipped from him. "So you noticed," he said, a small, resigned smile tugging at his lips as he closed the file in his hands. "Yeah, I suppose you could say that."
Belno stepped a little closer, her curiosity clear but tempered with caution. "If you don't mind me asking, who was he?" she continued. "I don't recall ever seeing him before, but there was something about him that felt… familiar."
Musaka let out a quiet sigh as he set the file back down on the desk, his fingers resting against its cover for a moment longer than necessary before he pulled his hand away. "Someone I used to know," he said, the words simple, though the weight behind them was anything but. "He's been gone a long time, and as for the reasons why, that's not something I'm at liberty to share."
His gaze returned to her, the shift in it unmistakable as the earlier levity gave way to something more grounded. "What I can tell you," Musaka said, "is that he isn't just a fully licensed national trainer. At the time, he was one of the youngest to ever earn that distinction."
He then continued, the weight of it carried in his tone. "Younger even than Fumino Nase was when she secured her license, and unlike most who achieve it and falter under the pressure, he didn't just hold that level, he's been operating there for years, refining it, sharpening it into something far more dangerous than raw talent alone.
He paused, just long enough for the next part to settle.
"And he has quite the… reputation."
Belno tilted her head slightly, her brows knitting together. "Reputation?"
Musaka leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of the wood filling the brief silence that followed as he considered how best to frame it. "You're familiar with Rice Shower, aren't you?" he asked.
Belno nodded at once. "Of course. She's… well…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Small, shy, gentle. But incredibly talented."
Musaka gave a small nod. "That's her now," he said. "But once upon a time, she was known by a very different name." His tone shifted. "The Black Assassin."
Belno's ears perked forward slightly as she nodded again. "I remember reading about that," she said. "Even when I was in the States, it was everywhere. She stopped Mihono Bourbon at the Kikuka Shō, ended her Triple Crown run, and then beat McQueen-san at the Spring Tennō Shō." Her expression tightened faintly. "The fans turned on her. The press was even worse. They called her a villain, a dream killer. They dragged her through the mud for a long time."
"Yeah, but that was never a title she asked for, and back then it hung over her like a weight she couldn't shake," Musaka replied. "It followed her everywhere, in the stands, in the press, in the way people looked at her, until it became less of a name and more of a burden she had to carry every time she stepped onto the track." He let out a faint breath. "It got so bad that, for a time, she was ready to walk away from racing altogether."
"Now… imagine, for a moment, if she hadn't withdrawn from that image. If instead of shrinking away from it, she leaned into it. Embraced it. Built her entire career around it." He let the thought hang between them before continuing. "Made a name for herself by crushing expectations, by tearing down the dreams people had built around others."
Belno's eyes widened slightly.
"That," Musaka said, his tone hardening, "is exactly the kind of trainer Rufus is."
He leaned forward just a fraction, his gaze steady behind his shades.
"Everywhere he goes, the umas under his guidance don't just win, they destroy. They shut down title runs, steal victories at the last possible moment, and leave nothing behind but the wreckage of what could have been." His jaw tightened faintly. "They become champions, sure, but they get there by breaking everyone else on the way up, especially the ones the public loves the most."
Belno swallowed, her breath catching slightly as she listened.
"And it doesn't stop with the runners," Musaka continued. "The trainers get dragged down with them. Built up, celebrated, placed on a pedestal, only to be dragged off and left in the dirt when Rufus and his girls were done with them." A faint, bitter edge slipped through. "Then he takes that place for himself, just long enough to prove he can, before moving on to the next."
"But that's…" Belno's words faltered, her eyes wide. "That's awful. What kind of trainer would even—"
"A trainer with a huge chip on his shoulder," Musaka cut in, "and an axe to grind against the whole damned world."
The words settled heavily between them.
Belno froze, the realization striking her all at once as her ears stiffened. "Wait…" she said slowly. "He's here… In Japan." She hesitated. "Does that mean…?"
Musaka did not answer immediately, his silence speaking volumes as he remained still.
Belno swallowed hard. "Does Jo-san know?" she asked. "Does anyone know?"
Musaka shook his head. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet," he said. "Everything I've told you is based on what I've heard. Rumors, stories, fragments put together over time. Nothing concrete." He leaned back slightly. "There's no point in throwing the entire faculty into a panic over something that hasn't even shown its hand yet."
His back eased into the leather of the chair, the material giving a low creak as he settled, though there was nothing relaxed about the weight behind his words. "And besides," Musaka continued, "there isn't much anyone could realistically do about it. Even if Tracen were to turn him away, and I'd bet that's a long shot to begin with, it wouldn't slow him down in the slightest. He'd simply take his talents elsewhere."
A faint breath slipped from him. "Honnōji Academy would open its doors without hesitation, and Teikoku Gakuen. You know as well as I do, they'd bend over backwards for the chance to have someone like Rufus on their side."
He paused, his expression hardening as he leaned forward slightly.
"But that's the thing," he continued. "It's never been about the academy, nor the banner he stands under. A man like Rufus doesn't belong to any side." His tone lowered just enough to carry weight. "He only ever stands for himself."
His fingers tapped once against the armrest before going still.
"He doesn't care for the sport, not in the way the rest of us do," Musaka said. "There's no love for it, no reverence, no sense of tradition or meaning. All that matters to him is the outcome. Victory, in its purest and most absolute form." A faint, grim edge slipped into his tone. "And he doesn't shy away from what it takes to get there. If anything, he enjoys it. Breaking others, dismantling them, taking everything they've built and reducing it to nothing. That's not a cost to him, it's part of the appeal."
He leaned back again, exhaling softly.
"And if he's turned his attention to Tracen. To its trainers," Musaka added, his gaze steady behind his shades, "then I'm afraid we're looking at something none of them have ever had to face before." A brief pause followed. "Because I'm not convinced any of them are prepared to endure him."
Belno's expression tightened, the softness in her features giving way to something more resolute as she absorbed his words, her ears flicking once as her gaze remained fixed on him. "I'm sorry, Musaka-san," she said carefully, "but the way you're describing him, it doesn't sound like simple ambition. It feels like there's something deeply personal behind it, something pushing him beyond just winning."
Musaka gave a slow nod, like he had been expecting that conclusion. "That's because there is," he replied. "This isn't new, and it sure as hell isn't shallow. It's something he's been carrying for a long time, something he never let go of." His jaw shifted faintly as he leaned back into the chair. "And whatever got busted up inside him back then, he didn't try to fix it, didn't try to move past it. He took it and made it a part of him."
He let out a breath, slower this time, the weight of it lingering.
"On the track, they used to call Rice Shower the Black Assassin," Musaka continued, his gaze steady as it settled on Belno, his expression tightening with a quiet severity.
He drew in a measured breath, the weight of the comparison lingering before he went on, his tone lowering just enough to carry a sharper edge.
"But Rufus…" he said. "Out there, he's known by another name."
The air between them grew still, the silence stretching as his gaze locking firmly with hers.
"Kingslayer."
"Kingslayer?" Belno repeated, the word lingering on her tongue with a strange weight to it, as though it carried more than meaning alone, something sharp and metallic that left an uneasy impression even as she spoke it aloud.
Musaka gave a slow nod, his expression unmoved, though there was a heaviness behind it that did not go unnoticed. "A name he's more than earned, I'm afraid," he said. He paused, as if measuring how much to say before continuing. "I don't think anyone's kept count of how many careers he's ended, how many umas he's driven off the track, or how many trainers he's reduced to nothing before pushing them out of the sport altogether." His jaw tightened slightly. "And furthermore, even all of that, it's not the end goal for him."
Belno's brows drew together, her unease deepening as she leaned in just slightly. "Then what is?" she asked.
Musaka shifted in his chair, turning just enough for his gaze to drift past her, out through the window where the sky stretched wide above the city, as though the answer lay somewhere beyond the glass. "The same thing every trainer of this generation is chasing," he said quietly. "The one thing none of us can quite let go of, no matter how far we've come or how much we've already achieved."
His words carried a quiet weight as he continued. "For the umas, that pinnacle is the throne once held by the Emperor, Symboli Rudolf."
His gaze lowered again, returning to Belno with renewed focus.
"For trainers, it's the one held by the man they call the Hand of God, Logan Deschain."
Belno's eyes widened, the implication settling in fully as she met his gaze.
"And I know Rufus," Musaka continued, his tone firm, grounded in a certainty that left no room for doubt, his gaze steady as it held Belno's. "He's not the sort of man who walks away once he's set his sights on something like this. He'll keep going until he's taken it for himself, and if that means tearing Tracen apart piece by piece, breaking anyone who dares stand in his way, then that's exactly what he'll do without a second thought."
Belno drew in a breath, her shoulders squaring as her tail flicked once behind her, the tension in her posture no longer subtle. "I-is that what he told you?" she asked. "Back in Kyoto?"
Musaka gave a slow nod. "And then some." He let out a heavy sigh, the kind that settled deep in the chest before rising. "Either way, it doesn't change what's coming." His gaze drifted briefly before returning, sharper now. "Tracen… no, the entire Twinkle Series is about to find itself in the fight of its life."
He leaned back into the chair, resting his head against the backrest as he stared up for a moment, the tension refusing to ease.
"And that's assuming," he added, "that the MRA doesn't blow up across this country first and turn everything upside down before any of that even has a chance to play out."
Before Belno could respond, the sharp screech of shoes against polished flooring tore through the hallway outside, loud and frantic enough to snap both their attention toward the door just as it slid open.
Oguri burst in first, her usual half-lidded gaze completely unchanged despite the urgency of the situation, her cheeks stuffed full as she clutched an oversized bag of Lay's potato chips against her chest like it was something worth defending with her life. She moved with startling speed, crossing the room in a blur that made the scene feel almost surreal.
A split second later, Ryan skidded into view behind her, struggling to keep his footing as he pointed forward with righteous fury. "Stop, thief!" he shouted, only to immediately lose traction and slide straight past the doorway, his momentum carrying him out of sight before a loud crash echoed from the hall, followed by a string of panicked yelling as papers, books, and scattered stationery erupted into the air like an explosion of misplaced office supplies.
Unfazed, Oguri reached the window in two quick strides and shoved it open, the frame rattling slightly as it gave way. She glanced back over her shoulder, meeting Musaka and Belno's wide-eyed stares with that same calm, indifferent expression, as though this were nothing out of the ordinary, before stepping up onto the sill and leaping cleanly out without hesitation.
Ryan reappeared at the doorway just as quickly, his face twisted with determination and outrage. "You're not getting away that easy!" he barked, charging forward as though nothing had just happened. "You've been stealing my shit all week, and this ends now!"
Belno's eyes widened further as she stepped forward instinctively. "Ryan, wait, we're—!"
Too late.
Ryan vaulted straight through the window after her, his voice trailing into a scream as the sounds of rustling leaves and snapping branches followed in rapid succession, each impact punctuated by increasingly panicked shouts before it all culminated in a heavy, unmistakable thud.
"Ough, sweet baby!" Ryan's voice cracked mid-yell before another branch snapped and he hit the ground again with a final, decisive impact.
Belno stared for a beat. "Three floors up…"
She and Musaka moved toward the window, peering down to where Ryan lay face-first in the dirt below, arms splayed out in a perfect T-pose as though he had been carefully placed there.
There was a moment of stillness.
Then, slowly, Ryan lifted one hand and gave a firm thumbs up without lifting his face from the ground. "I'm good," he called weakly.
Musaka let out a long, weary groan, dragging a hand slowly down his face before shaking his head, the exasperation settling deep in his expression. "Americans…" he muttered under his breath, the word carrying more resignation than irritation as his gaze shifted toward Belno. "You're his partner, right? Tell me, is this kind of thing normal?"
Belno let out a quiet sigh, the corner of her mouth lifting into a nervous, almost apologetic smile. "Pretty much," she admitted. "And that's actually him on a good day."
Musaka rolled his eyes as he turned away from the window, making his way back toward his desk with a faint shake of his head. "God, I always said Strider was a circus," he remarked, settling back into his chair. "Of all the places you could've gone, you just had to pick that one."
Belno chuckled softly at that, the sound carrying a hint of fondness despite everything. "Well… it had its charm," she said, her smile easing into something more genuine. "And I learned a lot while I was there. About training, about friendships…" She paused, her head tilting slightly as the smile began to fade, her tone growing quieter. "And about music."
The shift lingered as her gaze returned to Musaka, the earlier lightness giving way to something more thoughtful, more uncertain. "What do you think is going to happen, Musaka-san?"
Musaka lowered himself fully into the chair, slipping his shades off as he pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing for a brief moment as though trying to steady the thoughts running through his mind before he slid them back into place. "Honestly… I don't know," he admitted.
"What's coming isn't going to be simple, and it won't be contained to just one side of things either. It's going to play out on two fronts, one out in the open where everyone can see it, and another beneath the surface where most won't even realize it's happening until it's already too late."
He leaned back slightly.
"Lines will be drawn," he continued, "sides will be chosen, and if history's taught us anything, it's that when things reach that point, there's no middle ground left to stand on." His gaze lowered for a moment before lifting again. "Only one side walks away from something like that."
A quiet pause followed, heavier than the last.
"And I'm not entirely convinced we're ready for what comes after," he added. "Whatever future comes out of this… it's not going to be the same one we've been living in."
He let the words hang before speaking again, more to himself than anyone else.
"The real question is…" Musaka said slowly, "where we'll be standing when the fire finally starts."
Belno's expression fell into a solemn stillness, the implications settling in as the room grew quiet around them.
From outside, Ryan's voice carried upward, cutting through the aftermath with an almost absurd normalcy, while Oguri crouched beside him with her usual half-lidded stare, idly prodding him with a branch as if she were testing whether he might suddenly stop moving.
"Uh… guys… could someone maybe call a medic?"
****
The creak of wood gave way to the sharp squeal of an unoiled hinge as the door swung inward, the sound cutting through the heavy air of the space just before Logan stepped inside, Dahlia following a half-step behind. The moment she crossed the threshold, the smell hit her in full force, thick and unmistakable, a dense mix of sweat and worn leather layered over something cloying and artificial, the lingering trace of vanilla and chocolate that could only come from protein shakes consumed in excess. It clung to the air, heavy and unmoving, and Dahlia didn't need more than a second to understand exactly where she was.
A gym.
Not the polished kind she was used to seeing in passing, but something older, something lived-in.
The space itself stretched wider than she expected, roughly the size of two adjoining shophouses knocked into one, its interior stripped down to function over form. The floors were covered in worn mats that bore the imprint of years of use, rows of heavy punching bags hanging in disciplined lines, swaying slightly beneath the force of constant impact.
Along the walls, mirrors ran the full length of the room, reflecting movement upon movement in an endless loop, while racks of weights, dumbbells, and assorted equipment sat stacked with an almost utilitarian neatness. Posters lined the upper sections of the walls, each one featuring fighters Dahlia could only assume were champions, their bodies marked with scars and their waists draped in gilded belts that caught the light.
At the center of it all stood a boxing ring, elevated and complete, ropes drawn tight, turnbuckles worn but sturdy, the entire platform bathed in the harsh glow of overhead halogen lights that cast sharp shadows across its surface. Behind it, painted boldly across the far wall like a banner of pride, were the words:
Kamogawa Boxing Gym.
The door shut behind her with a dull thud, sealing the sound within, and almost immediately the rhythmic slaps of leather against canvas filled her ears, steady and relentless. Dahlia's gaze shifted toward the source, landing on a line of heavy bags suspended from the ceiling, each one towering near the height of a man and built to take punishment without complaint. Around them, a handful of men moved through their routines, some young, others older, all carrying the same focused intensity, their gloves striking in rapid succession, each blow accompanied by the sharp release of breath through clenched teeth.
A few glanced her way, curiosity flickering for the briefest moment before discipline took over and their attention snapped back to their work, the rhythm of training never breaking.
"Uh, Logan," Dahlia said as she stepped closer behind him, her tail flicking once as she took in the scene, "is there a reason we're in a boxing gym?"
"You'll see," Logan replied, glancing back at her with a grin that carried more intent than explanation. "But first, I gotta say hi to the old man."
Dahlia followed without question, weaving through the space as the sounds of training continued around them, until her attention was drawn to a figure seated on a bench near the far side of the gym.
The man was old, well into his seventies by the look of him, dressed in simple white sweater and brown slacks. His frame compact and slightly hunched, barely reaching Logan's waist in height. His scalp was mostly bare at the crown, with what remained of his hair clinging stubbornly around the sides and back, streaked with age. A single curled tuff on his forehead. His face, however, was anything but frail, the lines carved deep and firm, the kind that spoke of a lifetime spent enduring rather than yielding. Even seated, there was a density to him, a sense of weight and strength that hadn't fully left despite the years.
Dahlia found herself narrowing her eyes slightly as she studied him, something about his presence familiar in a way she couldn't quite place at first, until it clicked.
He reminded her of Saburo.
Not as imposing, not built with the same sheer bulk, but carrying that same grounded solidity, the kind that made it clear he had once been, and perhaps still was, far stronger than he appeared at a glance.
"Heya, old man," Logan greeted, a smirk pulling at his lips as he strolled in with his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the figure on the bench. "You know, when Saburo told me you were still kicking, I figured he was exaggerating, but seeing you now?" He tilted his head slightly, taking him in with a casual once-over. "Not bad for someone pushing… what, eighty?"
The man let out a sharp breath through his nose, his eyes narrowing immediately. "You've got a lot of nerve walking into my gym like that and the first thing out of your mouth is talkin' shit," he shot back, rough but steady. "I don't care what kind of legend you are on the turf, in here?" His glare hardened. "You're outta your league."
The air between them held for a moment, taut but not hostile, and Dahlia watched it all with a half-lidded gaze, still not entirely sure what to make of men who seemed to treat insults like greetings. Then, just as quickly as it had built, the tension broke, a grin spreading across both their faces as the old man pushed himself to his feet, closing the distance and pulling Logan into a firm embrace, which Logan returned without hesitation.
"It's been a long damn time, Logan," he said, stepping back after a moment and giving him a solid once-over. "Good to see you still breathing." His eyes flicked across Logan's frame, and a short laugh escaped him. "And hell, you're a long way from that scrawny kid I remember."
Logan let out a quiet chuckle, glancing over his shoulder toward the rest of the gym where the steady rhythm of training hadn't missed a beat. "Yeah, well… a lot changes," he said, his tone easing just slightly, "especially when you've been through what I have."
The old man's expression shifted for just a moment, something more measured passing through his eyes before he let it go, his attention moving instead to Dahlia. He studied her openly, taking in her stance, her build, the way she carried herself.
"So," he said, jerking his chin toward her, "this the girl everyone's been talkin' about?" His gaze moved over her again, slower this time, more appraising. "Hmph… not bad." He gave a small nod. "Looks like you've been put through your paces. Your physique's already ahead of most of the girls at Tracen."
Dahlia blinked, caught off guard as heat rushed to her face. "Uh… thanks?" she managed, clearly unsure how to respond.
Logan rolled his eyes lightly, stepping in before the moment lingered too long. "Dahlia, this is Genji Kamogawa," he said. "He's a legend in the boxing world, trained more champions than most people can name. One of his guys even went on to hold a world title."
Dahlia's brows lifted as she folded her arms, a grin tugging at her lips. "So, he's basically the 'Hand of God' for boxers, then?"
Kamogawa let out a short chuckle, shaking his head as a smirk pulled at his mouth. "I wouldn't go that far, kid," he said. "And besides, boxing ain't exactly the same kind of spotlight you're used to. Doesn't have the same shine as the Twinkle Series." He shrugged slightly. "People don't tune in the same way. Watching two sweaty guys beat the hell outta each other until one drops doesn't exactly sell like a race does."
"Yeah," Logan added dryly, "and I don't think anyone's lining up to see the winner throw on a cute dress and start singing after either."
Kamogawa shot him a flat look, unimpressed. "I could've gone my whole life without picturing that," he muttered. "Appreciate it."
"Still doesn't answer my question," Dahlia said, her ears twitching as she planted her hands firmly on her hips, her gaze narrowing at Logan. "Why exactly did you drag me halfway across Tokyo just to bring me here?"
"We're getting there, kid," Logan replied, that same easy grin lingering on his face. "Before that, we're gonna get you geared up." He glanced over toward Kamogawa. "Mind helping her out?"
Kamogawa let out a low sigh, the kind that carried both reluctance and familiarity, before giving a small shake of his head. "You're lucky I've still got a soft spot for you," he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. "That, and the fact the gym's cleared out for the week." He tilted his head toward Dahlia, gesturing for her to follow. "Come on, kid, let's get you sorted."
"Hold on, what do you mean 'geared up'?" Dahlia shot back, raising a brow as she looked between the two of them, clearly unconvinced. "Set up for what, exactly? What's going on here?"
Logan stepped in behind her before she could press further, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently steering her forward despite her hesitation. "Relax," he said, nudging her along as she stumbled into motion. "Since when have I ever led you wrong?"
****
The next thing Dahlia knew, she was standing in the middle of the ring, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and reluctant curiosity as she tried to make sense of how she had been maneuvered into this situation so quickly. Her jacket had been taken off at some point, leaving her in just her shirt and jeans, her hands now wrapped and fitted into a pair of thick black boxing gloves that still carried the faint scent of new leather, something she silently gave thanks for, considering the alternative.
She shifted her weight, giving a tentative bounce on the canvas beneath her feet, her brows lifting slightly at the unexpected give of it. It wasn't what she had imagined. The surface had a spring to it, firm yet responsive, almost like a reinforced mattress designed to absorb impact without giving way entirely. She had only ever seen rings like this through screens or from a distance, framed by camera angles and commentary, but standing in one now felt entirely different, more grounded, more real.
Her gaze lifted toward Logan just as he finished strapping on a pair of pads, tightening them with practiced ease before cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders as he stepped forward, the casual motion carrying a quiet readiness behind it.
Dahlia glanced past him briefly, toward the edge of the ring where Kamogawa remained seated on the bench, his posture relaxed but his attention anything but, his eyes fixed on them with a level, unblinking focus that missed nothing. Around them, the rest of the gym carried on without interruption, the steady rhythm of training continuing as though the scene unfolding in the ring required no acknowledgment.
"Remember what I told you, kid," Logan said, pulling her attention back as he brought the pads together with a sharp clap, the sound echoing through the space. "The MRA ain't anything like the URA. It's messy, it's ruthless, and it sure as hell doesn't care whether you walk out of it in one piece."
He lifted the pads slightly, settling into position.
"I also told you that physical contact's fair game," he added, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "So, let's see what you've got."
Dahlia raised a brow at that, a smirk forming as she tilted her head, clearly unimpressed. "Really?" she shot back. "Did you forget the part where I kicked Lady's ass in that race?"
Logan let out a scoff, shaking his head as he shifted his stance. "Well, look at you," he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "You threw hands with Lady once and now you think you're freakin' Conor McGregor." He gave a short huff. "Give me a break. Lady couldn't fight her way out of a paper bag, and if you walk into a real scrap with that level of confidence, you're gonna get your tail handed to you before you even know what hit you."
Dahlia rolled her eyes, unfazed, the smirk lingering. "I can handle myself, Logan," she replied, shifting her stance slightly as she adjusted the gloves. "I've run through the worst parts of Tokyo, dealt with gangs, thugs, the whole lot." Her expression sharpened just a touch. "And every single time, they ended up flat on their backs."
Logan drew in a slow breath, then let it out, as if deciding to take a different approach. "Alright," he said, straightening as he lifted one of the pads. "Let's make this interesting."
He tilted his head slightly, watching her.
"You come at me with everything you've got," he continued. "Every clean hit you land, I'll give you a hundred bucks."
He held her gaze, a faint grin returning.
"And I'm not talking about Jap paper either. I mean a whole stack of Benjamins ripe for the taking."
Dahlia blinked once, her brow lifting as she tilted her head, clearly not following.
Logan let out a small sigh, shaking his head. "It means it's a lot of cash," he said flatly. "Try to keep up."
Dahlia paused for a moment, the offer settling in as her grin slowly returned, sharper this time, carrying a hint of challenge behind it. "Alright," she said as she adjusted her footing, lifting her gloved hands into position, her posture tightening with intent. "Your funeral."
Logan didn't mirror her stance in the way she expected. His hands remained low, relaxed at his sides, but there was a subtle rhythm to him, a light, controlled bounce in his footwork that never quite stopped, never quite settled. It was the kind of movement that didn't draw attention unless you knew what to look for, and Kamogawa's brow lifted the moment he caught it, his gaze sharpening as he leaned forward just slightly.
Dahlia stepped in, closing the distance with measured caution, her eyes locked onto him as the two of them squared off in the center of the ring. For a brief moment, everything stilled, the noise of the gym fading into the background as she read his posture, his breathing, the minute shifts in his balance. Then, without warning, she drove forward and threw a straight punch, clean and direct.
Logan slipped it with ease.
The glove cut through empty air where his head had been a fraction of a second before, the motion so smooth it almost seemed effortless. Kamogawa's eyes widened ever so slightly at the movement, recognizing it for what it was, not just speed, but precision, efficiency honed to the point where there was no wasted motion.
Dahlia clicked her tongue under her breath, adjusting immediately as she followed up with a rapid combination, her fists snapping forward in quick succession, each strike aimed with growing intensity. But every single one missed, Logan weaving through them with practiced ease, his body shifting just enough each time to let the blows pass by without ever breaking his rhythm.
Then, in a single smooth step, he moved past her entirely, pivoting on his heel as he turned to face her again, still light on his feet, still bouncing, completely untouched.
"That all you've got?" Logan said, the smirk on his lips widening as he watched her, entirely unbothered by the flurry she had just thrown. "I'm not even breaking a sweat." He straightened then, easing his posture in a way that almost felt insulting, before tucking his hands behind his back. "Tell you what, I'll even make it easy for you. Go on, come and get it."
Dahlia's jaw tightened at that, the challenge landing exactly where it was meant to as her gaze hardened and she surged forward again, this time with far less restraint. Her fists came fast, snapping forward in sharp succession, but every single strike met the same result, cutting through empty space as Logan slipped past them with a level of control that bordered on effortless. Each movement was clean, precise, measured to the inch, his head shifting just enough to let the gloves pass by, his body weaving through her offense as though he had already seen every punch before she had even thrown it.
He ducked under a hook, pivoted off his lead foot, and glided past her shoulder, his steps light and exact, always placing him just out of reach, never once overcommitting, never once breaking the rhythm that carried him across the mat. It was as if he knew the ring intimately, every inch of it mapped out beneath his feet, each step taken with quiet certainty.
Dahlia's breathing began to falter, the steady rhythm breaking apart as frustration crept in, her strikes growing heavier, less controlled, her focus slipping with each missed attempt. What started as sharp exhales turned into strained breaths, and then into low groans of irritation as she pushed harder, faster, trying to force something, anything, to land.
Logan simply adjusted, circling just enough to keep himself clear, never letting himself get trapped against the ropes, always one step ahead, always just beyond her reach.
At the edge of the ring, Kamogawa watched in stunned silence, his eyes widening as the exchange unfolded before him, the disbelief settling deeper with every passing second. The men who had been training moments before had begun to slow, then stop entirely, drawn in by what they were seeing, their attention pulled toward the ring as the realization set in that this was no ordinary spar.
The old man had trained champions, men who had fought their way to titles, who had stood under bright lights with belts wrapped around their waists, fighters whose foundations he had built from the ground up. He had seen talent, refined it, sharpened it into something formidable.
And yet what stood before him now, Logan, a man who had never once stepped into his ring before, moved with a level of instinct and execution that eclipsed even those he had molded with years of discipline.
Dahlia threw another punch, missed, and stumbled forward, her footing slipping as she caught herself against the ropes. For a moment she stayed there, chest heaving, sweat running down her face as she struggled to steady her breathing.
"Come on, kid," Logan called out, his tone light but cutting through the air all the same. "Stop trying to hit me, and hit me!"
Frustration finally boiled over.
Dahlia let out a sharp cry and spun back toward him, throwing a wild, desperate haymaker, but Logan simply stepped aside, the punch cutting through nothing as her momentum carried her forward. She lost her balance entirely and went down hard, face-first into the mat with a dull thud.
Logan crouched down beside her, resting the pads casually against his knees as he looked at her with that same unbothered smirk.
"Had enough?" he asked.
Dahlia didn't even lift her head, her words muffled against the canvas as she let out a tired groan. "Alright, alright… you win," she muttered. "You got me."
"If you think this is tough, kid, I haven't even started hitting back," Logan said, his tone calm but carrying a weight that made it clear he wasn't exaggerating. Dahlia shifted her face to the side where she lay, her eyes settling on him as she listened. "Yamino Breaker's built like a damn tank, and she hits just as hard, the kind that'll put someone straight through a wall and not think twice about it. Rekka Blaze moves on instinct, slips and dodges better than anyone you'll ever face on asphalt, and Barbarossa…"
He paused briefly, letting the name sit. "She's got both. Speed, power, and the willingness to use either depending on what the situation calls for, and she's not the only one. Half the girls running in the Stakes can throw down just as hard if it comes to it." His gaze sharpened slightly. "You've got speed, no question about that, but right now? You're nowhere near ready for a real brawl. Trust me on that."
Dahlia pushed herself up slowly, settling into a seated position on the mat, her breath still uneven but her eyes focused. "So, what, I take what happened with Lady and just crank it up to eleven?" she asked, a faint edge of stubbornness still clinging to her tone.
"Eleven?" Logan let out a short breath through his nose, the hint of a smirk returning. "That's cute." He shifted slightly, rolling one shoulder before continuing. "Your first priority is still outpacing the competition, that hasn't changed, but the second someone decides to come at you, you need to be able to put them down and keep moving. And to do that, you're gonna need every bit of fight you can build up."
He tapped one of the pads lightly against his chest.
"And that's where I come in."
Dahlia tilted her head, a grin tugging at her lips despite the ache settling into her muscles. "Trainer, drift expert, and now a fighter too?" she said. "Is there anything you can't do?"
Logan snorted, shaking his head as he straightened. "Ten years is a long time, kid. You pick things up whether you want to or not." He stepped back, loosening the straps on the pads before pulling them free and tossing them aside. "Take five. Then we go again."
Dahlia let out a slow breath, her gaze following him as he stepped through the ropes and dropped down onto the gym floor, the reality of what he was asking settling in as the sounds of the gym filled the space once more.