### Chapter 1: The Unexpected Rebirth
In the dim glow of my computer screen, I rubbed my eyes, the clock ticking past 3 AM. Hajime no Ippo had consumed me again—binge-watching episodes of Ippo's grueling training montages, his unbreakable spirit, and the raw intensity of the ring. As a boxing enthusiast myself, I'd always dreamed of stepping into that world, feeling the rush of a perfectly timed counter or the sting of a jab. But dreams were just that—until they weren't.
I remember the accident vividly, or at least the blur of it. A late-night drive home from work, rain slicking the roads, and a truck swerving into my lane. The impact was a thunderclap, then darkness. No pain, just a void. When consciousness flickered back, it wasn't in a hospital bed or the afterlife I'd half-expected. Instead, I was enveloped in warmth, muffled sounds filtering through like echoes in a dream. Cries—my own cries? I was tiny, helpless, staring up at unfamiliar faces speaking in Japanese.
Reborn. The word hit me like a Dempsey Roll. I was in the world of Hajime no Ippo. How? Why? Panic surged, but my infant body could only wail. Over the coming months, fragments pieced together. My new name: Akira Tanaka. Born in a modest Tokyo suburb, to a single mother who worked as a nurse and a father who'd vanished before my birth. No connections to the Kamogawa Gym or the big names yet, but the universe felt right—the bustling streets, the faint scent of street food, and overheard chatter about boxing matches on TV.
As I grew, the differences became apparent. My body moved with an unnatural grace, like I was wired differently. At age five, playing in the park, I dodged a thrown ball with a fluidity that left the other kids stunned. It was instinctive, almost primal. Wally's talent—that wild, monkey-like agility from the series. I recalled Wally, the prodigy from the Philippines, his southpaw stance making him a nightmare in the ring with his speed and unpredictability. And here I was, left-handed by nature, my dominant side screaming southpaw.
But talent alone wasn't enough. I needed guidance, a template to mold this raw potential. Ginpachi Nekota's style came to mind—his emphasis on footwork, endurance, and that unyielding mental fortitude from his days as a featherweight contender. Nekota, the old-timer with a heart of gold, training in the mountains with his dogs. If I could emulate that, blend it with Wally's flair, I'd be unstoppable.
By age ten, I'd convinced my mother to enroll me in a local boxing club. "It's for self-defense," I lied, but the fire in my eyes betrayed the truth. The coach, a grizzled veteran named Sato, eyed me skeptically. "Kid, you look like you'd blow away in the wind." I was scrawny, but that would change.
First day: shadowboxing. I slipped into a southpaw stance naturally, left foot forward, right hand guarding my chin. The mirrors reflected a boy with wild black hair and sharp eyes, moving like a shadow. Jab, cross, hook—basic, but my feet danced, pivoting with Wally's innate rhythm. Sato's eyebrows shot up. "Where'd you learn that footwork? It's like you're gliding on ice."
I grinned inwardly. Reborn perks. But I kept it simple: "Just practicing at home, sensei."
Training ramped up. Mornings started with roadwork, Nekota-style—running hills until my lungs burned, building that legendary stamina. I'd imagine Nekota's voice: "Boxing ain't just punches; it's surviving the storm." Afternoons: mitt work, where my speed shone. I'd weave under hooks, counter with lightning jabs that snapped like whips. The other kids grumbled; I was a freak, they said. But envy fueled me.
One evening, after a sparring session where I dodged a barrage from a bigger opponent, Sato pulled me aside. "Tanaka, you've got talent. Real talent. But talent without heart is worthless. What's your drive?"
I paused, thinking of my old life—the mundane job, the regrets. "To be the best, sensei. To face the legends."
He chuckled. "Legends? Like Takamura or that kid Makunouchi?"
My heart skipped. Ippo was out there, probably just starting his journey. "Yeah, something like that."
Months blurred into years. By thirteen, I'd won my first amateur bout—a knockout in the second round. The crowd's roar was intoxicating, but I craved more. Nekota's template meant discipline: no shortcuts. I added weight training, focusing on core and legs for that explosive power. Southpaw advantage: opponents struggled with the mirrored stance, my left hooks landing like missiles.
Yet, doubts crept in. Was this rebirth a gift or a curse? In my old world, I'd been average; here, I was exceptional, but the pressure mounted. One night, after a grueling session, I collapsed on my bed, staring at the ceiling. "Why me?" I whispered. The answer came in dreams—flashes of Wally's fights, Nekota's wisdom. Blend them: agility meets endurance.
At fourteen, opportunity knocked. A scout from a bigger gym spotted me at a tournament. "Kid, you move like a monkey—wild, untamed. Ever heard of Wally?"
I froze. Wally existed here, of course. "Yeah, the Filipino sensation."
He nodded. "You've got his spark. But you need polishing. Come to our gym; we've got connections."
I declined politely. I wanted authenticity, not handouts. Instead, I sought out Nekota. Rumors placed him in the mountains, retired but still sharp. Packing a bag, I told my mother I was camping. The hike was brutal, rain-soaked paths testing my resolve. Finally, a cabin emerged, smoke curling from the chimney. Dogs barked as I approached.
An old man stepped out—silver hair, scarred face, eyes like honed steel. Ginpachi Nekota. "Who the hell are you, kid? Lost?"
I bowed deeply. "Tanaka Akira, sir. I'm a boxer. I want to learn from you."
He laughed, a raspy bark. "Learn? From an old fossil? Go back to the city gyms."
But I persisted, demonstrating a quick combo. His eyes narrowed. "Southpaw, eh? And that footwork... not bad. What's your story?"
"I have talent, but I need your template—your way of boxing, the mental edge."
He grumbled but invited me in. Over tea, he shared tales of his prime, the wars in the ring, the heartbreak. "Boxing's a beast, kid. It chews you up if you're not ready."
That night, training began. Dawn runs with his dogs, building legs of iron. Bag work emphasizing precision over power. "Feel the rhythm," he'd say. "Like dancing with death."
Weeks turned to months. My body transformed—lean muscle, endless stamina. Wally's talent amplified: I climbed trees for agility drills, swinging like a primate. Southpaw drills honed my defense, counters flowing naturally.
Returning home, I entered my first major amateur tournament. Opponent: a burly northpaw with a record of knockouts. The bell rang. He charged, swings wild. I danced, Nekota's footwork evading, Wally's speed countering. Jab to the body, hook to the head—down he went in the third.
Victory tasted sweet, but it was just the start. Whispers spread: the southpaw prodigy with monkey agility. Ippo's name surfaced in news—his debut approaching. Our paths would cross soon.
As I lay in bed that night, fists clenched, I knew this rebirth was my shot at glory. But the road ahead? A hundred battles, each forging the champion within.
### Chapter 2: First Encounters
The amateur circuit buzzed with energy, gyms packed with hopefuls dreaming of pro debuts. At fifteen, I'd racked up a string of wins, my southpaw style baffling opponents. Nekota's training stuck: "Endurance wins wars, kid. Outlast 'em." I'd run marathons in the mountains, lungs adapting to thin air, body a machine.
Back in Tokyo, I joined a small gym run by ex-pros. Coach Hara, a no-nonsense type, saw potential. "Tanaka, you're fast, but raw. Let's refine that Wally vibe."
Wally vibe? The name stung a reminder. In this world, Wally was rising in the Philippines, his talent legendary. I mirrored it unconsciously—leaps, twists, unpredictable angles. But I added Nekota's grit: hours on the heavy bag, focusing on combos that wore down defenses.
Sparring sessions were brutal. One day, a visiting boxer from Kamogawa Gym showed up—a featherweight with fire in his eyes. Not Ippo yet, but close. "Name's Miyata," he said, cool as ice. Ichiro Miyata, the counter-punching genius.
We gloved up. Southpaw vs. orthodox— a classic mismatch. He probed with jabs; I slipped, countering with hooks. His speed matched mine, but my agility edged him. A feint, then a leaping cross— he dodged, retaliating with a sharp uppercut that grazed my chin.
"Impressive," he admitted post-spar. "That monkey style... you train in the wild?"
I chuckled. "Something like that. Nekota's my mentor."
His eyes widened. "The old wolf? Respect."
That encounter lit a fire. Miyata mentioned a kid named Makunouchi training hard. Ippo was coming.
My next tournament: nationals. Quarterfinals against a powerhouse, Kondo—a slugger with iron fists. Crowd electric, lights glaring. Bell.
He bull-rushed; I danced, Nekota's footwork circling. Wally talent kicked in: I vaulted sideways, landing a body shot that echoed. He grunted, swinging haymakers. I weaved, tiring him. Round two: my left hook connected, staggering him. Ref counted—knockout.
Semifinals: a technician, precise but slow. My speed overwhelmed, counters landing clean. Finals: the champ, a veteran amateur. He adapted to southpaw, but my endurance shone. Five rounds, I outpointed him, claiming the title.
Post-win, a scout approached. "Pro potential, kid. Ever thought of Kamogawa?"
Heart raced. The hub. But I hesitated. "I'm charting my own path."
Nekota called. "Heard about your win. Good, but don't get cocky. Real boxing starts now."
At sixteen, pro license in hand. Debut fight: a tune-up against a journeyman. Packed arena, nerves electric. I entered to cheers, southpaw stance ready.
He tested with jabs; I parried, exploding with combos. Wally agility: I ducked low, rising with an uppercut. Down in the first.
Wins piled: 5-0, all KOs. Media dubbed me "Monkey Southpaw." Comparisons to Wally inevitable.
Then, the call: a match against a ranked contender. Prep intensified—Nekota visited, drilling mental toughness. "Visualize the pain, then push through."
Fight night. Opponent: Saito, a brawler. He landed early, rocking me. Blood tasted metallic. But Nekota's voice echoed: endure. I rallied, agility turning tides. Leaping hook—KO in fourth.
Post-fight, I met him—Ippo Makunouchi, in the audience. Shy kid, fishing rod in hand? No, determined eyes. "Great fight, Tanaka-san."
"You too, soon," I replied, knowing our destinies intertwined.
### Chapter 3: Shadows of the Ring
Seventeen now, and the pro scene felt alive with possibility. My record stood at 8-0, seven by knockout. The "Monkey Southpaw" moniker stuck—media loved the flair, the way I bounded around the ring like Wally, dodging and striking with unpredictable angles. But beneath the hype, Nekota's lessons anchored me: endurance over flash, heart over highlight reels.
Training intensified. Mornings meant mountain runs, Nekota joining occasionally, his dogs barking encouragement. "Feel the burn in your legs, Akira. That's where champions live." Afternoons: sparring at a mid-tier gym in Tokyo, opponents rotating to mimic different styles. Southpaw advantage shone brightest against orthodox fighters—my lead left hook slipped through guards meant for right crosses.
One sparring partner caught my eye: a quiet kid from Kamogawa Gym, invited for cross-training. Makunouchi Ippo. He was sixteen, fresh off his pro debut, already nicknamed "The Wind God" for his devastating Dempsey Roll. Shy outside the ring, ferocious inside.
We gloved up. Orthodox vs. southpaw—mirrored stances created chaos. Ippo crouched low, peek-a-boo guard tight. I circled, Wally-inspired leaps keeping distance. Jab feints tested him; he slipped, countering with body shots that thudded like hammers.
"You're fast," Ippo grunted mid-round, sweat flying.
"You're strong," I replied, dodging a hook and landing a sharp left uppercut that snapped his head back.
He smiled faintly—respect. We traded blows, my agility matching his power. I weaved under his rushes, countering with leaping crosses. He absorbed punishment, then exploded with liver shots that made me gasp. No knockouts, just mutual exhaustion when the bell rang.
Post-spar, we sat on the canvas, breathing heavy.
"Your footwork... it's like nothing I've seen," Ippo said, wiping blood from his lip.
"Learned from an old master in the mountains. Nekota Ginpachi."
Ippo's eyes widened. "Nekota-san? Kamogawa-sensei's rival?"
I nodded. "He taught me to outlast storms. You?"
"Everything from Kamogawa-sensei. And Takamura-san pushes me harder."
We talked boxing—styles, dreams, fears. Ippo's humility struck me; despite talent, he fought for his mother, for proving himself. My rebirth gave me edge, but his pure drive inspired.
That encounter shifted things. Rumors spread: the Monkey Southpaw sparred with the new Rookie King contender. Scouts buzzed. My next fight: ranked #15 featherweight, Hiroshi "Iron Fist" Tanaka—no relation, just bad luck with names. A slugger known for one-punch KOs.
Prep week flew. Nekota arrived unannounced, barking orders. "Don't rely on speed alone. He hits like a truck—make him miss, tire him. Use your legs, not just your hands."
Fight night: Korakuen Hall, lights blazing, crowd roaring. I entered to tribal drums—Wally flair. Southpaw stance, gloves up, eyes locked.
Tanaka charged from the bell, orthodox power shots whistling. I danced, Nekota footwork circling wide. Jab to keep distance, then a leaping hook that grazed his temple. He swung wild; I slipped, countering body. Round one: even, but he felt my speed.
Round two: he adapted, crowding me. A right cross clipped my jaw—stars exploded. Blood trickled. Nekota's voice echoed in my head: "Endure." I clinched, reset, then exploded outward with a southpaw uppercut. He staggered.
Round three: my stamina shone. Tanaka slowed, breaths ragged. I feinted low, then vaulted high—a Wally-inspired leap hook crashing into his jaw. He dropped, canvas shaking. Ref counted to ten.
KO victory. Crowd erupted. Post-fight interview: "That leap... inspired by a legend across the sea. But my foundation? An old wolf in the mountains."
Fans chanted "Monkey Southpaw!" I smiled, but inside, hunger grew. Ippo's name trended—his own wins stacking. Our collision course accelerated.
Nekota met me backstage. "Good. But don't celebrate yet. The real tests come when names like Sendō, Date, Miyata... and that world champ, Ricardo, loom."
I nodded. "I'm ready."
He smirked. "No, kid. You're just starting."
That night, dreams mixed old life regrets with new ambitions. Reborn to chase glory, blending Wally's wild talent with Nekota's iron will. Southpaw southpaw, agile as a gibbon, enduring as stone.
Next fight announced: a step-up against a top-10 contender. But whispers reached me—Ippo's camp eyed the same rankings. Soon, our paths would clash for real.
### Chapter 4: Rising Tides and Rival Shadows
Eighteen years old, and the featherweight division felt smaller every fight. My record: 12-0, ten KOs. The "Monkey Southpaw" label evolved—now "The Agile Phantom" in some circles, thanks to my Wally-like leaps and Nekota-honed endurance turning matches into wars of attrition. Opponents dreaded facing a southpaw who could dance circles around them while refusing to break.
Nekota pushed harder. "The pros aren't amateurs, Akira. They adapt. You need more than talent—layers. Layers of pain tolerance, strategy, instinct." We trained in the mountains again, adding unconventional drills: dodging branches while sprinting, shadowboxing on uneven terrain, building that primal agility. My body responded—muscles leaner, reflexes sharper. Southpaw stance felt like second nature, left hooks whipping with deceptive power.
Back in Tokyo, the boxing world stirred. Ippo Makunouchi exploded onto the scene. His pro debut had been solid, but now he tore through the East Japan Rookie King Tournament like a storm. Peek-a-boo style, Dempsey Roll emerging as his signature. Whispers in gyms: "That fishing boat kid's gonna be champion." I watched clips obsessively—his heart, his growth. Our spar had been electric; a real fight would be legendary.
My next bout: a Class A eliminator against Kenji "The Viper" Ogawa, ranked #8. A counter-puncher with venomous speed. Prep mirrored Nekota's philosophy: simulate unpredictability. I sparred southpaws and orthodox alike, focusing on slipping counters while maintaining distance.
Fight night at Korakuen Hall. Crowd thicker than before—word of the Monkey Southpaw vs. the rising Ippo buzz drew eyes. I entered calm, southpaw guard high, eyes scanning.
Ogawa orthodox, probing jabs. I circled, Wally agility keeping him guessing. He feinted; I slipped, landing a crisp left cross. He countered—sharp hook grazed my ribs. Pain flared, but Nekota's voice: "Breathe through it." Round one: I outmaneuvered, points mine.
Round two: he adapted, crowding. A right straight rocked me—vision blurred. I clinched, reset, then exploded: leaping uppercut from below, Wally flair. It connected; he staggered. Followed with body hooks. He dropped to a knee—ref's count reached eight before he rose.
Round three: exhaustion set in for him. My stamina, forged in mountain runs, held. I feinted high, went low—liver shot crumpled him. KO. Victory roar filled the hall.
Post-fight, reporters swarmed. "Tanaka! Thoughts on Makunouchi? He's tearing up the Rookie King!"
I smiled faintly. "He's incredible. Pure heart. If our paths cross, it'll be a war worth watching."
That night, Nekota called. "Heard you dismantled the Viper. Good. But the Rookie King tourney's heating up. Mashiba's in it— that long-reach freak with the Flicker Jabs. Miyata too, before he got derailed. Watch them."
Miyata. Our spar lingered in memory—his counters surgical. But Mashiba had KO'd him in the tournament, advancing to finals. Ippo won the East Japan title, they said, beating a slugger in a brutal war.
Opportunity knocked soon after. A promoter approached: "Exhibition spar event—top young guns. You, Makunouchi, maybe others. Build hype."
I accepted. Neutral gym, closed doors. Ippo arrived shy, but eyes burned. We gloved up again—southpaw vs. orthodox peek-a-boo.
Bell. He inched forward, guard tight. I danced, testing with jabs. He slipped, Dempsey Roll hints in his posture. I feinted; he countered body—thud. Air left me. I retaliated: leaping hook over his guard, clipping ear.
We traded. My agility frustrated his pressure; his power forced respect. A southpaw uppercut staggered him; he answered with liver blows that made knees buckle. No knockouts—just raw exchange until time.
Sweat-soaked, we bumped gloves. "You're even faster now," Ippo panted.
"You're stronger. That Dempsey... terrifying."
He grinned. "Gotta catch Miyata someday."
"Me too. But first, the belts."
Rumors flew: both eyeing national rankings post-Rookie King. Ippo's path led to Japanese title shots; mine branched differently—perhaps OPBF feeders or survival matches later.
But Wally's shadow loomed. News from Asia: the Indonesian "Last Sun," Wally, dominating regionally. Monkey-like style, unorthodox, southpaw flair. Comparisons intensified. "Tanaka's the Japanese Wally," headlines read.
Nekota grunted approval. "Use it. But don't copy—evolve. Blend my endurance with that wildness. Become something new."
Training evolved. I incorporated rope-a-dope elements—leaning on ropes to conserve energy, then exploding. Southpaw twists made it deadly.
One evening, post-run, I sat overlooking the city. Rebirth felt real now—not just talent, but purpose. To surpass legends, face Ippo, Miyata, Sendō, even Ricardo one day.
A text from an unknown number: "Hey, Monkey Southpaw. Saw your fight. Let's talk training sometime. — Miyata Ichirō"
Heart raced. Rivals closing in.
The tides rose. The ring awaited.
### Chapter 5: The Weight of Names
Nineteen, and the featherweight rankings had begun to notice. My record climbed to 15-0 with twelve knockouts, each victory adding fuel to the "Agile Phantom" legend. The southpaw stance, combined with Wally's unpredictable leaps and Nekota's relentless endurance, made me a problem no one wanted early. Opponents studied tapes, but preparation rarely matched the chaos I brought into the ring.
Nekota's visits grew rarer, but his lessons stuck deeper. "You're not fighting men anymore, Akira. You're fighting expectations. The second you believe the hype, you lose." He'd send handwritten notes—short, brutal reminders: "Run until your shadow quits. Then run more." I obeyed. Dawn runs turned into dawn-to-dusk circuits through Tokyo's outskirts, legs burning, mind sharpening.
The boxing world shifted again. Ippo Makunouchi had just claimed the Japanese Featherweight title in a war against the undefeated champion Sanada Kazuki. The Dempsey Roll had evolved—faster, tighter, deadlier. Clips flooded every gym TV: Ippo absorbing punishment, then unleashing hell. Miyata, still chasing his revenge, had moved up to super featherweight after losing to Mashiba. Mashiba himself was climbing the world rankings with those cruel Flicker Jabs. And across the sea, Wally—now the OPBF champion—continued his rampage, his monkey-like style drawing comparisons to me every time I fought.
My promoter called with news that stopped my heart for a second.
"Tanaka, we got you a co-main slot on the undercard of Ippo's first title defense. Korakuen Hall. Against Alfredo 'El Tigre' Gonzales, #7 in the world rankings. OPBF feeder. Win this, and you're in the conversation for world contention."
El Tigre. A Mexican southpaw slugger known for devastating body work and iron chin. Southpaw versus southpaw—mirrored stances, no natural advantages. Pure test of skill, power, and will.
Training camp became monastic. I moved to a small apartment near the mountains so Nekota could oversee daily. Mornings: hill sprints with weighted vest. Afternoons: endless mitt work, focusing on southpaw-specific counters—slipping same-side hooks, rolling under uppercuts, then exploding with left crosses. Evenings: heavy bag until my knuckles bled through wraps, visualizing Gonzales' style from every fight tape available.
Nekota sparred me himself one afternoon—old man still moved like a ghost. He slipped my leaps, countered with precision jabs that stung like bees. "You're flashy," he growled, "but flashy gets you slept when the other guy's chin is granite. Make him pay for every step forward."
I adjusted. Less leaping, more stalking. Use footwork to cut angles, force him into corners, then punish the body until the head opened. Nekota nodded approval. "Now you're thinking like a champion."
Fight week arrived. Weigh-in: Gonzales stared through me, 126 pounds of coiled muscle, tattoos curling up his arms. I returned the stare—calm, southpaw guard instinctive even without gloves. Cameras flashed. Reporters asked the inevitable.
"Tanaka, people call you the Japanese Wally. How do you feel facing a southpaw like El Tigre?"
I leaned into the mic. "Wally's a legend. I'm just Akira Tanaka. Tomorrow night, it's not about names. It's about who's left standing."
Fight night. Korakuen Hall packed to the rafters. Ippo's title defense was the main event, but the crowd buzzed for the co-main. Lights dimmed. My walkout music—tribal drums mixed with modern beats—echoed. Southpaw stance, black trunks with silver trim, eyes forward.
Gonzales entered to mariachi horns, smirking. Bell.
Round one: cautious. Both southpaws circled, lead feet mirroring, jabs testing range. He threw heavy; I slipped, countered light. We traded body shots—his thudded, mine snapped. Even round.
Round two: he pressed. A left cross grazed my temple—warning shot. I answered with a leaping hook that clipped his ear, then dropped low for liver. He winced but smiled. "Come on, monkey boy."
Round three: war. He trapped me on the ropes, unloading hooks. Nekota's voice screamed in my skull: "Endure." I leaned, rolled, slipped—then exploded outward with a southpaw uppercut that rocked him back. Crowd roared. I followed with body barrage. He clinched. Ref separated.
Round four: my stamina began to tell. Gonzales' punches slowed fractionally. I feinted high, went low—double body hook. He gasped. Then the leap: Wally instinct, vaulting forward, left cross crashing into his jaw. He staggered. I pounced—hook, cross, uppercut. He dropped to a knee.
Count reached seven. He rose, eyes glassy but furious.
Round five: he came out swinging for pride. Wild lefts. I danced, Nekota footwork keeping distance, then countered every miss. A final leaping hook—clean on the button. He crumpled. Ref waved it off.
KO5.
The arena erupted. I raised my fist, chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut above my eye. Post-fight, reporters mobbed.
"Tanaka! That leap—pure Wally!"
I wiped sweat. "Wally does it better. I just borrowed the idea. Credit goes to Nekota-sensei for teaching me how to survive long enough to use it."
Backstage, I caught sight of Ippo warming up for his defense. He nodded once—respect. No words needed.
Later, alone in the locker room, Nekota's text arrived: "Good boy. But the real storm's coming. World title's next. Prepare."
I stared at my taped hands. Reborn into this world with Wally's talent and Nekota's soul. Southpaw. Phantom. Whatever they called me.
The rankings would shift tomorrow.
And somewhere, Ippo was about to defend his belt.
Our collision felt closer than ever.
### Chapter 6: Echoes from the Champion
The morning after the El Tigre fight, the newspapers screamed my name across sports pages. "Agile Phantom Stops World #7 in Five – Japanese Wally Emerges?" Photos showed the final leaping hook, my body suspended mid-air like a gibbon striking from a branch. My world ranking jumped to #12 in the featherweight division overnight. OPBF title eliminators were suddenly realistic. But the real noise came from the main event that same night.
Ippo Makunouchi had defended his Japanese Featherweight belt against a comebacking veteran, Itagaki's older brother figure—Ryo Mashiba's shadow still looming in the division, but Ippo's Dempsey Roll had matured into something surgical. He took punishment for five rounds, absorbed body shots that would've folded lesser men, then turned the tide in the sixth with a liver blow that echoed through Korakuen like a gunshot. KO. The hall had shaken twice that night—once for me, once for him.
I watched the replay in my apartment while icing my swollen left eye. Ippo's face after the fight: bruised, bloody, but smiling that quiet, unbreakable smile. He thanked the crowd, thanked his mother in the front row, thanked Kamogawa Gym. Pure. I felt a strange mix—respect, envy, hunger. Our paths were converging faster than I'd expected.
Nekota showed up at my door unannounced around noon, carrying a plastic bag of onigiri and a thermos of tea. He didn't knock—just pushed the door open like he owned the place.
"Still alive, huh?" he rasped, dropping onto the couch.
"Barely, sensei."
He tossed me an onigiri. "Eat. You look like death warmed over."
We sat in silence for a while, watching muted highlights on TV. When Ippo's KO flashed again, Nekota grunted.
"That kid's got something most don't. He doesn't fight to win—he fights because stopping isn't an option. You've got talent dripping out your ears, Akira. But heart? That's the separator."
I swallowed. "I know. I'm trying."
"Trying's not enough when you step in with men like Ricardo Martinez someday. Or Wally. Or even Makunouchi when he gets serious."
The name Wally stung again. Every win pushed the comparisons harder. Social media threads debated it endlessly: "Tanaka vs Wally—who's the real monkey southpaw?" I hated it. I wasn't copying. I was evolving.
Nekota read my face. "Forget the noise. Focus on the next gatekeeper."
He slid a folded paper across the table. A fight contract. Opponent: Tatsuya "The Razor" Kimura—no, not that Kimura. A different one. A southpaw-killer from Osaka, orthodox, ranked #5 in Japan, known for razor-sharp counters and endless pressure. He'd stopped three southpaws in a row, each time exploiting the mirrored stance to land devastating right crosses.
"Three months," Nekota said. "You're not leaping your way out of this one. He'll cut the ring, smother your footwork, and punish every flashy move. You need layers now. Defense. Head movement. In-fighting. The stuff you've been avoiding because your legs are so damn fast."
I stared at the contract. "He's a gatekeeper to the OPBF eliminator. Win this, and I'm in line for a regional title shot."
Nekota nodded. "And lose, and you're back to square one. Hype dies quick."
Training restarted the next day—brutal, focused, different. No mountains this time. Nekota moved me into an old, half-abandoned warehouse gym on the edge of Tokyo. Concrete floors, single ring, one heavy bag, one speed bag. Minimalist. Monastic.
We drilled head movement for hours. Bob and weave until my neck ached. Slip drills against wooden posts until my shoulders screamed. Then in-fighting: tight hooks in the pocket, uppercuts off the clinch break. Nekota stood in front of me with focus mitts, forcing me to stay inside, no retreating.
"You can't dance forever," he growled, smacking my guard. "Sometimes you gotta stand and trade. Grow a chin."
I sparred with bigger guys—middleweights who threw heavy orthodox punches. They mimicked Kimura's style: crowding, cutting angles, landing body shots that folded me in half. I learned to roll with them, pivot out, counter in close. My southpaw uppercut became a weapon in tight spaces; my left hook a short, whipping terror when opponents overcommitted.
One afternoon, mid-spar, the door creaked open. Two figures stepped in: Ippo and Takamura Mamoru.
Takamura—world middleweight contender, monster, asshole with a golden heart—leaned against the ropes, smirking. Ippo looked almost apologetic.
"Sensei said we could watch," Ippo mumbled.
Nekota waved them in. "Might as well see what real training looks like."
They stayed for two hours. Takamura occasionally barked corrections at me—"Lower your right hand, idiot! You're begging for a cross!"—while Ippo watched silently, absorbing.
After the session, Takamura approached. "Not bad, monkey boy. You've got speed, but speed without meanness is just entertainment. Get meaner."
Ippo lingered. "Your counters… they're sharp. Like Miyata's, but wilder."
I wiped sweat. "Thanks. Your Dempsey Roll is evolving. Scary."
He scratched his head. "Still not good enough. I need to beat Mashiba someday. And Miyata. And… maybe you, one day."
The words hung between us. No malice. Just truth.
"Maybe," I said. "But not yet."
Takamura laughed. "Listen to the kid. He's got fire under all that shyness."
They left. Nekota watched them go, then turned to me.
"That's your future, Akira. Not just Wally. Not just Ricardo. Men like Makunouchi who refuse to break. You want to stand with them? Then stop being talented. Start being unbreakable."
I nodded, fists clenched.
Three months of hell followed. Sparring turned into wars. My body adapted—harder to hurt, quicker to recover. Southpaw stance felt like armor now. Leaps became calculated explosions instead of flair.
Fight night arrived again. Korakuen Hall. Co-feature on a bigger card. Kimura "The Razor" entered first—lean, scarred, eyes cold.
I walked out to silence, then rising cheers. Southpaw stance. No theatrics. Just business.
Bell.
He came forward fast, orthodox pressure, cutting the ring like a shark. I circled, slipped, rolled. Jab exchanges—sharp, stinging. Round one: he landed a clean right cross. My head snapped back. Crowd gasped. I answered with a body hook that made him grunt.
Round two: he trapped me. Right crosses rained. I bobbed, weaved, rolled—Nekota drills paying dividends. Then I exploded inside: short left uppercut under his chin. He staggered. I followed with tight hooks. He clinched.
Rounds blurred. He punished my body. I punished his. Blood from my nose, bruise blooming under my eye. But I endured. Nekota's voice constant: "Survive. Then strike."
Round seven: he tired. Pressure eased. I feinted, stepped in, rolled under a cross—then rose with a southpaw hook that crashed into his temple. He wobbled. I pounced: uppercut, hook, cross. He dropped face-first.
KO7.
The arena exploded. I stood in the center, chest heaving, gloves raised. Not flashy. Not monkey-like. Just victorious.
Post-fight, Nekota met me in the tunnel.
"Better," he said. "You fought ugly. And you won ugly. That's how champions are made."
I smiled through split lips. "Still got a long way."
He clapped my shoulder. "Next stop: OPBF eliminator. Then maybe Wally. Then the world."
Somewhere, Ippo was watching. Miyata too. Mashiba. Sendō.
The echoes grew louder.
The ring was calling all of us.
### Chapter 7: The OPBF Doorway
The victory over The Razor pushed me into uncharted territory. Overnight, the boxing boards and magazines shifted tone. No longer just "promising talent" or "Japanese Wally knockoff." Now it was "legitimate contender." My name appeared in OPBF rankings for the first time—#4 featherweight in the region. One more win, and I'd earn a mandatory challenger spot for the OPBF title. Wally's belt.
The thought alone made my stomach twist. Wally—real name Alfredo Gonzalez in some old profiles, but everyone just called him Wally—wasn't just a fighter anymore. He was a phenomenon. Monkey-like movement, southpaw chaos, endless stamina, and a chin that seemed made of granite. He'd defended the OPBF strap four times already, each defense more brutal than the last. Videos showed him leaping over low hooks, twisting mid-air to land spinning backfists, then dropping opponents with casual left crosses. The comparisons weren't flattering anymore—they were pressure.
Nekota didn't let me bask. He arrived the next week with a single sentence: "You're not ready for Wally. Not even close."
We relocated training again—this time to a seaside town south of Tokyo where an old fishing friend of Nekota's owned a derelict gym overlooking the ocean. Salt air, crashing waves, endless sand for running. No distractions. Just me, Nekota, his two old huskies, and the ring.
The target fight came quickly. OPBF regional eliminator. Opponent: Somsak "The Thai Buzzsaw" Chaiyaphum. Thai southpaw, former Muay Thai champion turned boxer, ranked #2 OPBF contender. Known for blistering hand speed, vicious elbows (barely legal in boxing), and knees he tried to sneak in during clinches. He'd stopped his last five opponents inside six rounds.
Nekota studied the tapes with me late into the night. "He's southpaw like you, but aggressive. He'll try to bully you into the pocket, throw short elbows disguised as hooks, then knee when you clinch. Don't let him close. But don't run either—he'll chase and cut you off."
New drills emerged. Anti-clinch work: breaking holds with sharp uppercuts, pivoting out of corners with footwork that mimicked ocean waves—fluid, unpredictable. We added elbow pads for realism; Nekota would throw controlled "elbows" to force me to duck and roll under them. My neck and shoulders adapted to the abuse.
Sparring partners were imported—two Thai boxers flown in by the promoter to simulate Somsak's rhythm. They spoke little English, but their style screamed danger: relentless forward pressure, blinding combinations, low kicks turned into leg checks against my thighs when I circled too wide.
One evening, exhausted after six rounds of war, I sat on the beach staring at the horizon. Nekota joined me, tossing a stick for the dogs.
"You're scared," he said. Not a question.
I didn't deny it. "Wally's out there. And if I beat this guy, I'm next in line. What if I'm not good enough?"
Nekota lit a cigarette—rare for him. "Everyone's scared before the big ones. Even me, back in the day. The trick isn't killing the fear. It's letting it live in the corner while you fight. You've got Wally's body. Now grow his mentality."
I thought of Ippo—how he turned fear into fuel. How he kept coming even when his body screamed stop.
Fight week. Bangkok. The promoter flew us in. Heat hit like a wall. The arena—Rajadamnern Stadium repurposed for boxing—was electric with Thai flags and chants. Somsak entered to traditional music, lean and tattooed, eyes calm but predatory.
My walkout felt heavier. No tribal drums this time—just steady footsteps. Southpaw stance. Black and silver. The crowd was mostly Thai; polite applause for the visitor.
Bell.
He exploded forward. Combinations like machine-gun fire—jab, jab, left hook, left uppercut. I slipped the first flurry, countered with a body shot. He absorbed it, smiled, then rushed again. Elbow grazed my forehead—ref warning. I pivoted out, used the ring's size.
Round two: he cut me off. Trapped me near the ropes. Short hooks, elbows disguised as punches. One landed—sharp pain above my eye. Blood flowed. I rolled under, came up with a southpaw uppercut that snapped his head. He staggered for the first time.
Round three: chess match. I circled wider, feinted leaps to draw him in, then countered when he overreached. A leaping cross caught him clean—crowd gasped. He answered with a knee on the break—another warning. My ribs ached.
Rounds four and five: attrition. My Nekota endurance began to shine. His pace slowed. Sweat poured. I started landing cleaner—body hooks that made him wince, uppercuts that rocked him back. He still pressed, but desperation crept in.
Round six: turning point. He lunged with a wild left. I rolled under, exploded upward—Wally leap into a short hook that crashed into his temple. He wobbled. I followed: tight uppercut, left cross, body hook. He dropped to both knees.
Count reached nine. He rose—eyes unfocused but stubborn.
Round seven: I didn't let up. Stalked him now. Cut the ring myself. Feinted, stepped in, rolled under his hook—then rose with a perfect southpaw counter cross. Clean on the button. He spun, crashed face-first.
KO7.
The stadium fell quiet for a heartbeat, then erupted—respect more than love. I stood in the center, blood dripping, arm raised. Not flashy. Not monkey-like. Just victorious.
Post-fight, Somsak approached in the tunnel. No translator needed. He bumped gloves, nodded once. "Good fight, monkey."
I smiled through swelling. "Good fight, Buzzsaw."
Nekota waited outside. No words at first. Just a hand on my shoulder.
"You didn't dance. You fought. That's the difference."
Later, in the hotel, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number—Japanese.
"Congratulations. Saw the fight. You're getting closer. — Ippo"
I stared at the screen. Heart pounding harder than during the KO.
Across the sea, Wally's next defense was announced. His opponent: a mandatory challenger from Australia.
But the whispers had already started.
If the Australian lost—or if something happened—the next name in line might be mine.
The doorway to Wally stood ajar.
And I had just kicked it wider.
### Chapter 8: The Monkey's Shadow
The OPBF mandatory challenger spot was mine. Official announcement came two weeks after Bangkok—Tanaka Akira vs. Wally, for the OPBF Featherweight Championship. Date: six months away, venue undecided but likely Manila or Tokyo. The boxing world ignited. Forums exploded. Headlines in Japan, Philippines, Thailand: "Japanese Wally Challenges the Real Wally – Southpaw Showdown of the Century?"
I stared at the press release on my phone, thumb frozen. Six months. Half a year to prepare for the fighter whose style I'd unconsciously mirrored since rebirth. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Nekota's reaction was predictably blunt. He called the moment the news broke.
"Pack your bags. We're going to the Philippines."
No discussion. No congratulations. Just orders.
Two days later, we landed in Manila. Heat and humidity hit like a wet towel. Nekota had arranged everything through old contacts— a remote training camp in the Cordillera mountains, high elevation, rough terrain, isolated. No media. No distractions. Just jungle, dirt roads, and a makeshift gym built from bamboo and corrugated tin.
The camp belonged to an old Filipino trainer named Mang Tony—former cornerman for several world champions, including a young Wally back in his amateur days. He greeted us with a gap-toothed smile and a firm handshake.
"Welcome, Japanese monkey," he said, eyeing me up and down. "Wally talks about you already. Says you move like him, but softer."
I swallowed. "I'm here to learn. And to win."
Mang Tony laughed. "Everyone comes to win. Few do."
Training began at dawn the next day. Elevation made every breath burn. Runs along narrow mountain paths—slippery rocks, steep inclines, dogs trailing behind like in Nekota's old stories. Then sparring: local prospects, all southpaws or orthodox fighters trained to mimic Wally's chaos.
They didn't hold back. Leaping hooks from odd angles, spinning backfists, sudden direction changes mid-combo. I got clipped early— a wild left cross opened a cut over my eye in the first session. Blood mixed with sweat. Nekota didn't stop the round.
"Feel it," he barked. "That's what Wally brings. Unpredictable. You have to become more unpredictable."
I adapted. My leaps grew sharper, less telegraphed. I started incorporating feints within feints—fake a jump, drop low instead, explode upward with an uppercut. Southpaw stance felt alive here, like it belonged in this wild environment.
Afternoons: mitt work with Mang Tony. He moved like an old cat—slow until he wasn't. He'd call out patterns Wally favored: "Monkey roll left—now leap right—uppercut!" I drilled until muscle memory took over.
Evenings: strategy sessions around a fire. Mang Tony shared stories. "Wally wasn't always like this. Kid was skinny, got bullied. Then he found the jungle—climbed trees, fought monkeys for fun. Turned that into boxing. He doesn't think. He feels. You think too much, Japanese boy."
Nekota nodded. "He's right. Strip away the layers. Fight on instinct."
One night, after a grueling day, I hiked alone to a ridge overlooking the valley. Stars thick overhead. I shadowboxed slowly, letting my body move without thought. Leaps felt natural. Twists flowed. For the first time, the "monkey" label didn't sting—it fit.
But doubt lingered. Wally had the original talent. I had a copy—enhanced by rebirth, refined by Nekota, but still secondhand.
Back at camp, a surprise visitor arrived two months in: Ippo Makunouchi.
He showed up with Takamura and a small entourage from Kamogawa Gym. Apparently, Takamura had "business" in Manila (likely a title defense or gambling), and Ippo insisted on coming along to "watch and learn."
Nekota grumbled but allowed it. Ippo and I sparred the next morning—light, technical, no headshots.
He'd grown. Dempsey Roll tighter, body hardened from wars with Mashiba (whom he'd finally beaten in a rematch) and others. His eyes carried more weight now—less shy fisherman, more champion.
Mid-spar, he caught me with a clean liver shot. Air left my lungs. I staggered but stayed up.
"You're different," Ippo said during the break, breathing hard. "Wilder. Like you belong here."
"You've changed too," I replied. "That Dempsey… it's alive now."
He smiled faintly. "I still have a long way. Miyata's waiting. Sendō too. And… maybe you, after this."
The words carried no threat—just acknowledgment. Two paths converging.
Takamura watched from the ropes, arms crossed. After the session, he pulled me aside.
"Listen, monkey. Wally's not human in there. He'll try to break your rhythm, make you chase ghosts. Don't. Anchor yourself. Use Nekota's legs to stay grounded, then explode when he overcommits. And for god's sake—hit him in the body until he hates breathing."
I nodded. Brutal advice, but true.
The final month blurred. Sparring intensified. I faced a revolving door of Filipino southpaws—each one bringing a piece of Wally's puzzle. My chin toughened. My lungs adapted to altitude. My leaps became weapons, not flair.
One week before the fight, Wally's camp sent a video message. Him in a gym, shirtless, smiling that easy grin.
"Yo, Tanaka! Looking forward to this. Let's dance like monkeys, yeah? See you in the ring."
No trash talk. Just excitement. Pure fighter spirit.
Fight week. Manila. Araneta Coliseum sold out in hours. Billboards everywhere: two southpaws, two monkeys, one belt.
Weigh-in: Wally stepped on the scale first—lean, wiry, eyes bright. He flexed, laughed, waved to the crowd. Then me. Same weight. We faced off. No stare-down drama—just mutual nods. Respect.
Nekota gripped my shoulder backstage. "Forget everything. Feel the ring. Feel him. Then take what's yours."
I nodded.
The bell would ring soon.
Two reborn talents. One original, one copied and forged anew.
The jungle had shaped us both.
Now it would decide who walked out champion.
### Chapter 9: The Bell Rings
Fight night in Manila. Araneta Coliseum thrummed with life—over fifteen thousand voices, a sea of Philippine flags waving alongside scattered Japanese banners. The air smelled of sweat, street food, and anticipation. My walkout felt surreal: tribal drums pounding through the speakers, lights strobing, my name echoing in two languages. Akira Tanaka. The Agile Phantom. The Japanese Monkey.
I stepped through the ropes in black-and-silver trunks, southpaw stance instinctive. Nekota followed, face stone. Mang Tony on the other side, calm. My corner was a mix of worlds—Japanese grit and Filipino fire.
Then the music changed. Upbeat, almost playful. Wally emerged—shirtless, grinning wide, bouncing on his toes like the ring was a playground. The crowd erupted. He shadowboxed mid-aisle, throwing exaggerated leaps that drew laughs and cheers. Southpaw stance, lean muscle, eyes sparkling with pure joy. No malice. Just a fighter who loved the fight.
We met center ring for instructions. Referee between us. Wally winked. "Let's have fun, bro."
I nodded once. "Let's."
Bell.
Round one: feeling out. Wally circled loose, feet barely touching canvas—monkey lightness. I mirrored, southpaw lead foot sliding. Jabs flicked out—testing. His were faster, snapping like whips. I slipped one, countered with a body hook. He rolled away laughing. "Nice!"
He feinted left, leaped right—mid-air hook coming. I ducked, felt wind on my hair, answered with an uppercut that grazed his chin. Crowd roared. He landed soft, grinning wider.
Round two: he upped the tempo. Sudden direction changes—left, right, spin, leap. A spinning backfist whistled past my ear. I pivoted, landed a clean left cross to his ribs. He winced but kept moving. My Nekota endurance held; his seemed bottomless. We traded in bursts—my calculated leaps against his wild ones. Even round.
Round three: first blood. Wally trapped me near the ropes, unleashed a flurry—jab, jab, leaping hook. One clipped my cheek. Blood trickled. I rolled under the next, exploded upward—southpaw uppercut catching him flush under the chin. His head snapped back. For the first time, surprise flashed in his eyes. He backed off, touching his jaw, then smiled bigger. "Okay, okay. You hit hard."
Round four: chess with chaos. I started cutting the ring, using footwork to herd him toward corners. He danced away, but I feinted high, dropped low—double body hook. Air hissed from his lungs. He answered with a wild leaping cross that rocked me sideways. Vision doubled for a second. Nekota's voice screamed from the corner: "Anchor! Ground yourself!"
I did. Planted, rolled under his next rush, came up with a short hook to the temple. He staggered—first real stumble. Crowd went insane.
Round five: war. Wally pressed, no more playing. Combinations flew—left hook, right uppercut, spinning elbow (barely legal). I slipped most, countered body. My ribs burned. His face showed the toll—swelling under left eye, breaths heavier. I feinted a leap, instead stepped in tight—short uppercut, hook, cross. He clinched. Ref broke us. He whispered as we separated: "You're good, man. Real good."
Round six: turning point. My stamina—forged in mountains on two continents—began to edge his. Wally's leaps slowed fractionally. I stalked now. Feinted low, leaped high—Wally-style hook crashing into his jaw. He wobbled. I pounced: body, body, uppercut. He dropped to a knee.
Count: one… two… three…
He rose at eight, eyes fierce but fading. The grin was gone.
Round seven: desperation. He came out swinging everything—leaps, spins, haymakers. I slipped, rolled, countered clean. A perfect southpaw cross landed square on his nose. Blood sprayed. He staggered back. I followed—hook to body, uppercut to chin. He crashed into the ropes, slid down.
Ref waved it off. KO7.
Silence for a heartbeat—then the stadium exploded. Half cheering, half stunned. I stood frozen, gloves still up, chest heaving. Wally's corner rushed in. He sat up slowly, blood streaming, but smiling again. Weakly. He waved off help, stood on shaky legs, walked straight to me.
We bumped gloves—hard. "You got me, bro," he rasped. "Took the belt fair. Respect."
I nodded, throat tight. "You're the original. I just… followed the path you made."
He laughed through blood. "Nah. You made your own. Keep dancing."
The ref raised my hand. New OPBF Featherweight Champion. Cameras flashed. Confetti fell. Nekota pulled me into a rare hug—tight, wordless. Mang Tony clapped my back. "You fought like both of us."
Backstage chaos. Reporters. Photos. But one moment cut through: Ippo's face on a monitor in the tunnel—watching from Japan, eyes wide, then nodding slowly. A text buzzed in later.
"Amazing fight. Congratulations, champion. — Ippo"
I stared at it, new belt heavy on my shoulder.
Reborn with borrowed talent. Forged by an old wolf and a jungle monkey. Now the belt was mine.
But the world felt bigger.
Ricardo Martinez loomed somewhere far above.
Miyata waited in super feather.
Sendō growled from his corner of the map.
And Ippo—quiet, unbreakable Ippo—was climbing the same ladder.
The ring never sleeps.
Neither would I.
### Chapter 10: Champion's Burden
The belt felt heavier than it looked. Solid gold plate engraved with "OPBF Featherweight Champion," the leather strap already carrying the faint scent of Manila sweat and celebration. Back in Tokyo, I kept it on the small table in my apartment like a living thing—watching me, reminding me. Sleep came in fragments. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Wally's grin fading as the referee waved it off. Respectful. Graceful. But gone.
Nekota gave me exactly three days off.
"Rest the body," he said over the phone. "Not the mind. Watch tapes. Study the next level. World rankings don't wait for hangovers."
Day four: back to work. No mountains this time. We stayed in Tokyo—Kamogawa Gym had quietly extended an open invitation for "cross-training." Kamogawa Genji himself met us at the door, cane tapping, eyes sharp behind thick glasses.
"Tanaka-kun," he greeted, voice gravelly but warm. "You took the OPBF from a good boy. Now the real sharks smell blood."
I bowed. "Thank you for allowing me here, sensei."
He waved it away. "Spar with my boys. See what Japanese featherweights can do when they're hungry."
The gym smelled of old leather, liniment, and effort. Ippo was there—gloves on, shadowboxing in the corner. He stopped when he saw me, wiped sweat, walked over.
"Champion," he said simply. No jealousy. Just acknowledgment.
"Still chasing," I replied. "You're not far behind."
He smiled that small, determined smile. "Miyata's in America now. Super featherweight. Sendō's gunning for the world title again. Mashiba's climbing too. And you… you just took Wally's belt."
We sparred that afternoon—light at first, then harder. Southpaw versus orthodox peek-a-boo. My leaps met his pressure. His Dempsey Roll tested my guard. We traded clean shots—body, ribs, jaw. No knockouts. Just mutual exhaustion and respect.
After, sitting on the apron with water bottles, Ippo spoke quietly.
"I watched every round. You didn't just beat him with speed. You outlasted him. That's… that's what I want to learn."
I looked at the belt hanging on a hook nearby. "It hurts more than it helps sometimes. Everyone expects you to keep winning. And the next guy always wants to be the one who ends it."
Ippo nodded slowly. "Kamogawa-sensei says the same. The belt isn't the goal. Surviving with it is."
Takamura wandered over, towel around his neck, smirking. "You two are so serious it's disgusting. Monkey boy just stole a regional strap and he's already moping. Lighten up. World's next. Ricardo's waiting somewhere, probably laughing at both of you."
He clapped my shoulder—hard. "But good job. That KO was filthy. Made me proud to be Japanese for like five seconds."
Kamogawa cleared his throat. "Enough chatter. Tanaka-kun, you're ranked #3 world featherweight now. Mandatory challenger talks are starting. The champion… he's watching."
The world champion. Ricardo Martinez. The undefeated monster from Mexico. Undefeated in over sixty fights. No one came close. His last defense had been a thirty-second demolition—opponent didn't make it out of round one. Videos showed him calm, almost bored, dismantling men with surgical precision. Orthodox. Perfect technique. Infinite patience. Infinite power.
Nekota pulled me aside later. "Don't think about Ricardo yet. One gate at a time. Your first defense is coming. OPBF mandatory. Filipino kid—Ramon 'Lightning' Reyes. Southpaw. Fast. Hungry. Reminds people of young Wally."
Training shifted again. Defense became obsession. Ricardo's style haunted the drills—slipping, rolling, countering without wasting energy. I added more in-fighting, more clinch work, more ways to survive when speed alone wasn't enough.
One evening, after a grueling session, I received a package. No return address. Inside: a worn VHS tape labeled "Wally – sparring 2008." A note in shaky English:
"From Mang Tony. Watch. Learn. Then burn it. You're the champion now. Act like it."
I played it on an old VCR Nekota dug up. Grainy footage. A teenage Wally in a backyard ring, sparring with older fighters. Leaping, twisting, laughing even when tagged. But between rounds—serious. Listening. Adjusting. Never the same mistake twice.
I watched it three times. Then I took it outside and burned it in a metal drum behind the gym. Flames ate the plastic. Smoke curled.
No more shadows. No more copies.
I was the champion.
The next morning, the OPBF confirmed it: defense in four months. Manila again. Against Lightning Reyes.
I texted Ippo one line:
"See you at the top someday."
His reply came fast:
"Yeah. Let's both get there."
The belt sat on the table again that night.
It didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.