Pale glimmers of dawn crept through the thin curtains of the inn room, painting faint streaks of light across the floor.
Akihiko lay in his bed, eyes tracing the patterns of the ceiling as he listened to the soft, rhythmic breathing of his foster father, Kentaro. The man was sprawled on his own bed, one arm hanging off the side, his chest rising and falling with the heavy, undisturbed sleep of the unknowing.
For a long moment, Akihiko just watched him, finding a strange solace in the normalcy of his coach's untroubled rest.
I’d wish to sleep like that, oblivious to the hell that unfolds each night. He pondered, a tinge of envy lacing those thoughts. Why does he and everyone can get turned into those coffins, but not me?
Last night’s ordeal seemed more surreal than what it already used to be, like a thread of a bizarre dream unraveling into the uneventful tapestry of reality. But the weight in his chest and the lingering adrenaline in his veins were all too real, remnants of the “midnight paralysis” that no one else seemed to recall.
You can't lie here all day, Akihiko. You have a match to win today, he ordered himself, the boxer's discipline a strong undercurrent beneath the turmoil of his recent experiences.
With a careful, quiet grace, Akihiko slipped from his bedding, moving towards the bathroom. As he passed by the small, framed mirror, a glimpse of himself halted his steps—his eyes, usually sharp and clear, now held a haunted edge, a reflection of the darkness he had faced head-on. He splashed cold water on his face, watching as the droplets raced down his skin, willing the chill to wash away the residual fear and confusion. The bristles of his toothbrush scraped against his teeth rhythmically, a mundane sound that grounded him to the moment, to the simple act of starting a new day.
The “Shadows”, those machines, that strange bike, that… “power” I never knew I had... His mind replayed the events—shadowy monsters stretching into grotesque forms, the city held captive in eerie stillness, self-driving vehicles patrolling the streets, and that raw surge of energy that had erupted from within him. An energy that had felt both alien and intimately his, a force he had wielded when everything seemed lost. As much as I would like it to be all fantasy, it isn’t. This is real. What should I do about it?
The water swirled down the sink, carrying away the remnants of toothpaste and, with it, fragments of his doubt. I can't ignore this, can I? I have to understand it. Get to the bottom of whatever is happening to me, and this city.
A creak from the room signaled Kentaro's awakening.
Akihiko quickly dried his face. schooling his features into a mask of calm readiness. I can’t tell him. He would believe I’m crazy.
Kentaro sat up from his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He then saw Akihiko leaving the bathroom.
"Up before the wake-up call, huh? Are you eager for the drills?" the coach said with a mixture of playful surprise and pride.
The young boxer met his foster father's eyes, a determined spark igniting within him. His training routine was something he knew, something he could control. The strange events of the midnight could wait. Right now, he was the boxer, the “rising star of Kansai” who had to prepare for a big match.
"Always." Akihiko nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Kentaro's grin was a crack of dawn in itself, bright and encouraging. He clapped a strong hand onto Akihiko's shoulder.
“That’s what I wanted to hear. But first, let’s have breakfast.”
***
The afternoon sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows over the entrance of a sports center. A steady stream of spectators, mostly men of various ages, filtered through the gates, their faces lit with excitement. Conversations buzzed around the upcoming event: the finals of the junior featherweight boxing tournament of the Kansai region. Some scattered posters showed the two adversaries: Akihiko Sanada, and the defending champion, Ryou "Spider" Sugimoto.
The air was thick with the scent of popcorn, a tangible buzz of anticipation hanging over the crowd. The spectators, clad in casual wear, shuffled into the hall where the fight was going to be held. Their voices melded into a single, eager drone.
"Heard that Sanada's got a punch like a bullet train," one fan said, his words punctuated by the crunch of popcorn.
"Spider Ryou’s gonna weave a web Sanada can't break out of," his companion retorted, the smirk in his voice clear even without seeing his face.
However, among this crowd of noisy boxing enthusiasts, one spectator stood out starkly. A silent girl with dark red hair, poised and elegant, moved through the crowd with a grace that seemed to belong to another world entirely. Her attire, sophisticated and strikingly out of place among the casual clothes of the other attendees, drew puzzled and admiring glances.
"Who is she?”
“Looks like someone took a wrong turn on the way to a fashion show."
The men murmured, her unnatural seriousness drawing some chuckles and snickers.
But she was too focused on her mission to pay attention to their reactions. Akihiko Sanada… I couldn’t miss this opportunity. I need to see for myself what he's capable of in a controlled environment.
As she approached the gates of the hall, her presence seemed to ripple through the crowd, creating a bubble of space around her. The ticket clerk, a young man with a bored expression that quickly morphed into surprise, looked up as she approached. His eyes flicked over her, clearly curious by her appearance and demeanor at such an event.
Still lost in her thoughts, Mitsuru averted her gaze from the clerk.The strength to summon a Persona... the potential in him is important. But why? Why him? Mitsuru's mind worked like a blade, sharp and cold, dissecting every possibility, even as the furtive chuckles and gasps of the crowd around her swelled like the sea.
“Miss?”
Waking up from her reverie, she lifted her head with a slight start as she heard the clerk adressing her.
"Your ticket, please."
Mitsuru produced the ticket with a nonchalant air, handing it over as if she were at the entrance of an opera house rather than a boxing match. The clerk scanned it, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face, before he nodded and handed it back.
"It’s all good. Enjoy the match," he said, a note of bemusement in his voice.
“Thank you,” Mitsuru nodded politely, stepping through the gates. The arena opened up before her, a wide space ringed by stands that were rapidly filling with spectators. The boxing ring stood at the center, empty for the moment but surrounded by an air of imminent action.
The crowd's chatter and laughter echoed around her, a stark contrast to the silence of the Kirijo Group's command center. Here, in the midst of excitement and anticipation, Mitsuru found herself a silent observer, her eyes set on the arena with an interest that went beyond the sport.
As the moments ticked by, the anticipation in the air thickened, the crowd's energy building towards the climax of the event. The match was about to begin, and with it, a display of skill and strength that would captivate everyone present.
Sanada... there's more to him than meets the eye. Mitsuru thought. How will he handle the pressure of the match? Will the same fighting spirit show up, the same I witnessed during the Dark Hour?
Meanwhile, the locker rooms of the hall were a stark contrast to the buzzing atmosphere of the stands. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the concrete walls and benches. Here, the world was reduced to the intimate ritual between fighter and coach, a sacred moment of preparation and focus.
Kentaro's hands were steady as he wrapped Akihiko's hands with bandages, the fabric winding around the young boxer's knuckles with practiced precision. Akihiko's gaze was fixed, his mind already in the ring, visualizing the dance of fists, feints and footwork that awaited him.
"You know what you gotta do, Akihiko," Kentaro said, his voice firm but imbued with warmth. "Keep your guard up, stay on your toes, and don't give him an inch. You've trained for this; you’ve what it takes to win."
Akihiko nodded, feeling the solidity of the bandages encasing his hands like armor. He slipped his hands into the red gloves, flexing his fingers inside the padding. The gloves felt like extensions of his will, instruments of the fight that called to him.
He was clad in red from head to toe: a red boxing jersey that clung to his wiry but muscular frame. Red shorts that allowed for agile movement, and a red headgear that promised protection in the arena of combat. Red, the color of passion, of fire, of a fighter's heart—this was Akihiko Sanada's war regalia.
Kentaro placed a firm hand on Akihiko's shoulder, locking eyes with him. "Remember, it's not just about brute strength. It's about heart. You've got more of that than anyone I know."
A surge of confidence welled up in Akihiko, fueled by Kentaro's belief in him.
“Let’s do this!” He rose from the bench, his movements deliberate and sure. He was ready.
The noise of the crowd greeted him as he emerged from the locker room with Kentaro. A tidal wave of anticipation crashed over him. But he was a rock now, steadfast and unyielding, as he made his way to the ring.
The ring itself was a beacon, a square of light amidst the sea of faces. Akihiko climbed through the ropes, his presence announcing his readiness to claim victory. Across from him, Ryou "Spider" Sugimoto mirrored his stance, blue gear stark against the red of Akihiko's. They were two fighters, two stories, about to clash in the age-old and wild ballet of boxing.
With hand gestures, the referee summoned the two fighters to the center of the ring, their boots thudding softly against the mat. Once they were gathered before him, the referee's voice cut through the din of the crowd, authoritative and clear. "Gentlemen, I want a clean fight. Remember the rules: no hitting below the belt, behind the head, or on the back of the neck. Break immediately when I call it. Punches must be thrown with the knuckle part of the glove, and I want to see sportsmanship."
Both fighters nodded.
The referee looked at each of the young men in turn, his gaze stern yet encouraging, a silent acknowledgment of the path they had chosen—a path paved with discipline and courage. "Amateur boxing is about skill and technique. Show us what you've trained for. Protect yourselves at all times."
With the rules reiterated, the referee stepped back, his hand raised to signal the start of the match. A hush fell over the crowd, the collective breath of the spectators held in a moment of suspense.
Akihiko and Sugimoto touched gloves, the universal gesture of respect between fighters, their eyes locked not with animosity, but with the mutual recognition of each other's strength and dedication to the sport.
There he is.
With some difficulty due to the headgear covering his features, Mitsuru recognized the silver haired boxer. From her vantage point in the stands, she observed him with keen intensity.
So, this is the side of him that's shaped by discipline and challenge, she thought, juxtaposing the composed boxer before her with the desperate, untamed power she had observed during the Dark Hour. The contrast was striking—here, under the bright lights and roaring crowd, he was a controlled flame, whereas last night, he had been an inferno of potential, unbound and untamed. Her lips pursed slightly, an almost imperceptible nod to herself as she acknowledged the depth of his spirit. Akihiko Sanada, you are indeed full of surprises, she mused silently. Her curiosity piqued as a newfound respect took root.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl8WLc8B1qE
The referee suddenly dropped his hand.92Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSnfxvmE4r2
"Box!"
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然後按「加至主畫面」