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The square ring, awash in dazzling lights, served as the arena for a brutal battle within a compact 37.21-square-meter space.
Punches flew in a relentless exchange while feet pounded against the canvas without end.
Sweat glistened in the air as blows landed on each other’s faces, scattering light into glittering sparks.
In a contest governed by a ruthless law—one fighter seizing glory as the victor while the other left defeated and alone—nobody was willing to be the loser.
So, with gritted teeth, they unleashed a barrage of punches.
"Down!"
"Waaaaaah! Jin Peterson! Jin Peterson! Jin Peterson!"
As fists clashed, the towering blond fighter crumpled to the canvas, while the boxer with his long black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail strode to the neutral corner and raised his fist.
Hearing the crowd chant his name, Jin recalled the long, painful road his life had taken.
For Jin, family was synonymous with pain, cruelty, and neglect.
As far back as he could remember, his father would beat him at every opportunity, while his mother offered nothing but indifference.
Ultimately, his father ended up in prison and his mother’s descent into drug addiction left him abandoned from the age of six.
After a drug-addled mother eventually cast him out, Jin had to survive on the streets from the age of seven.
Although the southern city’s warmth prevented him from freezing, the harsh street life of a seven-year-old mixed-race child without anyone to shield him was pure torment.
In the city where Jin grew up, Asians were a tiny minority, and he drifted alone, unable to find acceptance among any group.
One day, while rummaging through trash cans for discarded food, Jin wandered down an alley, noticed a building with its back door ajar, and slipped inside to sleep.
The next day, he was discovered by the building’s owner. Moved by Jin’s plight, the man took him in, becoming his legal guardian and even bestowing upon him his surname.
Jin’s venture into boxing began purely because the man managed a boxing gym—and he would beam with pride every time Jin stepped into the ring.
Fortunately, Jin possessed a natural talent, growing stronger at a remarkable pace.
While attending school he was encouraged to aim for the Olympics, yet he chose instead to launch his professional career at the age of eighteen, steadily climbing the ranks.
After a relentless schedule of five fights a year during his late teens, Jin entered the world title bout in the autumn of his twentieth year sporting an unblemished 11-0 record.
Though he eventually lost after a grueling, bloody battle, Jin emerged transformed—not merely a gifted boxer fortunate enough to stumble upon success, but a fighter who saw boxing for its true worth and was reborn with a genuine thirst for championship glory.
From that moment on, his life surged forward.
Even as his schedule mellowed to three fights a year, he reigned supreme as a formidable champion.
And today, in his thirtieth professional fight, he was once again claiming victory with his own fists.
"Eight! Nine! Ten!"
"Waaaaaah!"
As the referee bellowed the final count and swept his arms from side to side, the arena erupted in a deafening roar that threatened to tear off the roof.
In that moment, Jin hoisted the right arm he had rested on the ropes and roared triumphantly.
"Uwaaaah!"
I am the strongest!
He did not speak the words aloud, but his heart screamed them as he advanced toward the center of the ring.
He tried to take a step.
In an instant, the ring floor rushed up to meet him.
His vision flickered to black before plunging into darkness.
Feeling his limbs go numb and his heartbeat slow, Jin knew that death was closing in.
Not yet. There’s still so much I have to do...
Under those brilliant lights, absolute silence descended, and Jin slipped into unconsciousness.
That was the end.
**
There was a time I thought this was truly the end.
Gazing up at the colorful mobile swaying from the crib’s ceiling, Kirishima remembered the very moment of his rebirth.
When he came to, everything around him was a blur.
Amid the confusion and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, someone scooped him up upside down and gave his bottom a playful smack.
"Waaah! Waaah!"
The unexpected pain made him cry out—and remarkably, his cry came out sounding exactly like a baby’s wail.
Startled, Jin struggled in vain until he was cradled in warm arms.
"My baby. My precious baby. Thank you for coming into the world safe and sound."
"Wha... huh?"
Though he could tell the words were likely Japanese, he had never learned the language, so all he could do was tilt his head in confusion.
"Eek! So cute! How can our Eijiro be this adorable!"
He couldn’t decipher the rest of the conversation, but the name “Eijiro” rang clearly in his ears.
As he tilted his head again, he saw another figure approaching through his still-blurry vision.
"Honey! Are you okay?"
"Oh, you’re here? Look at our baby. Isn’t he just the cutest?"
In a voice choked with emotion, the man embraced both the baby and the woman before saying, "Thank you—for keeping him safe and for such a smooth delivery."
"No need to thank me. It’s all thanks to you. Eijiro was such a good baby that even when he was still in my belly, things were never too difficult."
"I was worried when he didn’t arrive on time, but I’m so relieved he was born safely."
"Oh, enough of that. Come hold our Eijiro. Isn’t he just stunning?"
"R-right. I should. Eijiro. I’m your dad. I’m your father!"
Hearing the repeated name and watching the clumsy yet heartfelt way the man cradled him, Jin finally understood.
This was his new name—and proof that he had been reborn.
Well. It’s nice that my parents are so much better than in my last life, but...
Kirishima Eijiro finished his reverie and stared blankly at the mobile above his narrow crib.
Though three months had passed since his birth, daily life continued unchanging, like a wheel stuck in endless rotation.
When it was time, he would drink the breast milk his mother provided, drift into a haze thinking this and that, and eventually fall asleep—the endless cycle of a baby’s day.
At first, he had been embarrassed by the act of nursing, but he soon grew accustomed to it.
The real challenge lay in the long stretches of empty time between feeding and sleep.
He tried hard to eavesdrop on his parents’ conversations or follow what was on the TV, yet when left alone in silence, there was nothing to do but wonder about the future.
But really, what am I supposed to do?
From the moment his eyes first opened, he sensed that this world was unlike his former one.
When his mother accidentally dropped a cup on her foot—and her skin briefly flushed red before remaining unscathed—he noticed something was off.
He had long thought it odd to see people flying or breathing fire on TV, but had assumed them to be characters from the hero movies of his past life.
That explanation, however, felt increasingly implausible given how frequently such phenomena appeared, and how the broadcasts bore a strangely news-like tone.
Only after witnessing his parents use inexplicable abilities did he realize how drastically different this world was from the one he once knew.
I can’t imagine boxing surviving in a world like this...
He would need to investigate further, yet no matter how he thought about it, the idea of a sport based on equal conditions seemed utterly out of place in a world where superpowers reigned.
Sports depend on fairness—the idea that both sides compete under the same conditions. How could a sport like boxing thrive when everyone starts with different advantages?
Sure, contests of ability might exist, but that wouldn’t be boxing at all.
For Kirishima, who had once been a world champion in his previous life, that reality was a bitter pill to swallow.
Hmm. Maybe I should just live an ordinary life like everyone else?
For a brief moment, the thought of living a typical life—doing what everyone else did—flitted through his mind.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. But Kirishima quickly shook his head.
No way. I can’t live like that now!
His mother, folding laundry at the time, noticed his determined head-shake and snapped a picture because he looked so adorable—though Kirishima remained blissfully unaware.
He clenched his fist tightly.
Having experienced the exhilaration of fists colliding, the joy of overpowering an opponent and emerging as the sole victor, an ordinary life was simply not an option.
"Abu! Abu-bu!"
I’m going to become the strongest!
After much deliberation about his future, Kirishima finally concluded that in a world teeming with life, there must always be the strong and the weak.
And so he vowed that, regardless of the circumstances, he would become the strongest.
That is, until he burst out shouting for no apparent reason—and his mother came over.
"Our Kirishima. Did you poop or something? Let’s check."
With practiced ease, his mother removed his diaper to inspect him.
"Not a poop—are you hungry?"
When his mother checked his bottom, Kirishima’s face flushed with embarrassment.
Although he had gotten used to drinking breast milk, the fact that he couldn’t control his bodily functions and needed his mother to change his diaper was still something he longed to overcome.
Of course, he felt gratitude for the gentle warmth of a mother’s touch—something he had never known in his previous life—but he yearned to handle even this on his own as soon as possible.
Unaware of his inner thoughts, his mother picked him up and allowed him to nurse.
He hadn’t actually yelled out of hunger, but in retrospect, he did feel a little hungry, so he simply drank the milk.
"Aww, our Kirishima eats so well. Who do you take after, eating so nicely? Mommy? Daddy?"
Only catching familiar words like “Kirishima,” “eats well,” “milk,” “mommy,” and “daddy,” he merely made a soft sound and withdrew from his mother’s breast.
His mother carefully laid him back into his crib and returned to her laundry.
Ah, I’m full. Now I’m getting sleepy.
After his satisfying meal, sleepiness crept over Kirishima, as naturally as it does for a baby.
No! I have so much to think about—I can’t fall asleep again!
Kirishima fought with every ounce of his strength to stay awake.
Then he wondered if standing up rather than lying down might stave off the drowsiness.
He strained himself and attempted to rise.
Still lying down, he lifted his torso and grasped the wooden bars of the crib with both hands.
He then tucked his legs underneath him and planted his feet firmly on the floor.
With his hands braced for support, he slowly began to muster the strength in his legs and rise.
Huff, huff. Why is this so hard?
It felt even tougher than the time he had once wagered a friendly deadlift contest with a friend from his MMA days in his past life.
While Kirishima strained with all his might, his mother returned after tucking the folded laundry away and noticed him trying to stand.
"Oh my!"
Seeing him struggle on his short, chubby limbs, she immediately whipped out her phone.
They say babies don’t start crawling or attempting to stand until about six months old. Our Eijiro must be a genius!
Unaware that his mother was busy snapping pictures while cooing over him, Kirishima concentrated solely on rising slowly.
Grrraaaah! Nothing is impossible for me! Get up! Stand up! Legs, you can do it!
After what felt like an eternity of groaning and straining, Kirishima finally managed to stand upright on his own two feet.
He had risen entirely unaided.
"Abuu!"
Overcome with joy, Kirishima erupted in a cheer, raising his right arm in the same triumphant pose he had once struck after a victory in his previous life.
"Yay! Eijiro! Good job! You did it!"
Only then did his mother exhale the breath she had been holding, her voice ringing out in delight.
Turning toward her voice, Kirishima lost his balance, fell, and banged his head against the crib’s wall.
As pain surged through him and consciousness began to slip away, he thought, Is there some curse on my victory pose, or why do I always black out when I strike it?
That was the last thought as he watched his mother rush over in alarm.
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