Chapter Thirty-One: The Physical Examination

Atsushi Aoki donned his gloves, striking the heavy bag before him with a rhythmic series of sharp cracks.

“Keep the rhythm, understand? Rhythm!” the temporary coach muttered at his side, lecturing Atsushi as he demonstrated. “When you throw a punch, you must always remember rhythm. Decide how each punch is thrown, which comes first—do you aim for the head or the liver, how do you string each strike together? It’s all about your own rhythm. If your opponent falls into your tempo, he’ll never be a match for you.”

“Alright.” Atsushi nodded. The coach gestured for him to look over, raising his padded mitts and instructing with earnestness, “Come on, hit the pads. When I say ‘one,’ hit my right hand, ‘two,’ my left. If I say ‘pass,’ you duck and evade. Got it?”

“One-two, PASS, one-two. One-two-one, one-two-one, one-two, PASS, one-two…” Atsushi punched with focused effort.

“How’s his training going?” Matsuyama Iwa’s voice sounded from behind.

The temporary coach lowered his hands and smiled. “Not bad, actually. He’s got good physical potential.”

Atsushi, breathing heavily, wiped his sweat and smiled at Matsuyama.

“Come, I’ll train with you.” Matsuyama signaled for the coach to take a break, took the pads himself, and led Atsushi into the octagon.

Taking up an entire octagon for basic training was a privilege few enjoyed—curious eyes watched from all around.

“What did he just teach you?” Matsuyama asked casually.

He still looked rather glum; Atsushi guessed things hadn’t gone well with Arlong, but that was none of his business. Calmly, he replied, “He showed me how to hit the bag—one-two-one, that sort of thing.”

Matsuyama nodded silently. “Your strength is good, your arms and legs are long, and your reflexes and instincts are strong. You’re well-suited for ground techniques. Your height is a slight disadvantage for stand-up fighting against those tall, rangy guys. You know, reach is crucial in boxing. Aside from basic boxing, I’ll focus your training more on ground work. How does that sound?”

“Uh, sure.” Atsushi nodded. His knowledge of MMA was limited to a few matches and highlight reels from his previous life—he’d simply follow the professional’s advice.

Matsuyama raised the pads, his tattooed arms bigger than Atsushi’s legs. “First, I’ll evaluate your basics, then test your physical attributes. Starting tomorrow, I’ll set out your meal plan. You’ll need to follow it strictly; otherwise, your nutrition won’t keep up and overtraining will harm you. I’ll handle your stand-up techniques. For groundwork, that coach earlier teaches Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu—you’ll start with him.”

“Alright.” Atsushi replied simply, watching as Matsuyama gestured for him to punch the pads however he liked. Atsushi threw four or five punches before Matsuyama, expressionless, signaled him to stop.

“Now, roundhouse kicks—left and right.”

After a few kicks, Matsuyama let out a disappointed sigh. “Your technique is only passable; your power mechanics are barely refined. You’re strong, but you’re only using about eighty percent of your strength. With just two months, even four hours of technical practice a day might not be enough.”

Atsushi glanced at his skill, just a few points away from reaching level two, and smiled with confidence. “I pick things up pretty quickly.”

“Then I’ll be watching,” Matsuyama said, his mood too sour to continue. He put down the pads. “Come on, let’s test your physical stats.”

Obediently, Atsushi followed Matsuyama to a strength-testing machine—a bag-like apparatus, sturdier than the arcade versions.

Atsushi stretched, inhaled deeply, and struck hard.

The hiss of his punch cutting through the air was swiftly followed by a heavy thud at the point of impact.

“One hundred eighty kilograms.”

Matsuyama had him punch with his right hand again.

“One hundred sixty-three… one hundred seventy… one hundred seventy-five… one hundred seventy-two kilograms.”

After four punches, Matsuyama instructed him to switch to the left.

“An average of one hundred sixty kilograms.”

“Leg power—right leg, three hundred seventy kilograms; left leg, three hundred fifty.”

Matsuyama recorded the numbers and led Atsushi through further physical tests. (As for punch strength, I’m not about to use those wild numbers floating around online—like Tyson’s supposed eight hundred kilogram punch, nearly a ton, which would punch holes through people. Better to stick with average adult measurements.)

“Height—one seventy-seven centimeters. Reach—one eighty-three. Weight—fifty-nine kilos. Body fat—five percent…”

Matsuyama studied the readouts, nodding. “Your strength far exceeds untrained peers, but you’re still a long way from a professional fighter. Your physique is too lean; you need to bulk up. For now, you’d only qualify for lightweight. The Supernova Tournament’s lightweight cap is sixty-four kilos. You must gain up to that in two months to be truly competitive. By then, your stats should improve further. Your body fat is extremely low—good and bad. It means you must focus more on conditioning your muscles against strikes, making them denser and harder.”

He exhaled, feeling a headache coming on. There was so much about this kid that needed work. Still, at least his baseline was strong.

Atsushi hadn’t expected it to be this involved, but he felt confident. His physical prowess already slightly surpassed an adult’s, enough to lock Arlong down on the ground—and Arlong, as a semi-pro, should be quite strong. Improve his technique and skill a bit more, train scientifically, and in two months, even without the system’s help, he could probably boost his stats by a point or two.

He should be able to reach tournament level.

Though he still wondered what exactly Matsuyama meant by “professional level.” With the system’s help, Atsushi figured he wouldn’t need to rely on eating endless vegetables or those dreadful nutrition blends. As for gaining weight, he wasn’t worried—he seemed to be in a second growth spurt, already measuring one seventy-seven. If he could add another three or four centimeters, he’d be just about perfect.

“Alright, here’s your contract.” Matsuyama handed him a paper. Atsushi glanced through it—everything matched what they’d discussed, so he put it away.

“For today, train your basic techniques with Coach Ota. Tomorrow I’ll have your plan ready. Be here before seven in the evening.” With that, Matsuyama took his leave.

“Alright.”

Atsushi nodded, sought out Coach Ota, and resumed the monotonous one-two-one punching drills. It wasn’t until ten at night that he, utterly exhausted, finally staggered home.