The word got out. It was the only explanation for the changes I noted around me at the compound on the days following my fight with Wyshnewski.

When I came to the communal dining hall, stares of the fighters riveted upon me, their heads came together in whispers, their bodies shifted on the mats. Their usual disparaging attitude was replaced by one of interest, curiosity, and on rare occasions even respect.

K received glances of admiration and considerably deeper bows, which she accepted with the same neutral demeanour as before. When our eyes met during this newly acquired, still quite inconspicuous veneration she acknowledged the change with a thin smirk, sharing her satisfaction only with me.

I realized I became regarded as a serious fighter, a valid competitor to other fighters and I revelled in this new role.

Kentaro was nowhere to be seen in days. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe he avoided me, or K, on purpose. My heart sang at the thought of his hurt ego.

He reappeared towards the end of the week. K and I arrived at the hall for my training just as his fighters finished their session. On his order they briskly collected their stuff and exited the hall, ignoring our presence. Wyshnewski was not with them, not on that day or any other day after.

When I asked K if he was okay, fearing his absence might be due to some heavy injury he sustained during our fight, she told me he was sent home. I was quite shocked.

“Losing like that to an unknown newbie in sparring…What did you think would happen?” she said coldly.

Would that have been my fate too had I lost? I knew it was a tough game, but the ugly face it showed at times still surprised me.

My trainings continued with slight adaptation until my eye healed completely, then they resumed with the usual intensity but without the sparring for which I was secretly glad.

I didn’t fail to notice the persistent stare of Kentaro’s prime fighter Yachi each time we met in the gym or the dining room. His eyes were hungry for revenge, and while there was no talk between Kentaro and K about another sparring, for Kentaro refrained even from greeting K, I knew that one day he and I would meet in the ring.

After one of the trainings, K surprised me with an invitation. “This Saturday you’re coming with me to Tenko. There’s an event we need to attend,” she announced out of the blue.

I stopped wiping my sweaty body with the towel and frowned. “Tenko? What event?”

I hadn’t been to Tenko since Kenichi’s suicide and wasn’t eager to return. Bad shit happened to me each time I stepped into that doomed place.

“Just a thing that Yamato Damashi does every year…”

“What…. like a karaoke evening?” I joked.

“No, not like karaoke evening,” She gave me a stern look. “It’s an official gathering. Everyone will be present.”

“Oh… The oyabun too?”

“Everyone.”

“Well then… I suppose I should go.”

K’s face scrunched up at my flat, indifferent tone. She turned to leave and while walking away added: “And wear something nice…”

“Wait!“ I called after. “What do you mean by nice?”

She paused, tilted her head back, and let out a loud sigh. With reluctant steps, she returned. “Shower and get dressed…we’re going to Ginza.”

Ginza, a fascinating area of Tokyo full of boutiques and glamorous department stores – the type of place I’d never go to out of my own initiative. Lucky for me, we didn’t saunter mindlessly through a number of available clothing stores, instead, K led me from the train station straight to the top floor of one of the fashionable depatos, where we entered a small boutique.

A lady, of about the same age and as refined in style as Mrs. Yamamoto, rushed from the counter to welcome K. After exchanging pleasantries they both turned their stares at me. K talked while the lady was sizing me up from head to toe. We were the only customers in the store.

The murmur of their softly spoken voices continued as they directed me toward a standing mirror, where the lady began taking my measure.

“Is she going to make me a suit?” I said, feeling uneasy. Never in my life have I had clothes tailored for me.

K chuckled. “No, it’s too late for that. You’ll get something they have in stock.”

“But…I don’t see any men’s clothes…” The store had only a few dresses displayed in the store

K answered with a slight smirk, which spoke of a plan behind it.

Unexpectedly, and to my utmost delight, this shopping experience differed greatly from the one with Emile, and everything was over in less than half an hour.

After the lady finished taking my measurements, I was presented with a set of clothes to try on. Black, slim-fit jeans, soft and comfortable, a white shirt with a silky feel on the skin, and the last, most impressive garment -- a dark-grey, straight-cut jacket, almost knee length, with no collar. Apart from minor adjustments, which the lady of the shop meticulously marked with pins -- the pants were a bit too long as well as the sleeves on the jacket – everything fit me quite well.

I thought the long-gone suit Emile got me looked fancy, but seeing myself in the mirror I realized the outfit I was wearing now was on another level. It was simple, yet utterly refined, elegant and manly, the quality of it seen and felt in the fabric as well as in its design. I put my hand in the pockets of the jacket and turned sideways a few times, enjoying its smooth texture and the dignified look it gave to my body.

“Happy?” K asked.

Still looking at the mirror I nodded a few times. “Yup, nice stuff. Fits me too. My size…” I turned to her. “What do you think? Is it nice enough?”

“Will do.” She stood with her hands crossed, eying me with a smug smile. “Now go and change, we’ll leave the clothes here for adjustments. They’ll be sent to the compound when ready.”

Appreciative and in admiration of K’s efficiency in such a banal but, for me at least, tedious matter of shopping for clothes I retired to the changing room, satisfied with the purchase.

“Are you a regular customer here?” I asked K, while we waited at the counter.

“Mh-mmm.”

“Huh...would never say this shop is your style…”

“Oh yeah? What is my style?”

“I mean…You know…much more simple…and…” Cheaper, unsophisticated, immature, monochrome…” Well…simple…”

“Huh…” She gave a little scowl. “I’ve known Miss Makino, the owner, for a long time. Whenever I need something for special occasions I come here. This place is…how you say…top notch?”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “That’s why---“

Miss Makino’s return saved me from blurting out another, possibly self-damaging remark. She handed K a paper bag with a wrapped package inside.

“Is that a dress for you? Can I see it?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“What about the payment?”

“Don’t worry, it’s taken care of.”

“Wait…” I took hold of her arm. “What do you mean by that? I want to pay for my clothes.”

“It’s fine, it’s….it’s covered by Yamato Damashi…it’s part of the budget for their fighters.”

Bullshit.

“Keep your stipend for your other expenses.”

Knowing my stipend was anyway K’s money too, I didn’t want to enter into an argument with her. I had already decided back then, when Sunny told me about K’s personal sponsorship, that once I’d get money from winning fights, I’d pay K back every single yen, including this, in all probability outrageous amount she paid for my suit.

K brought me the clothes on Friday. Saturday, after the morning training, I rested, then in the afternoon I took another shower, shaved, and put on the new outfit.

To see the whole me in the mirror I had to bend my knees.

I liked what I saw. Perhaps this time, I’d get lucky in Tenko.