For Dylan, boxing wasn't a discipline with any practical purpose. Even if he needed to prepare to fight humans after the Transfer, his real enemies weren't them but monsters and races that were physically far superior to humanity. Therefore, engaging them in hand-to-hand combat wasn't a viable option—at least, not outside of a desperate situation.
So, for him, this was nothing more than a way to condition his body, mind, and reflexes to the act of fighting itself. It allowed him to dissolve vague, haunting memories under familiar sensations—like the sting of a punch, the pressure on his knuckles, and the tension running through his muscles.
And although Roberto wasn't the best opponent he could find—if he truly wanted to—facing him helped Dylan revisit the basic principles of combat: moving with maximum efficiency and learning to read an opponent's movements… though in this case, that wasn't exactly a challenge.
After Dylan retrieved the two pairs of gloves he had bought some time ago—once he felt his physical condition allowed him to pursue new goals—he returned with them in hand and found a different scene. Roberto had already sprung into action: he'd moved the dining table and chairs aside, clearing enough space in the middle of the living room.
Normally, they would have trained in the backyard to avoid accidents like breaking something by mistake. However, that favorite spot was wet and slippery from the rain, making it impossible to train there. So, the only alternative was to spar inside, leaving just enough space to avoid any mishaps. That task had been assigned to Roberto, while Haru watched from the sofa, leaning her torso against the backrest, munching on snacks and sipping a different soda from before.
Seeing her still eating, Dylan frowned and threw out a comment that sounded suspiciously like petty payback for the scolding she'd given him earlier.
"You should stop," he said, first pointing at the bowl in her hands, then at Roberto, who was now moving any remaining fragile objects out of the way. "Unless you want to end up like him."
"I'm not fat!"
Realizing he'd been used as an example of what not to become, Roberto couldn't keep quiet. His voice shot up in protest, though his body told a different story. After barely moving some furniture—a task that could hardly be called exercise—he was already sweating and panting.
"Touch your stomach," Dylan replied instantly. "Feel that beer belly and keep saying it until you believe it."
Roberto almost reflexively brought his hand to his belly but stopped halfway, unwilling to face the hard truth that his best days were behind him. Then, he clicked his tongue and continued moving the last objects out of the improvised ring.
"I don't gain weight," Haru added, showing off her excellent genetic inheritance and accelerated metabolism, courtesy of her youth.
Besides, as if the conversation about her figure no longer concerned her, she took a final sip, stood up, and approached them with sparkling eyes.
"So, you guys are really gonna fight? Can I see everything from here? How often do you do this? Is there some kind of ritual? Like a handshake or a thirty-second bow? Who's got the better win record…?"
Faced with the excited Haru, who was hoping to witness a combat worthy of being recorded in the annals of history, Dylan raised an eyebrow. Roberto, on the other hand, let out a snort, instantly lowering her expectations.
"Bah! What's so exciting about this? I've never beaten this monster even once…"
. . .
Roberto wasted no time. Putting his recent theoretical boxing studies—watching old fights from the nineties before bed—to use, he stepped forward and threw a probing jab with his left, followed by a more committed hook with his right.
His stance was far from professional: full of openings, and even slower than Dylan, who was lighter. That's why Dylan knew he wouldn't have trouble dodging his attacks and saw no need to hold back. He treated Roberto's clumsy flurry as a warm-up, trying to make it look like an even match in front of Haru: a young, attractive girl.
Dylan simply stepped back half a pace, letting the first punch brush past his nose. Then, with a quick extension of his arm, he gave Roberto a gentle shove on the shoulder. It wasn't a hard hit, but enough to knock him off balance, forcing him into an awkward stumble.
"Keep your center of gravity," Dylan critiqued flatly.
"Oh!" Haru exclaimed, clapping from the other side of the room
That's why, before beating him down as originally planned, he intended to offer some advice—even if it wouldn't be well received right now.
"I know!" Roberto grunted, frustrated.
He hated being treated like a kid getting his mistakes corrected. He respected Dylan, even envied his determination. But that didn't mean he could see him as a mentor. It was hard when, not long ago, he had considered Dylan inferior in every way.
Raising his guard to his face, Roberto moved forward more decisively this time. Two steps closed the distance, sacrificing his reach advantage. He twisted his torso slightly and fired off a decent two-punch combo.
Dylan deflected the first, coming from the left, with his wrist. The second, more powerful strike, he dodged with a slight lean and a lateral step that left his opponent slightly turned, exposing his flank.
Before Roberto could recover his stance, Dylan delivered a sharp body shot to the ribs. Like before, it wasn't heavy, but landed clean enough to echo through the room.
"Oh!" Haru exclaimed, clapping from the other side of the room, starting to clap, fascinated by the spectacle.
As someone who loved fantasy more than real sports, she didn't know much about boxing, but that didn't stop her from enjoying the quick movements of the two men, who at times almost escaped her sight.
In contrast to her enthusiasm, Roberto clutched his side while panting, letting out a groan straight from the soul.
"This is so unfair, man. You've been training like crazy for months, and I haven't set foot in a gym in years."
It was mostly a stalling tactic to catch his breath. But Dylan's reply made him regret speaking.
"It's not my fault you wreck your body drinking like an idiot every weekend."
That one hurt him more than the punch.
Roberto exhaled sharply, swallowing his excuses. Stepping back a few feet, he adjusted his guard again, took a deep breath, and charged for a third round; this time ditching finesse entirely. He threw punches wildly, driven purely by instinct.
These were the strikes of someone who wanted to win, no matter how. He wanted to prove to everyone present—and to himself—that he wasn't as out of shape as they claimed.
Despite the erratic flurry, Dylan kept moving efficiently, using minimal energy. His focus was on honing his ability to read the fight rather than his physical skill.
He didn't counter harshly; only when necessary. A deflection here, a dodge there. When an opening appeared, he took it. That's why every strike landed precisely: on the arm, the side, the stomach. All with controlled force but enough to wear his opponent down.
After a few exchanges, Roberto was gasping like he'd just run a marathon. His arms heavy, sweat burning his eyes, he made one last desperate charge. He lowered his head like a bull about to ram, but instead caught an uppercut square to the chin that made stars dance before his eyes.
Finally, without any drama, he let himself fall flat on his back.
"Screw this. I'm never doing this again," he muttered through clenched teeth.
If it had been a real fight, he could've gotten back up. But this wasn't one, and he chose to stay down, not moving a muscle, until Haru finished the ten-count.
Once she loudly declared the salesman's victory and raised his arm like he was the champion of a world tournament, Dylan turned his head to look at her. Her flushed face drew an involuntary smile from him, born from the relief of having vented his stress on his improvised human punching bag.
"Did you like it?" he asked without thinking.
Haru nodded enthusiastically, her hair bouncing across her forehead. There were still plenty of snacks left in the bowl on the coffee table between the couches, but she hadn't even thought about eating since the fight started.
"Where did you learn to do that?!" she asked, nearly breathless. "You looked like one of those ancient martial arts masters with centuries of experience!"
Dylan's smile twisted at the oddly accurate comparison, but soon he shrugged and gave a vague answer.
"Internet. Back in college, I used to watch a lot of boxing cards and famous fights. I picked up a thing or two along the way."
It was a clumsy explanation, no doubt. But for Haru—naïve after living in her bubble—and for Roberto—who was all too familiar with the effectiveness of his strikes—there was little to question.
In fact, his words acted as a trigger: Haru was already eager to go home and start learning how to fight, just like he did.
Reading her thoughts in her eyes, Dylan hesitated for a few seconds before finally asking the question that had been on his mind for days.
"Hey, Haru… would you like to train with me?"