Across from him, Noguchi blinks at Ryoma’s words, then smirks. His grin spreads slow, amused, like a gambler who just saw the winning card in his hand.

He believes the ref’s on his side. Believes Ryoma’s already digging his own grave with every protest, every glare.

And so, the war in tight space begins.

Ryoma pushes off the ropes, shoulders rolling, fists snapping out in stiff jabs to carve a lane forward.

Noguchi’s arms jut out again, crooked and pawing, disrupting the line before the punches can breathe. He doesn’t wait. He crashes forward.

Ryoma hammers a right cross down the middle, but Noguchi slips inside, clamps onto the arm, and clinches tight.

That’s when Ryoma’s system lights up.

<< Referee position: 9 o’clock >>

Inside the suffocating clutch, Noguchi sneaks short blows behind Ryoma’s ear, quick and sneaky. His forehead grinds hard against Ryoma’s temple, nudging, searching for the eyelid like he might scrape it raw.

The referee sees everything, his head cocks, eyes narrow, but he squints as though the details blur. Only pretending to inspect. Pretending not to notice.

The Vision Grid pulses a new prompt.

<< Option available: drop level + roll right shoulder >>

Ryoma obeys instantly. He dips low, then snaps his shoulder upward like a piston.

Thunk!

Noguchi’s chin jolts skyward. His eyes widen in surprise, a faint grunt slipping out. From the ref’s angle, though, it looks clean, nothing to call.

Ryoma seizes the opening, wrenching his right arm free. He digs a hook to the body.

Bug!

The clinch loosens. A narrow gap opens, and Ryoma floods it with three quick shots.

Thud, thud... bug!

Two absorbed on the guard, but one burrows into the ribs.

Noguchi snarls, his grin cracking, and shoves down hard on Ryoma’s shoulder with his left forearm. He fires back immediately, right hook upstairs, left hook to follow, then another to the body.

But Ryoma reads him clean. He ducks under the first, slips past the second, lowers his guard to absorb the body shot on his arms.

Then he counters...

Bug!

...burying a right hand into Noguchi’s gut.

The crowd explodes. Finally, an exchange that looks alive, honest. The cheers swell like a tidal wave, shaking the rafters.

Noguchi grunts, folding slightly at the waist. Ryoma twists tighter, hips cocked, and snaps a compact left hook. Noguchi blocks, but Ryoma’s already uncoiling the follow-up. His right hip drives through, fist like a hammer.

Bam!!!

The sound ricochets through the arena. Noguchi buckles, guard trembling.

Ryoma doesn’t pause. He whips a left across, smashing against Noguchi’s guard...

Dsh!

...and the sheer impact shoves him backward.

A space’s created. A precious sudden space. And Ryoma surges forward, lead foot planting, right fist cocked for the finisher.

But here Noguchi pulls a trick, a dirty one.

Swssh...

His stance flips in a blur, switching to Southpaw. His right foot whips across, kicking Ryoma’s lead foot out of line.

"What the...?" Ryoma’s balance wavers.

Noguchi pounces, dropping a chopping right hook.

Ryoma throws his arms up, but the impact barrels through anyway, force alone knocking him off balance. He stumbles back, knees wobbling, then drops to the canvas.

It’s not by the punch, no clean strike, only a slip.

But the referee doesn’t hesitate.

"Down!"

He strides in, chopping his hand, waving Noguchi to the neutral corner.

Ryoma freezes, disbelief stabbing into his chest. Then rage ignites, and he slams a fist on the canvas.

"What do you mean down?! That was a slip!"

The ref doesn’t even blink. His face stays blank, cold, as he begins the count.

"Three..."

"Four..."

Ryoma rockets to his feet, fury boiling. "Stop the damn count! He didn’t even hit me!"

"Five..."

The finally referee leans close, all calm detachment, as if reciting a script.

"Are you okay? Can you continue?"

"Okay my ass! He didn’t even touch me!"

The ref’s eyes harden. He lowers his hand, stabbing a finger at Ryoma.

"Watch your mouth. This is your final warning."

Ryoma’s fists tremble at his sides, veins bulging along his temple. But the words tear free anyway.

"You’re blind, and you know it!"

That’s when the ref spreads his arms wide.

"Stop! One point deducted, red corner!"

The arena erupts. Half booing, half confused, a storm of outrage and disbelief.

In the red corner, Nakahara slams the apron so hard it rattles, roaring curses that vanish in the noise. Hiroshi is out of his seat, both arms waving furiously.

And across the ring, Noguchi hides his smirk behind his gloves, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Ryoma seethes, fury pressing against the edges of his restraint. His fists clench like he might strike the referee himself.

But then...

<< Alert: Emotional spike detected. >>

<< In the art of dirty play, composure is mandatory. >>

<< Rule #1: Never let anger expose your hand. >>

The mechanical voice slices through his haze. Ryoma freezes, glare still locked on the referee, chest heaving. But the cold detachment of the Vision Grid steadies him.

Noguchi studies him from the corner, smirk widening. To the casual eye, Ryoma looks like he’s unraveling. But inside, Ryoma clamps down. His fury simmers, but does not boil over.

He does the math fast. A knockdown scored against him, a point stripped on top of it. Even if he’s not behind yet, he’s dangerously close. The fight is being bent, rigged in plain sight.

But none of it surprises him anymore. He knew walking in that fairness wasn’t part of tonight’s rules.

***

The referee claps his hands...

"Box!"

...and just like that, the fight resumes.

Ryoma storms forward, no hesitation, eyes sharp. Noguchi sidesteps with ease, arms stretched in that crooked probing guard, lips curling.

"Yeah... come here," he taunts, voice thick with mockery. "You don’t have any other choice, do you?"

Ryoma ignores the bait and throws. Heavy punches now, hooks and straights, high and low, flowing in rhythmic bursts. He wants to drown him in volume, take back control by force.

Noguchi keeps dancing, long arms pawing, slapping, disrupting. Shots slip through, but not with full venom. Each one deflected just enough to soften its bite.

The crowd’s cheers roll and twist, half for Ryoma’s aggression, half for Noguchi’s slipperiness.

Step by step, Noguchi works his way back to center ring. And his grin sharpens. Winning on points isn’t enough anymore. He wants to break Ryoma in spirit.

He slaps Ryoma’s left hand down, flicks a jab, then a straight, stepping in closer. His arms spread wide, ready to wrap and strangle.

The Vision Grid pings.

<< Incoming clinch detected >>

<< Counter prompt: compress guard, elbows tight, gloves sealed to chest >>

Ryoma reacts in a blink. His arms snap in tight, elbows pinned, gloves tucked under his chin. A fortress.

Noguchi lunges to clinch, but his hands skid off solid guard, failing to snake inside. The tie-up collapses, broken before it can begin.

And his grin twitches. "Tch..."

He lashes two short hooks instead, desperate to keep pressure.

But Ryoma blocks clean. And another prompt lights up.

<< Create space: left forearm wedge to chest or collarbone. >>

Ryoma jolts his left forearm forward, subtle, bracing against Noguchi’s chest. Not a shove, not enough to draw a foul. Just a frame.

The wedge halts Noguchi’s charge cold. His shoulders bunch, but he can’t collapse the gap.

He growls, trying to hug deeper, but Ryoma’s Grid pings again.

<< Strike window: short-range punch. Target: body. Torque from thighs + hips. >>

Ryoma’s knees bend, hips coiling tight.

From the wedge of space, he lets the hook fly.

"Eat this!"

Bug!

The right hand buries into the ribs.

Noguchi’s face twists, a grimace ripping across his smirk.