The hall trembles as Aramaki steps inside. The noise hits him all at once, not cheers, but a chorus of jeers.

There are still a few voices trying to clap for him, thin and scattered. But they vanish under the weight of mockery that rolls across the stands.

From above, the commentators’ voices spill out through the loudspeakers, smooth and practiced.

"It’s been a while since we’ve seen Aramaki in the ring."

"That’s right. If anyone remembers, his last fight was during the early rounds of the Rookie Tournament, when he faced Ryoma Takeda. And now, he’s back. Not as a fighter from Kirizume Gym, but from Nakahara Gym."

"Quite the controversial move, isn’t it?"

"Well, joining the very gym that defeated you... it’s not against the rules, but it sure explains this reaction."

The crowd doesn’t need a cue. Their judgment fills the air. Banners wave in red and black, Ayano’s name scrawled across them.

This is not Ayano’s fight yet, but still, his fans shout from every side, their words slicing through the noise.

"Loser!"

"You ran to your enemy after losing?"

"You think you’ll get anywhere kissing up to them?"

"Once a coward, always a coward!"

"Just like the guy who beat you, he also ran away from the Rookie King Final!"

"Yeah, a camp full of losers!"

It isn’t really about Aramaki. The crowd is just taking aim at Nakahara Gym, and he happens to be standing on the same ground.

Hiroshi walks a few steps behind, looking uneasy. "Man, this is too much," he mutters.

Kenta shifts his towel from one shoulder to the other. "It’s just an A-License Promotion match. You’d think it was a championship."

Coach Nakahara walks right behind Aramaki, eyes steady on him. He can see how the fighter’s shoulders stay stiff, head tucked under the hood. There’s no fear, but there’s weight, too much of it for one man to carry.

"Don’t listen to them," Nakahara says quietly. "The higher you climb, the louder they’ll get. That’s just how this world works."

Aramaki only nods. His throat feels dry as he keeps his eyes on the ring ahead.

He knows what they’re saying. He’s read the articles about his move to Nakahara Gym, the comments, and the gossip. They call him disloyal, spineless, and desperate.

But they don’t know the rest. They don’t know the quiet kitchen waiting at home, the sound of his daughter laughing when he promises he’ll win next time.

He exhales slowly, and wipes his shoes clean on the mat, a small ritual of focus before climbing the short ladder.

His pride may have taken a beating long ago, but tonight, he fights for something else entirely. It’s not about redemption. It’s about survival, the struggle of a father and husband.

***

Moments later, the lights shift as Junpei Teshima steps into the hall, the banner of Shinryu Boxing Circle displayed proudly behind him.

And to his surprise, the crowd erupts, not in confusion, but with wild cheers.

The same people who were booing Aramaki seconds ago are now shouting Junpei’s name like he’s a hometown hero.

And they don’t even seem to know who he is.

"Here he comes! Junpei the speedster!"

"You got this, Junpei!"

"Outdance that bum!"

Junpei blinks, clearly looks thrown off. He’s never been called a "speedster" before.

Sure, his build is lean, wiry, the kind that screams out-boxer with fast legs. But those who’ve actually seen him fight know better.

He’s a technician with sharp flicker jabs and a philly shell guard. But smooth footwork? That’s never been his style.

Lately, though, he’s been working on it in secret, tightening his pivots, sharpening his angles, making him bounce lightly like genuine out-boxer.

It’s been his team’s quiet project, a surprise meant for tonight. But now, his two corner assistants exchange uneasy glances as they walk behind him.

"Don’t tell me someone leaked it."

"Damn it. If they already know, this fight’s going to be a lot harder."

Coach Junji, walking just a step behind, senses the same unease in Junpei’s body, the stiffness in his shoulders, the shallow breathing.

It isn’t the first time Junpei walks in from the red corner, as the favorite, the expected winner.

He’s used to the pressure, to the cheers that come with being the one everyone bets on.

But tonight feels different.

Maybe it’s that loss to Serrano back in the Rookie Tournament, still echoing somewhere in his head. The kind of defeat that doesn’t hurt the body anymore, but never leaves the mind.

"Eyes ahead, Junpei," his coach murmurs. "Be confidence. They don’t know a thing. Just walk like you own the place."

Junpei exhales, wipes his shoes on the mat before the steps, and climbs toward the ring, straight into the light, the noise, and the illusion that the crowd is his.

***

The light dims as the ring announcer steps in. And soon, his voice beams through the speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we now move to the fourth bout, and now it’s an A-License Promotion Fight!"

"This contest is scheduled for ten rounds in the Super Featherweight division!"

"Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner!

Representing Nakahara Boxing Gym!

Official weigh-in: fifty-eight point nine kilograms!

He’s twenty-one years old, holding a professional record of four wins and one loss, all four victories coming by way of knockout!

Please welcome... Tatsuki Aramaki!"

The crowd reaction rises, mixed cheers and jeers echo through the hall.

"And his opponent, fighting out of the red corner!

Representing Shinryu Boxing Circle!

Official weigh-in: fifty-nine point one kilograms!

Also twenty-one years old, with a professional record of six wins and one loss, all six victories by unanimous decision!

Introducing... Junpei Teshima!"

This time, the crowd erupts in applause, stronger for Junpei, chants of his name rolling across the arena.

After the ring announcer leaves, the referee motions both fighters to the center of the ring.

"Alright, gentlemen," he says firmly. "You know the rules. No hitting behind the head, no low blows. When I say ’break,’ step back clean. Protect yourselves at all times, and fight fair."

He pauses, glancing from one fighter to the other.

"Now touch gloves... and return to your corners."

The two fighters tap gloves, light and cautious, before turning away.

They bounce lightly in their respective corner, easing the tension from their shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the crowd.

And then...

Ding!

The bell cuts through the air. Round one begins.

Aramaki makes his move, sharp and quick, claiming the center of the ring with short purposeful steps.

Junpei refuses to give ground. Right away, he throws a jab, fast, coming from that familiar low angle, his signature flicker.

Dsh!

It lands on Aramaki’s glove, stopping him mid-dash.

More flicker jabs snap from different angles. Aramaki blocks again, slips the last one clean, and then steps out, just beyond reach, recalibrating his next move.

But there’s something different tonight. Junpei is not hiding behind his shoulder anymore. He’s not using that classic Philly Shell this time.

Usually, he’d stand almost side-on, showing only his lead shoulder, hard to hit, easy to counter from. That style kept him safe, patient, and reactive.

But now, his posture faces Aramaki more directly. He’s opened the lane, ready to trade.

His stance says it all, that he’s not here to slip and roll.

He’s here to fight.