Junji’s voice cracks from the apron, desperate and impatient. "What are you waiting for, Junpei? Don’t waste it. Hit him! Mix your punches!"

Junpei forces himself forward. Every nerve screams. The pain in his ribs flares like a live wire, but he ignores it and throws his left.

It’s just a setup, not a strike.

Swsh.

The jab is sluggish, half-extended, short of its target even though Aramaki’s well within reach.

Then he pivots and throws another left.

Dug!

Now it lands on Aramaki’s glove, light, glancing, nothing of consequence.

So Junpei mixes in the right, sending a heavier straight.

BAM!

It lands flush on Aramaki’s guard, solid impact, but no breakthrough. The sound alone excites the crowd, but Junpei feels how shallow it is. There’s no sting left in his punches.

He tries again: a light left, more of a touch than a strike, then another right behind it. Two consecutive rights follow; a straight on the guard, then a body shot to the ribs.

BAM! BUG!

Aramaki absorbs both. He grunts but doesn’t fold.

Junpei can see the man’s hurt, but not enough. His own exhaustion has drained the power from his arms.

Still, he keeps mixing; probing left, then two consecutive rights again. The left is barely more than a feint now, just something to disguise the heavier hand.

"Junpei’s turning up the pressure," a commentators beams, excited. "He’s mixing his shots beautifully. He’s looking to close the show right here!"

"But Aramaki’s not breaking," says another one. "Look at that guard, tight and disciplined. He’s eating those shots on the arms and body, just waiting for his moment."

The longer Aramaki endures, the more it drives Junpei mad. It makes him impatient. Finally, he steps in closer, lowers his stance, trying to load more momentum into the next right hand.

That’s when Aramaki strikes, launching a short right hook downstairs.

Junpei sees it, and the motion alone freezes him. Pain jolts through his ribs at the very thought of being hit there again.

Instinct takes over. He halts his swing, drops his left elbow to protect that side.

"Block it," he thinks. "And then counter."

BAM!

The punch slams into his guard. He blocks it, but the shockwave slips through, vibrating straight into the injured ribs. The flare of pain is instant and brutal.

Junpei winces, and then retaliates. His right cuts through air, throwing a counter.

But the timing’s off. Aramaki’s already raised his left to meet it.

Dug!

The counter blocks clean.

And Aramaki ducks lower, pivots right, and goes to the body again.

Junpei staggers back before too late, desperate to avoid it. But now he sees the stance, the same one he saw before.

It’s the same rhythm, the same spring in the knees. His memory flashes back to that earlier "gazelle punch," the one that nearly ended him.

"No... this is dangerous," he breathes.

Aramaki leaps in, his whole body twisting behind a right hook aimed to the same ribs.

Junpei crosses both arms over his left side, protecting the wound with everything he has.

BAM!

The hook crashes into his guard, the impact so heavy it knocks him sideways, his balance broken.

Junpei reels but stays upright. Aramaki closes the distance instantly. He shifts his left foot to the outside and drives another body combination; two rapid hooks, one low, one high.

BAM! BUG!

The low shot traps Junpei’s arms, pinning them. The high one comes through clean, clipping his cheek.

Dsh!

Junpei’s head snaps, but not enough to drop him. His vision flashes white for a heartbeat. He steps back, almost stumbling, and forces distance between them.

Aramaki doesn’t chase. He’s breathing fire through his mouthguard, but his legs aren’t ready to sprint. He knows the space benefits him as much as it does Junpei.

***

For the first time since the exchange began, both men pause, chests heaving, eyes burning through the fog of pain.

Junpei hesitates. He knows that tiny window has gone. His opponent has found his footing again. And now, if he forces his luck here, he might be the one to break.

So he just circles, slow, wary. His left arm hangs lower now, useless for flicker jabs. Every motion of his ribs feels like knives turning inward.

He moves sideways, step by step, gloves still up, probing, feinting. But he doesn’t commit, not throwing anything. He’s not even in range, and deep down, he knows he’s running out of options.

"What now...?" he thinks. "What do I do now?"

Across from him, Aramaki steadies his breathing.

He can feel his legs returning, feel the fog clearing from behind his eyes. The sting in his ribs from Junpei’s body blow has dulled, replaced by something steadier.

Junpei doesn’t see it, but Aramaki’s rebuilding himself one breath at a time.

And then...

Ding!

The bell cuts through the tension like a blade. The eighth round ends, and the arena exhales all at once, before clapping together.

"Good work, you two!"

"That’s the fight we’ve been waiting for!"

"Keep mixing it up... trade those punches!"

In the red corner, Junpei’s team is almost jubilant. He’s still leading comfortably on points. Only two rounds left, and they can already see the finish line.

But inside the ropes, their fighter doesn’t share that optimism. Junpei trudges back to his corner, the ribs still screaming in pain, his face drawn tight.

The crowd sees determination; but Junpei’s eyes tell something else. He sits, leaning forward slightly. His breathing comes short, uneven.

"You’ve done a great job to come this far," Junji says quietly, crouched in front of Junpei’s stool. "Now it’s only a matter of time. Two more rounds, that’s all. Even if he wins both, the victory’s still yours."

Junpei exhales through his nose, voice low and brittle. "Only if he stays away from me."

Junji meets his eyes, searching for a hint of confidence, some spark to hold onto. But Junpei only shakes his head once. The movement is small, almost apologetic.

"What?" Junji presses. "Can’t you even fight anymore? You can still throw your fists, right?"

One of the assistants cuts in before Junpei can answer, too eager, too loud.

"No need to worry, Jun! You’ve still got the flickers. Your footwork’s solid, remember? You can keep him off. Here... let me get some blood flowing."

He kneels and begins massaging Junpei’s thighs, working down to his calves with practiced motions.

They all saw Aramaki land a few solid body blows in this fight, but none of them believe it’s serious enough to cripple Junpei.

They’ve drilled him for this, ten rounds of endurance, simulated pain, body shots, exhaustion. Junpei’s legs, they think, will carry him through anything.

What they don’t know is that the problem isn’t his legs.

"My ribs..." he says quietly. "The left side."

The assistant’s hands freeze. He looks up slowly, color draining from his face.

"Your ribs? Did you hurt your ribs?"

"I’m afraid I’ve broken one... maybe two."

Junji’s expression hardens, the truth sinking in like ice. "Was it from that double exchange?"

Junpei nods. "I went all in for that counter. Thought it’d finish him. But he got back up... and now I’ve got nothing left. I can’t even breathe deep without it burning inside."

Silence settles between them. The air in the corner feels thick. The bell hasn’t even rung yet, and it already feels like the fight is slipping away.