The red corner no longer worries about winning. In truth, Takashiro is not even sure if the commission will let Ayano has his A-license after this fight, when he actually boxes like a total amateur.

After dozens of clean jabs to the face, Ayano’s balance finally gives way. His body sways, knees trembling as he forces himself forward.

Ryoma could’ve hit him with another jab, but he doesn’t. He just lets Ayano fall.

"Ayano’s down again..." one commentator says, almost incredulous. "And all of it with just the left hand."

"It’s pure humiliation," the other adds. "He’s not just beating him. He’s bullying him with textbook jabs."

"Will this be it?"

"If he can’t even get up from that, it’s going to be one hell of an anticlimax."

But Ayano refuses to stay down. Before the referee even begins the count, he’s already pushing himself up again.

His legs are still alive, though unsteady. His head’s spinning from too many clean shots to the face.

"You okay?" the ref asks, watching him closely. "Can you still fight?"

"I’m fine," Ayano pants. "I can still move. My fists are still alive."

Finally, Takashiro calls out, swallowing his pride, ignoring the insult from earlier.

"Has it gotten through that thick head of yours yet, Ayano? The guy you called a coward is schooling you with just his left hand! How long are you going to let that ego drive you?"

Ayano’s breath catches. For the first time, the words sink in.

Was I really that strong?

Now he begins questioning the perfect record that’s defined him since his debut.

Were they just too weak?

No... I know they were good. I studied them before every fight.

So why did they freeze before my fists?

Were they just cowards?

Afraid to get hurt?

His half-lidded eyes lift, locking on Ryoma.

"But he’s different..."

He remembers that solid contact, the moment Ryoma felt his knuckles. He knew Ryoma felt his power. Saw it in his face.

"He wasn’t scared."

"He even stepped in for an exchange."

Finally, Ayano sees Ryoma for what he is. Not a coward, not a kid, but a true boxer, a man ready to get hurt.

"I should’ve known it."

"He took a beating from Aramaki and never backed down."

Ryoma steps forward again, and this time, Ayano answers properly; using his left the way Takashiro taught him, fast, compact, disciplined.

He doesn’t overcommit. Every punch retracts cleanly.

Ryoma dodges, rolling his shoulders, looking for an opening. When he tries to pivot in, Ayano’s already tightened his guard.

DUG! DUG! DUG!

Ryoma’s 1-2-1 combo thumps harmlessly into Ayano’s gloves. Ayano fires back immediately with a sharp series of lefts, forcing Ryoma to duck and dodge, before slipping away.

"That’s it!" Takashiro yells. "You won’t turn the fight around like that. But you’ll survive the round. Just get back to me after the bell!"

Ayano finally listens. Just like in his debut match, he follows his coach’s words to the letter.

"When was it? When did I stop using these simple jabs?"

He keeps the left firing; steady, accurate, and heavy, keeping Ryoma out.

"That’s right... the fight against Chomei."

"He was broken too soon. Gave me an easy one round knockout."

"And my next opponent started seeing me differently."

"They’d scared even before getting punched by me."

"Yeah... they gave me easy wins. And it got over my head."

Jab, jab, and jab. Even if it’s only his lead, it carries weight.

Ryoma catches a few on his guard and feels it.

<< His punches are still dangerous. >>

"I know..."

He searches for a path to get inside, but every attempt is shut down by Ayano’s reach and precision.

<< He’s recovering. You should finish this round before he gets dangerous again. >>

"Shut up... let me study his left for now."

He slows his rhythm, circling, feinting, probing jabs from the outside.

But Ayano gives him nothing. His guard stays tight, his stance sharp, his jab perfectly reactive. His feet even start pivoting lightly, shifting his weight with textbook balance.

The pace builds again, an intense quiet where no real punches thrown, yet every move matters.

Ryoma realizes he won’t find any real opening unless he takes a risk. And he’s never been one to shy away from taking one.

He steps in with a stuttering pivot, throwing probing jabs. Ayano meets him with his own, their fists flicking through the air in rapid exchanges.

Most miss, some deflect, but Ryoma gets inside anyway.

Ayano pulls his left back just in time and covers high.

DUG! DUG! DUG!

Ryoma’s 1-1-2 combo pounds the gloves. Then he dips low, taking the risk to step in deeper...

BUG!

...a clean left hook to the body lands.

But Ayano doesn’t give it away for free. He absorbs the blow and counters with his own left hook.

Ryoma drops his right to block...

DUG!

...but the collision still knocks him off balance, and the follow-up jabs force him to retreat.

<< See? His punches are still alive. >>

"Yeah... and I won’t drop him without getting hurt myself."

<< Then what are you waiting for? Take the hit and end it. Or are you afraid? Of a man who’s already broken? >>

The system’s taunt grates at him, enough to make his blood boil. Ryoma scowls, but his eyes stay sharp, dissecting Ayano’s condition.

He sidesteps right, gaze flicking over different parts of Ayano’s body; like a craftsman examining where to strike next.

But this isn’t just scouting. He’s analyzing.

Ayano’s face is a mess, swollen, streaked with blood along his cheek and nose. His right eyelid’s puffed nearly shut. His guard still looks solid, though and tight, disciplined, proof there’s still fight left in him.

But his legs...

<< There it is. No drive left in his legs. No spring in the knees, no hip rotation. His punches have no base. Just take the hit, then end it. >>

Ryoma exhales, decision made.

"Fine... Let’s give the crowd a show."

He pivots lightly, crouching, flicking out probing jabs while studying the rhythm.

"Look at that, folks!" one commentator bursts out. "Ryoma’s breaking the stalemate. What’s he planning here? Is he looking to finish it?"

Ryoma steps into range, and Ayano reacts, firing off crisp textbook jabs. Ryoma slips and blocks, inching closer, just enough for his own left to connect.

Then the exchange begins, rapid, sharp, and brutal.

Jabs trade against jabs, guards clashing, gloves snapping through the air.

Ryoma slips under a left and drives forward. Ayano pulls back, covering high, but...

BUG!

Ryoma buries a rear hook into the ribs.

Ayano grits his teeth and fires back with a right hook toward the head...

DUG!

...caught clean on Ryoma’s glove.

And Ryoma strikes again, high–low combo...

BUG! DUG!

...the body shot lands, but the head shot glances off the guard.

Ayano fires a jab–cross–hook combination, tight and disciplined. But Ryoma’s not retreating anymore. He blocks the jab and the cross, ducks under the hook, and slips in an uppercut.

DHUACK!

Ayano’s head snaps back, momentum stalling.

And Ryoma presses in, one compact jab, then two sharp hooks.

DSH! DSH! DSH!

Ayano absorbs them, gritting through the pain, and fires back on instinct. His right digs into Ryoma’s ribs, and his left hook clips the corner of Ryoma’s mouth.

But Ryoma doesn’t flinch, ignoring them. He drives through the hits, pouring more punches into Ayano’s face.

The crowd explodes as the exchange unfolds, gloves cracking in tight quarters, each blow echoing through the arena.

"Go, Ryoma... Go!"

"Punch it out!"

"Don’t give up, Ayano!"

"Break him!"

The voices blend into a single thunderous chant, a pulse of chaos and adrenaline that shakes the ring itself.

Then Ayano staggers first, forced backward, retreating into a turtle guard. His arms stay high, gloves glued to his temples, soaking the barrage.

Each blow sends a shock through him. His mind flickering toward blackout every time Ryoma’s glove crashes into his skull.

"This guy is... strong."

"It’s so hard just to touch him."

"Even when my punches land, he keeps coming."

"He’s... a monster."