Both commentators catch it instantly, their laughter slicing through the roar of the crowd.

"Well, look at that... the kid who froze under stage fright finally found his tongue!"

"Yeah, and he’s using it to taunt a veteran. Bold move... or suicidal."

Ryohei freezes. The words dig deep, stoking something dark under his ribs. The crowd’s laughter swells, mixing with the pulse hammering in his ears.

He can’t tell if it’s rage or adrenaline, only that it burns hot and bright.

"You can’t just ignore that kind of jab!" one commentator goads.

"What’s Ryohei gonna do now?" the other adds, voice sharp with anticipation.

Ryohei’s lips twitch, anger flaring.

But then, a crazy thought flickers through his mind, dangerous, reckless, but perfect.

Still, he lets the mask of anger take over.

"You son of a bitch!"

He lunges forward, right hand cocked, wild and unrestrained.

Kobo grins. "Amateur."

A jab flicks out first.

Ryohei sees it coming. But he grits his teeth, and takes it clean.

Dsh!

Then comes the cross.

But this is exactly what Ryohei wanted.

His face goes still, eyes icy cold, almost dead. He steps in, stopping the punch mid-extension with his left glove.

Thud!

And the next heartbeat...

BAM!!!

His right explodes against Kobo’s face, hard, brutal, sickening. The sound is dull, meaty, and final.

Kobo’s head knocked back, sweat, blood, and spit bursting into the air like shrapnel.

For an instant, the whole arena goes silent.

Kobo’s corner looks stricken, white faces, mouths hanging open.

Then chaos erupts. The crowd cheers and claps, acknowledging Ryohei’s determination and courage to deliver that last counter.

Kenta clutches his head, pacing in disbelief, while Hiroshi nearly climbs the ropes, shouting, half-laughing, half-screaming.

"He did it! He actually pulled it off!"

The commentators lose it too, their voices overlapping in stunned euphoria.

"Oh my god, what was that?! That’s insane!"

"He baited him! He took the hit and turned it into a counter! I’ve never seen anything like that in this weight class!"

"This is unbelievable... nobody expected a knockout like that from Ryohei!"

The referee’s voice finally cuts through the noise.

"Neutral corner! Go to the neutral corner!"

Ryohei obeys, legs wobbling beneath him. His arms feel like they’re carved from stone, his gloves heavier than his body.

Each step toward the neutral corner feels longer than the whole fight. His chest heaves, his breath scraping dry through his throat.

He reaches the corner, turns, and folds his hands against the top rope, praying silently.

Don’t get up... please, don’t get up.

He can still feel it, the solid crack against his knuckles, the perfect angle, the precise timing. Every inch of it tells him Kobo shouldn’t be standing again.

But the count keeps going.

"Five..."

"Six..."

The sound stretches, warping in his ears. His vision blurs at the edges.

"Seven..."

Then, impossibly, Kobo stirs.

His body twitches. He plants one glove on the canvas.

"Eight..."

He’s up. Barely.

The referee steps close, searching his eyes, asking something Ryohei can’t hear. Kobo’s face is a ruin of red and sweat now, his legs shaking, but his gaze is dazed and empty.

Ryohei just stands there, arms heavy, head bowed, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. The adrenaline drains out, leaving him numb, spent, and almost weightless.

He thinks it’s over already. Win or lose, he’s just got nothing left to give.

But then the referee waves his arms.

It’s done.

Kobo can’t lift his gloves. His corner stays frozen.

The crowd detonates again, this time chanting Ryohei’s name in unison, loud, raw, and relentless.

Kenta and Hiroshi vault into the ring, grabbing him, laughing and yelling, shaking him like they can’t believe he’s real.

And above it all, the commentators shout over the roar.

"Ryohei lands the counter of the night!"

"What a finish! This fight just redefined heart and timing!"

The bell rings, but nobody hears it.

Only the chant fills in the hall. This time, finally acknowledge him. Even the Cruel King’s Army, who supported Ryohei on Ryoma’s request, finally gives him their support, a genuine one this time.

"Ryohei! Ryohei! Ryohei!"

***

Back in the blue corner’s locker room, the air feels still and heavy. The fight blares from the wall-mounted TV, the crowd’s thunder echoing faintly through the corridor.

Ryoma and Nakahara watch in silence. Neither of them cheers when Ryohei’s hand is raised.

It isn’t that they aren’t proud. They both are. But the broadcast had carried something more than the fight.

They’d heard Ryohei’s voice during the corner break, when the cameras were too close, the mics too sharp.

"You think I don’t know I’m not Ryoma? You think I’m proud of that? You think I enjoy being the guy he crushes every damn spar? You think I like hearing them keep bringing his name into my fight?"

Now that line loops endlessly in Ryoma’s head, playing over the noise of the victory chants.

On the screen, Ryohei is being helped down the aisle by Kenta and Hiroshi, his arms slung over their shoulders, every step unsteady but defiant.

The crowd still roars his name. Flashing cameras follow his slow march, a hero’s sendoff.

Ryoma’s expression doesn’t move. His jaw stays set, his eyes unreadable. Nakahara glances at him but acts like he doesn’t know what Ryoma thinks.

"He did it," Nakahara murmurs finally, voice low. "He finally pulled a counter, something the old Ryohei would never do."

Ryoma nods once. "Yeah."

A long silence stretches between them. Beyond the closed door, the roar of the crowd seeps in, faint and uneven, like a heartbeat fading through layers of concrete and distance.

Ryoma exhales through his nose, gaze fixed on the screen where Ryohei disappears into the tunnel.

Then he turns toward the door and waits for them to arrive.

But he doesn’t know what he’ll say when Ryohei walks back through that door,

whether to congratulate him, tease him, or just stand there in silence.

Because somehow, after that confession, a victory feels heavier than a loss.

***

Moments later, the door finally swings open, and laughter spills in.

Kenta and Hiroshi stumble in first, cracking jokes about Ryohei’s insane gamble, still buzzing from the adrenaline.

"I swear, man," Kenta laughs, clapping Ryohei on the shoulder, "you looked like you’d given up, and then bam! You turned him into a statue!"

"Yeah," Hiroshi adds, grinning wide, "that counter’s going viral before the night ends."

Nakahara welcomes him, his face split between pride and disbelief. "You’ve got some nerve, Son. That was one hell of a risk to take. I’ve seen fighters freeze at less."

Ryohei lifts his head, the exhaustion etched deep on his face, and manages a small shrug.

"Honestly... I thought it was over," he admits quietly. "Couldn’t bait that brat into swinging wild. I was ready to just hold the lead. But then he taunted me, and I saw it. Guess I got lucky."

There’s a pause.

And then Ryoma finally speaks. His voice is calm, even, but there’s a gravity in it.

"No," he says. "That wasn’t luck. That was a calculated counter. You read him, adjusted, and executed it mid-fight. That’s not luck. That’s awareness."

Ryohei looks at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable. He doesn’t reply, just looks away, breathing slow.

Ryoma takes the silence for rejection, and the others sense it too. The air in the room stiffens, the laughter fading into something awkward and thin.