He ducks, letting the glove slicing air above his head, and drives a right hook into Sekino’s ribs.

Thud!!!

"Wooooa..." a commentator bursts out. "Ryoma finally lands something real tonight, a sickening blow to the body!"

The sound is dull and heavy, flesh on muscle. The crowd gasps as if a breath has been stolen from the hall.

But Sekino doesn’t show any pain, or maybe he hides it well. His counter comes instantly, a chopping right over the top.

Dug!

It slams against Ryoma’s raised left glove. Ryoma fires back, a sharp double right hook to two different targets; ribs, and then head.

But Sekino’s defense holds.

Dug! Dug!

He catches the first on his forearm, rolls the second with his lead shoulder, and then slides back just enough to breathe, using the smallest possible step.

"Damn... he’s good."

Ryoma stays planted, watching every twitch of Sekino’s upper body.

The exchange is short, brutal, and silent, two craftsmen chiseling fractions of control out of each second.

"What a high-level exchange," a commentator calls out.

"All those punches, all blocked clean," says the other one. "It’s like watching two mirrors clash... offense and defense blending into one motion!"

Knowing Ryoma had taken the lead, Sekino tightens his stance and raises the tempo a beat. He won’t let the round slip away so easily.

His left hand begins the rhythm, flickers snapping through the air like whips, each one sharper, forcing Ryoma to guard high and react to the speed.

Then Sekino suddenly twists the pattern. One flicker swings wider, aiming at Ryoma’s cheek with a light slap.

Ryoma’s right glove shifts up to block the next, but it’s exactly what Sekino wants. Without pulling his left back, he fires at the opening in the middle.

A stiff, piston-like jab blasts out from the half-extended arm, a shotgun jab, shot straight from the forward position.

For an instant, it looks as if the glove had grown larger mid-flight, swelling in Ryoma’s vision before impact.

Dsh!

Ryoma’s head jerks back slightly, eyes widening.

"What the...?"

He steadies his stance, retreating two steps, mind already dissecting the motion that just broke through his guard.

<< That’s a Detroit Piston jab, and not the normal one. He used it with a reverse layering deception. >>

<< Earlier, he mixed slapping flicker into his text-book jabs. Now he’s blending a shotgun punch into his whipping flicker... >>

"Great," Ryoma exhales. "Now I’ve got to find a way out again... while he’s stealing both time and distance from me."

But Sekino doesn’t give him time to think. He steps in with a steady rhythm, left shoulder rolling, keeping the pressure.

The flickers come again, fast, shallow, and constant, forcing Ryoma to move, to block, to read. Each motion hides a threat now. Every flicker could turn into that same shotgun jab at any beat.

Sekino throws another wide slap, light but whipping fast. Ryoma shifts his right hand to cover.

Dug!

...blocked, but another shotgun fires immediately.

Dsh!

It lands flush on the temple, snapping his head to the back.

And before Ryoma can fully reset...

Dsh!

Another jab detonates straight down the middle, snapping through the air like a gunshot.

The crowd erupts, half gasp, half roar, while the commentators’ voices collide in frantic excitement, struggling to capture the precision of the strike.

"Sekino’s mixing it beautifully!"

"The flickers, the slaps..."

"And he’s throwing those stiff jabs perfectly!"

"Ryoma’s guard can’t read the rhythm anymore. Sekino’s left is alive!"

After firing a quick pair of hooks, Ryoma pivots out, sliding to safety and drawing a sharp breath as he resets the gap between them.

"Damn it... it’s like the flicker itself turned into a gun."

<< It’s not just speed now. He’s weaponizing misdirection too. >>

It’s all lefts, nothing more. But they’re grating, relentless, chipping away at Ryoma’s composure.

He used to be the one teasing opponents with his own left. Now he’s the one getting played. Rather than the body, those lefts hurt his pride more.

"I’ve watched his tapes," his eyes narrow. "But seeing it this close... it’s a whole different thing."

For the rest of the round, Ryoma defends on instinct. And Sekino controls the pace, stealing seconds with his two-beat flicker and reverse shotgun, with every feints, and every subtle twitch of his left hand.

Until finally...

Ding!

The bell ends the second round, and once again Sekino walks back to his corner composed and unhurried.

Ryoma shows no real damage, yet his composure frays, anger and frustration seeping through each ragged breath.

"His composure is annoying... I’ll give him that."

<< Funny... that’s exactly what every boxer you broke once thought about you. >>

"...Maybe."

***

In the red corner, Yuichi greets his fighter with a single measured nod, a restrained gesture, but confident.

"You did great," he says. "You owned that round again. Sit, breathe, and keep your composure. We’re going to make this fight a nightmare for him."

Sekino lowers himself onto the stool, breathing through his nose, one deep inhale, another, and then stillness.

His body glistens with sweat, more than the first round but not yet strained. His eyes stay fixed across the ring, sharp and unblinking, watching the other corner as if the bell might ring again any second.

Around him, his team moves with quiet precision. Tsuchida kneels by the ropes, wiping the sweat from Sekino’s shoulders and neck with clean, efficient strokes. A young cutman leans in, dabbing a new layer of Vaseline across Sekino’s cheekbones and brows.

Shiki passes the bottle, and Sekino takes a quick sip, swishes, spits neatly into the bucket. No ice bags, no swelling to treat, he still looks fresh, just burning hotter than before.

Yuichi watches the whole process like a conductor overseeing rhythm. "How’s the body shot?" he asks without ceremony.

Sekino exhales through his nose, a small grunt of acknowledgment. "It stung," he admits, "but I can manage."

Yuichi nods once, satisfied. "Good. Don’t let it change your rhythm."

Despite Sekino’s calm exterior, Yuichi can see the heat simmering in his eyes, a quiet focused rage straining beneath control.

He understands it well, but for now, that anger is nothing but noise, a distraction from precision. So he leans forward, elbows on knees.

"I know you want to break that kid for what he did to Kanzaki," he says, voice even. "But don’t rush it. Keep the anger buried. Slow the torture. We’ll punish him properly after we drain him empty."

Sekino doesn’t argue. He closes his eyes for a moment, centering himself. When he opens them again, they’re steady, the anger folded neatly beneath control.

Shiki glances up. "Your impression of him?"

"He’s good," Sekino says. "It only needs two clean hits, and he already read my phantom flicker. Even paid it back with that body shot. He’s not a rookie anymore."

"Then he’ll adapt fast," Shiki warns. "We need to move to the next phase before he adjusts to your reverse shotgun."

Yuichi’s tone hardens. "We’ve won two solid rounds. I think it’s safe to take a bit risk now. Time to raise the pressure. Keep him guessing with the flicker and the reverse shotgun. When the opening’s there, go to the body. Don’t let him breathe."

Sekino nods once, calm, eyes still locked on the blue corner, already watching his next move.