Sekino’s supporters finally seize their chance to make themselves heard. Their side of the arena rises in a single wave of sound, the disciplined roar of loyal veterans answering the chaos of Ryoma’s fans.

It starts low, and then builds with rhythm and intent, echoing through the hall like a drumbeat of authority.

"Break that cocky brat, Sekino!"

"Teach him a lesson!"

"Show him how a real boxer fights!"

It isn’t the wild feverish chant of Ryoma’s Cruel King’s Army. It’s just sound of people who have seen this story play out before and already know how it ends.

From the press row, the journalists study Ryoma closely, noting the difference in him tonight, his form now isn’t quite the one they know.

"He’s not fighting like himself tonight," Sato says quietly. "Like he’s holding back. I don’t know if something went wrong during training, or a bad cut. It just... feels off."

Tanaka, seated beside him, doesn’t look away from the ring. "He’s just being too careful," he says. "Too focused on reading Sekino instead of fighting on his own term."

Sato exhales, his gaze following Ryoma’s restrained footwork. "Maybe," he admits. "It’s the first time he’s faced someone with real experience. It’s normal to be cautious... but if he stays this cautious for too long, he’s going to lose it."

Down in the ring, Ryoma keeps the same measured rhythm, staying in the fight without overusing his legs. He presses forward with compact punches, trying to close Sekino off against the ropes.

But Sekino has already slipped back into his Philly Shell, catching the shots on his forearm before sliding away again, each step a lure, baiting Ryoma to chase him.

"Come on, kid!" he calls, voice sharp through the noise. "Come catch me. I thought you were better than this. What’s wrong?"

Ryoma doesn’t bite. He keeps stalking him at a steady pace, conserving his breathing, his legs.

He’s not being overly cautious. He’s being greedy, not greed for points or punches, but to reveal all the veteran’s tricks.

He had cracked Sekino’s two-beat flicker and the reverse shotgun jab. Then there was the sly trick, the one that pried open his guard, slipping a glove under his elbow before digging the hook to the ribs.

Now, as Sekino resets his stance and waits from mid-range, Ryoma circles slowly, studying, recalculating the puzzle in front of him.

"Really... I didn’t see that last one in his previous fights."

<< Maybe it’s something he built just for you. >>

"Wow... I’m honored. And he’s been so generous, already showing me three tricks. Let’s see if he’s still hiding another one."

Ryoma starts the hunt. But this time, Sekino doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground, answering with flickers that flow into one seamless chain of reversals.

From textbook jab to two-beat flicker, then twisting into the shotgun jab.

Dug! Dug! Dug!

Ryoma reads each transition, blocking, slipping, keeping his guard compact. But still, Sekino keeps layering the rhythm, his left hand alive, dictating the pace.

Then, with a subtle drag of his rear foot, Sekino drops a right to the body.

Ryoma lowers his glove...

Dug!

...blocked.

But Sekino repeats the same sly trick, sliding his right glove over Ryoma’s elbow before yanking it back, prying the guard open.

Ryoma’s breath catches.

"Again?"

<< You idiot! >>

Sekino’s left hook whips toward the ribs. Ryoma braces, taking the blow, and fires a chopping left in the same breath.

Both punches land almost together; Sekino’s hook to the body, Ryoma’s counter across the cheek.

The sound is heavy and sharp.

For a heartbeat, both men reel back.

Then the crowd erupts as the two fighters start trading punches, mixing compact hooks and crosses in tight space.

"Finally!" one commentator shouts. "They’ve stopped calculating. They’re slugging it out!"

"A hook to the gut... blocked, and Ryoma answers upstairs!"

"He slips inside again! Another uppercut lands clean!"

"Here comes the follow up"

"Whoa... this is madness!"

Sekino tries to disengage, but Ryoma presses forward, cutting off his exit. The rhythm breaks down into chaos, for once, Ryoma welcomes the mess.

The math is gone, only instinct remains. But the sharp eyes and the Vision Grid’s assistance give Ryoma an edge.

"Sekino’s counters are sharp, but he’s losing ground in these trades!"

"And finally, Ryoma’s taking back control!"

"Another hook... Ryoma ducks, and fires back... Sekino’s retreating now!"

"He doesn’t want to stay in this brawl!"

And then, after a brief return to the war of jabs...

Ding!

The bell rings, and the round ends to a roar of approval from the crowd.

Sekino turns away quickly, hiding the flicker of irritation beneath his calm.

Ryoma bumps his gloves together, a faint smirk under his breath as he walks back to his corner, eyes still locked on his opponent, already scanning Sekino’s condition.

He’s eaten three body blows this round, nothing he can ignore. But nine clean shots landed in return during the slugfest, enough to steal the round.

Sadly, as Ryoma watches Sekino return to his corner, he can’t spot any trace of real damage. Sekino’s strides stay steady, his breathing heavy for only a moment after sitting down, and then perfectly calm again.

<< He really can take a punch. >>

"Yeah... and I’m afraid this is really going to be a long night."

Ryoma folds that thought away and eases onto the stool.

His corner snaps into motion with practiced calm, a gloved hand slips his mouthpiece free, another offers a cup; he sips, swishes, and spits.

Kenta wipes his brow and neck with quick, efficient strokes while Hiroshi kneads the calves and hamstrings with light, deliberate pressure.

Nakahara crouches close, watching Ryoma’s chest rise and fall, the beads of sweat tracking down his temple. He studies every breath, every twitch in the sweat, cataloguing condition and fatigue like a surgeon.

"You did well to steal that round," Nakahara says finally, voice low. "But he got three body shots in on you."

"Can’t help it," Ryoma answers. "I had to sacrifice a little to make him reveal everything. But I’m done studying. I’ve seen everything he has. Doubt there’s any new trick left to show. Next round, I go full throttle, no holding back."

Nakahara doesn’t reply at once. He glances toward the red corner, eyes narrowing as he watches Sekino, and then returns his gaze to Ryoma.

"And he’s ready for that," he says slowly. "He still looks solid, even after the shots you landed. Knocking him down won’t be easy. Can you keep moving those legs all the way to the last round?"

Ryoma meets Nakahara’s look. There’s the ghost of doubt behind his eyes, but he keeps it shut away.

"Do I have another strategy?" he asks.

Nakahara lets the question hang a beat, breath passing out in a long, resigned line.

"Okay. Take back control," he says at last, voice tightening with resolve. "Don’t let him land a punch... I mean it: not a single clean shot. Keep using your legs. Hit-and-run. Rack up points. If we get lucky, something will open and you’ll land the one that matters."

Ryoma nods once, small and sure. The corner returns to their quiet work; sponging, massaging, tucking a fresh smear of Vaseline along his brow, while outside the ring the crowd’s roar swells and fades like another tide.

He breathes in, letting the plan set into the muscles, letting the nervousness harden into focus.