Ryoma stops for a heartbeat, watching Sekino’s reaction, waiting for the pain to bloom through him.

Then, twisting his hips, he swings another blow in the same spot, heavier, crueler. Sekino’s body jolts. His right arm drops on instinct, clutching his ribs to protect them.

Which is exactly what Ryoma wanted.

Instead of loading up again, he fires a rapid low-high combination; one targeting the lowered arm, the next arcing upward...

BAM!!!

A clean shot detonates against the side of Sekino’s head.

And the commentator practically screams:

"GOOD LORD... THAT HOOK! THAT HOOK UPSTAIRS!"

Sekino’s legs finally betray him. They buckle cleanly, folding underneath him.

He finally drops to both knees, gloves pressed to the canvas, breath shaking out of him in ragged bursts.

In the booth, chairs scrape. Both commentators shoot to their feet.

"Sekino’s down again!"

"Can he even get up from that?!"

"Is this it... is this the end of the fight?!"

The referee orders Ryoma to the neutral corner. Ryoma backs away, chest heaving, every breath scraping out of him like his lungs are on fire.

Sweat drips from his chin in steady taps. That last two-minute assault wrung everything out of him; every step, every hook, every ounce of power he had left.

He mutters under his breath, "At last..." expecting the fight to be over.

But even before he reaches the corner, he senses something off. The crowd isn’t roaring in triumph. They’re shifting, rising, a low wave of disbelief passing through the arena like static.

Ryoma turns, and sees it.

Sekino is moving, struggling, one glove smears across the canvas as he tries to push off it.

His other hand trembles violently as he plants it down. His legs buckle twice before they even straighten an inch. His body sways, refusing to obey him, refusing to surrender.

But he’s trying to stand anyway, bit by bit, breath by broken breath.

And the entire arena watches in stunned silence as Sekino fights the floor itself just to get upright. They fall silent as everyone realizes: Sekino still intends to fight against every impossible odds.

Miraculously, Sekino beats the count by the width of a breath. He rises wobbling on legs that forget how to hold him, but he stands.

The referee grabs his gloves, checks his eyes, checks his balance. Sekino sways, but he doesn’t fall. He lifts his hands, just enough.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Can you still fight?"

"I’m fine..." Sekino says under clenched teeth. "This is nothing. I’ve gone worse."

The referee nods and waves them on.

"Box!"

Ryoma doesn’t even bother hiding how spent he is. His chest heaves. His mouth hangs open. Every inhale sounds like he’s dragging air through broken glass.

Sweat streams down his jaw, dripping onto the canvas. Now he has one minute to finish what he started.

He lunges in, and Sekino folds into a tight turtle, gloves fused to his forehead, elbows clamped down. His whole frame shrinks like he’s trying to disappear.

Ryoma goes right back to the trick, shoving his glove between Sekino’s wrists, this time prying the middle open just enough to slip an uppercut.

He snaps upward with his left.

Thwuk!

Sekino’s head jerks up, chin exposed for half a second.

And Ryoma fires the cross.

Dhuak!

A spray of sweat and spit bursts out in a bright arc under the lights.

But Sekino refuses to drop. He resets, tucks in, pulls the shells of his arms back into place.

The crowd gasps.

The commentators explode:

"He ate that... He actually ate that and stayed up?"

"Ryoma’s throwing knockout shots... those are damn knockout shots!"

Sadly, Sekino last until the bell.

***

By round eight, Ryoma’s breath shreds into ragged bursts. His face twists with frustration. He tries to end it, but Sekino keeps the guard tight.

"Damn it... this guy is so stubborn."

He tries the same pry again, this time angling for the ribs, aiming to deepen that bruise he carved earlier.

He digs in, but Sekino welcomes it, and throws a counter straight down the pipe. Both punches land at the same instant.

Dhuak!

Ryoma’s blow slams into Sekino’s ribs, folding him slightly. Sekino’s punch cracks against Ryoma’s cheek, snapping his head sideways.

The crowd detonates, and the commentators explode once again.

"Ooooh.... A trade!"

"They traded clean!"

Both fighters stagger apart, both of them blinking, trying to gather their balance, trying to remember which direction the other man is in.

For a heartbeat the arena goes silent. Then, the silence breaks. No, it’s a eruption. The stomp starts, first one section, and then the whole hall.

"SE-KI-NO! SE-KI-NO! SE-KI-NO!"

"RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!"

The chants collide in the air like two armies.

Ryoma wipes blood from his lip with the back of his glove. Sekino steadies his legs, breathing in tight, painful gasps.

Then they crash together again. Hurt and exhausted, yet they just start the slugfest.

Ryoma swings, and Sekino shells...

Tuk!

Ryoma shifts left and rips a hook.

Thud!

Sekino answers with a straight...

Dhuak!

And buries a blow to the guts

Thud!

But Ryoma replies with a sharp one-two to the face.

Dsh, dhuack!!!

The exchange grows uglier with every breath. They become raw survival, raw defiance, raw instinct. Nothing clean remains, each impact sounds wetter and heavier.

Their heads snap. Their bodies jerk. But neither man falls.

Even the referee circles desperately, hands twitching, unsure whether to step in or let them burn the rest of themselves away.

The crowd is too loud to hear his warnings. The ring floor shakes under the stomping. The commentators, voices cracking, try to make sense of it:

"They’re fighting on whatever scraps are left!"

"This isn’t skill... this is refusal!"

"No one can stop them except the bell!"

And it’s true.

Nothing stops them, until...

DING!

The bell shreds through the chaos like a blade. Both fighters freeze on instinct, but their bodies wobble as if they might keep swinging anyway.

Yuichi and Tsuchida vault through the ropes, shouting over the crowd. They rush to Sekino, grabbing him under the arms just before his knees buckle.

"Easy! Easy... careful!" Tsuchida hisses as they guide him toward the corner.

Yuichi’s voice trembles with something like desperate hope. "You’re still here... you’re still here, Sekino! We can work with this. It’s okay, we can still work with this!"

Sekino doesn’t answer. He’s too busy breathing. Each exhale shakes through his whole frame. His gloves scrape along the ropes as they drag him back to the stool.

Sweat drips off his chin like a broken faucet. But the crowd, roaring behind them, seems to give him new fire.

"Stay with me," Yuichi pleads, slapping Sekino’s thigh to keep him awake. "They finally see you, recognize you."

Sekino doesn’t speak, not because he’s unwilling, but because exhaustion has hollowed out every word he might have said.

Yet even in that haze, he understands exactly what tonight means. His loss isn’t just a mark on his own record.

The gym staked everything on this event. If he falls short here, their reputation collapses with him. This crowd might never show up for their fighters again.

And the younger boxers behind him, the ones still chasing their chances, will be climbing a steeper hill because of what happens tonight.