Fukui’s gloves are also thudding down as he tries to anchor himself. His breath rasps in broken pulls, chest jerking like an engine that just swallowed gravel.

The pain blooms late, sharp and disorienting, ribs burning, chin buzzing, temple pulsing in a way that promises a terrible morning.

But the worst part is the confusion.

Just seconds ago, he had the fight wrapped neatly in both hands. Eight rounds of control, rhythm, dominance, everything exactly where it should’ve been.

And now he’s staring at the floorboards, trying to make sense of how the world tilted underneath him.

How?

How did it suddenly come to this?

A hush spreads through the arena at first, a ripple of murmurs, the crowd trying to process what they just saw.

"...Was that real?"

"Did Okabe actually drop him?"

Then voices rise, one by one, swelling like a wave cresting.

"Okabe! That’s how you fight!"

"Finally fighting like a real boxer!"

"Red corner’s alive!"

"Do it again, Okabe!"

Across the ring, panic breaks through the blue corner.

"Fukui! Get up!" his coach barks, half-command, half-plea. "We didn’t come this far to lose it like this! Don’t you dare stay down! Move! Respond! Look at me!"

The commentators latch onto the chaos instantly.

"Blue corner is in full panic mode. This is the first time they’ve actually felt threatened tonight."

"If Fukui can’t recover here, we might be witnessing one of the biggest turnarounds of the match!"

Meanwhile, Okabe forces himself toward the neutral corner, each step stiff and shaky. His head tilts up as he tries to drag in air, throat tight, lungs scraping for breath.

Pain runs through him in steady, merciless pulses, but he holds himself upright, gripping the ropes behind him like they’re the only thing keeping him conscious.

He doesn’t look at Fukui. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He just breathes, slow, ragged, and stubborn.

***

The ref’s count is precise. But to Okabe, it feels like someone stretched time out just to torment him. Each number drops with the weight of a boulder.

One!

The ref’s arm falls as if wrestling gravity.

Two!

Okabe feels something twist in his gut, a slow nauseating turn that makes the edges of his vision pulse.

Three!

He mutters under his breath, barely audible even to himself, a simple plea disguised as prayer:

Please, just stay down. Please.

Four!

Fukui’s gloves twitch against the canvas.

And Okabe’s heart sinks.

Five!

Fukui’s knee drags forward, finding a fragile anchor point. On seven, he pushes himself up, trembling but upright, like a collapsed structure forcing itself into an imitation of dignity.

Okabe exhales in defeat, shoulders sagging with a helplessness that cuts deeper than the bruises. But Sera’s voice immediately slices through the moment.

"Okabe! He’s hurt! He’s exhausted! This is your best chance. Take it now!"

The command snaps something inside Okabe back into alignment. He forces his hands up, pulls air into his aching lungs, and steadies his footing.

He waits for the cue.

The ref checks Fukui briefly, then steps back with a sharp call:

"Box!"

Okabe charges the moment the word hits the air. There’s no hesitation now, only pure conviction.

He barrels forward, swinging heavy punches, each one thrown with the desperate hope that this, finally, will be the shot that ends it.

Dug, dug!

Dug, dsh, dug, dsh, dsh, bug!

The blows crash into Fukui’s guard in a relentless barrage.

Left, right, hook, hook again, shoulders twisting, ribs screaming, feet scraping on the canvas as Okabe pours every remaining ounce of strength into the onslaught.

Most of the strikes are blocked, thudding uselessly into forearms and gloves, but Okabe doesn’t stop.

His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, each one sounding like it’s trying to escape his body entirely.

Drop already , he thinks. Just fall. Collapse. Please...

But Fukui, stubborn as ever, clamps down behind his guard and endures the storm.

His coach shouts frantically from the blue corner, voice cracking under the strain.

"Hang on, Fukui! Just hang on! Don’t let it end here! Stay with it!"

The words echo around the arena, merging with the dull thuds of Okabe’s fists and the shrill buzz in Okabe’s ears as his body edges closer to its limit.

Then finally, Ryoma’s voice erupts from behind Okabe, cutting through everything with the meanest word he can think off.

"Are you stupid or what?! Stop throwing only heavy punches! Mix them! Pick your targets! Start small... like you did before!"

Okabe wants to ignore him, wants to snap back, wants to tell him to shut up. But Ryoma is right, and both of them know it.

For the second time tonight, Okabe forces himself to listen.

He resets his stance, shakes out the burning tension in his arms, and draws a slow, steady breath. This time when he moves, he does it with precision.

A tight hook slips behind Fukui’s guard, followed by a clean body shot into the left ribs.

"Finally..." a commentator beams. "Okabe lands something dangerous."

As Fukui winces, his guard loosens just enough for Okabe to slide an uppercut through the opening.

Dhuack!

Fukui’s head lifts sharply, chin exposed, balance compromised, guard broken apart, leaving a gap right in front of his face.

Okabe doesn’t hesitate. He drives a heavy straight down the centerline, committing everything to that single moment.

BAM!!!

The impact cracks through the arena with a sound that ripples straight into the crowd’s bones, an awful clean note that makes half the audience flinch as if they’d taken the punch themselves.

Sweat and spit burst into the air, tinged with red, as Fukui’s head snaps back.

His body folds almost immediately, legs buckling without resistance as he collapses onto the canvas.

Okabe’s gloves falls lifelessly, completely spent.

But this time, the referee doesn’t even attempt a count. The blue corner has already thrown the towel.

***

In the red corner, Hiroshi is the first to move, vaulting through the ropes before anyone else even processes the ending.

He barrels toward Okabe with all the grace of a large excited dog, slamming into him and wrapping both arms around his hips.

Then, in a burst of joy that ignores Okabe’s condition entirely, he lifts him clean off the ground, shouting incoherently into his side.

Above the roar, the commentators ride the moment with triumphant, breathless excitement.

"Okabe has done it!

"What a comeback... what an unbelievable turnaround!"

"This arena is shaking. Listen to them! He pulled it off at the very edge of defeat!"

The crowd follows in a tidal wave of cheers, raw, ecstatic, and unrestrained. The noise rolls over the ring like a physical force.

Across the canvas, the blue corner spills in to gather around Fukui. The referee waves frantically toward the officials, shouting for the ringside medics, and a stretcher team pushes forward through the crowd of staff.

Sera climbs into the ring a moment later, slower but steady, brushing sweat from his face.

"You did it, Okabe" he says, voice low but warm. "You finally did it."

But Ryoma remains near the ropes, half in shadow, his expression flat and cold. He doesn’t move to join the celebration, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even attempt to.

Maybe he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to feel any of it. Maybe he’s waiting for Okabe to look his way first.

And eventually, Okabe does.

Still catching his breath, still half-raised in Hiroshi’s grip, Okabe’s gaze shifts to the back of the ring.

But his grin halts midcurve. His eyes lock with Ryoma’s for a brief, suspended second, neither of them speaking, neither blinking.

And then Okabe looks away.

Deliberately.

He turns his back on Ryoma and raises his fists toward the roaring crowd, shouting out at them.

"I’m still standing! What are you going to say now?!"

The crowd answers with another wave of cheers. The commentators jump back in as the cheers crest, their voices practically buzzing with adrenaline.

"Nakahara’s camp does it again! They never fail to light up an arena. Never!"

"It’s incredible, isn’t it? Even without the boss tonight, they still pull off something electric. There’s just something in their DNA. This chaotic, explosive way they push each other."

"Yeah, only Nakahara’s fighters can turn a meltdown into a miracle."

Their enthusiasm blends into the roar of the crowd, the moment swelling with triumph, unity, and that strange reckless magic Nakahara’s camp is known for.

And yet, there’s a quiet, bitter irony: the team that looks unbreakable from the outside is, in truth, starting to crack apart.