Meanwhile, the second bout of the evening is already underway: Mino Anzai of Murakami Boxing Gym vs. Ueno Takauji of Shibuya Wolf Boxing Gym, a six-round B-class match.

With a sold-out crowd of 2,500 people packed wall-to-wall for the Cruel King, these two youngsters are essentially warming up in front of a small coliseum.

And as it turns out, nothing melts a young boxer’s composure faster than a few thousand spectators silently thinking, "Come on, kid. Impress me."

The first bout of the night had already demonstrated this phenomenon spectacularly. One fighter slipped, fell, and punched himself in the thigh on the way down. It was a moment so unfortunate it made several fans laugh and Coach Murakami briefly question the meaning of life.

And now, watching Anzai stiffen up and forget half his training, Murakami arrives at a firm conclusion: drop all the complicated instructions.

So the coach pivots to the only workable strategy left: trust in guts and blind determination.

"Anzaaaai! Just hit him!" Murakami shouts, with the tone of a man who has abandoned all delusions of elegance. "Stop thinking. You’re bad at it!"

By the fourth round, both fighters are drenched, frantic, and operating purely on instinct, which is a polite way of saying they’re brawling like two delinquent teenagers fighting over who’s stronger between Goku and Saitama.

Neither controls the pace. Neither maintains a stance. But strangely... the crowd begins to enjoy it.

"Come on, kid!"

"Don’t back down!"

"Again! Keep hitting"

It’s ugly, very ugly, the kind of ugly that bypasses technique entirely and taps directly into the audience’s adrenaline gland.

Up in the front row, Marcus Hale watches with a deeply offended expression.

"...This is absurd," he mutters. "Logan... Is this supposed to be boxing?"

Logan Rhodes shrugs. "Relax. They’re still young. B-class. Think of them like appetizers before the real show."

Frank Donovan, more diplomatic, or just more used to disappointment, rubs his chin and gestures at the roaring spectators.

"Well, one thing’s for sure: Japanese crowds know how to get fired up. Haven’t seen energy like this back home in ages."

Marcus snorts, eyes still on the ring. "Logan, tell me this Ryoma kid fights better than that..." he gestures vaguely at the chaotic brawl, "...or you’re paying for my flight back to the States. First class. I’m not suffering economy because of false advertising."

When the final bell rings, both fighters look like they’ve survived a small natural disaster.

The judges give the decision to Anzai, not for skill, but for looking slightly less panicked than Takauji.

Anzai exhales in pure relief, not pride. And Murakami doesn’t share the sentiment. Even as Anzai’s hand is raised, the coach is already rehearsing excuses, apologies, and the diplomatic gymnastics he’ll need when he inevitably bows to Nakahara later.

Because in boxing, there are ugly wins, and then there are wins so ugly you feel the need to apologize for them.

***

Back in the red-corner locker room, Murakami’s camp shuffles in looking less like a team that just won a decision and more like survivors of a failed military campaign.

Mino Anzai is still catching his breath, but Murakami looks worse; his eyes hollow, shoulders slumped, already bracing for consequences.

Before he can even craft an excuse, Aramaki steps forward.

"Good work, Anzai," he says with a small nod.

Murakami bows toward Nakahara, so deeply it looks painful. "I’m sorry. We’ve failed to live up to your expectations. The first one lost in a ridiculous way, and Anzai... well, we won, but it was hardly worthy of a warm-up. I’m truly sorry."

Nakahara waves a hand before the apology can spiral further. "It’s the tressure, that’s all. Even I didn’t expect the place to be this packed tonight. It’ll be a good experience for both of them."

Murakami blinks, startled by the mercy.

Before the moment can stretch, a staffer knocks on the door and pokes his head in.

"Aramaki-san, please start getting ready. Ten minutes. You’ll be called right after Yoshiya Hiroyuki enters the ring."

Aramaki nods, flashing Anzai a casual grin, and gives his shoulder a light pat.

"Don’t overthink it," he says. "I’ll pick up where you left off."

Anzai exhales, somewhere between relief and embarrassment, while the rest of the room steadies itself for the next fight.

And Murakami notices it immediately; the sharp, almost unsettling change in his former boxer.

Everyone else in his corner still looks weighed down by the packed venue, tension clinging to their shoulders like damp clothes.

But Aramaki stands there calm, easy, shadowboxing as if the noise and pressure mean nothing to him.

That’s the part Murakami can’t wrap his head around, because Aramaki only had a single exhibition match since leaving the gym. Nothing in that should have prepared him for this kind of spotlight.

And yet, here he is, composed, comfortable, and completely unfazed.

***

Meanwhile, Yoshiya Hiroyuki walks down the aisle with the composure of someone far older than his record suggests.

A few pockets of fans call his name as he passes, some shouting "Hiroyuki! Kobe’s pride!" as if reminding everyone of where he came from.

Most people are already familiar with him. Kenta’s family, however, look unsure who the neatly trimmed young man is.

Kenta’s mother leans toward Izumi, whispering, "Is that Kenta’s opponent? Is your brother fighting now?"

Izumi shakes his head quickly. "No way. He’s too small to fight Kenta-niichan. Boxers have to be in the same weight class." He says it with the tone of a teenager who has waited years to correct an adult on something.

Soon after, Aramaki appears at the entrance. His reception is softer, just a scattered cheer here and there, nothing close to Hiroyuki’s welcome. He walks forward without reacting, and the noise stays modest.

Until Kenji Matsuda, the Cruel King’s Aramy general, decides he’s had enough of modest.

He snaps open Ryoma’s banner with a practiced flick, lifts it high above his head, and bellows from the depths of his chest:

"Make way for the cruel king’s vanguard!

"Aramaki! Aramaki! Aramaki!"

It hits the air like a torch, sharp and loud. The Cruel King’s Army immediately follows his lead, picking up the chant, beating their drums in a rhythm that fills the aisle.

"ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum... dudum... dum!"

"ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum... dudum... dum!"

"Would you look at that," one of the commentators chuckles. "Nakahara Gym really is something else. Most fan groups only cheer for their favorite boxer, but these people? They’re backing Aramaki like he’s their own champion."

"Right," the second commentator adds. "It shows how tight the bonds are in that gym. The Cruel King’s Army came for Ryoma, but they’re treating Aramaki as one of their own, already calling him the Cruel King’s Vanguard. That’s quite a promotion."

The camera cuts briefly to Hiroyuki, who stands in his corner with a gentle, almost serene smile, as if none of the noise reaches him.

"I wonder what’s going through Hiroyuki’s head," the first commentator muses. "He looks completely at peace."

"Well, the history between these two is interesting," the other commentator continues. "Both were in last year’s Rookie King Tournament. Aramaki was eliminated in the first round, by Ryoma Takeda himself. And Hiroyuki? He won the whole thing. He was supposed to face Ryoma in the All-Japan final, but that match never happened because Ryoma moved up to Lightweight."

"And now here they are. Hiroyuki finally facing someone from Ryoma’s camp, and Aramaki stepping into the ring with the reigning Rookie King. It’s almost poetic."

"Yeah, one who fell in the first round... versus the one who rose to the top. Let’s see how much both have grown in the past year."

Back in the locker room, Ryoma finally lifts his eyes to the monitor, just a flicker of interest breaking through the stoicism.

In his previous life, Aramaki reached the east Rookie King final. But in this time line, he stopped Aramaki in round one.

Fate already tried correcting the script once by throwing Aramaki at Junpei. But this time, it’s Aramaki’s turn to write the page himself.