The arena lights dim to a deep, expectant hush as the ring announcer begins Aramaki’s introduction. His voice rolls through the hall, but in Hiroyuki’s corner, it might as well be background noise to a moment far heavier.

Sugimoto steps closer to his fighter, one hand firm on Hiroyuki’s shoulder.

"Listen," he says quietly, his tone stripped of anything but intent. "Don’t underestimate him just because he lost in the first round of the Rookie Tournament."

His eyes never leave Aramaki across the ring.

"That loss was because he ran into Ryoma too early. Anyone would’ve fallen there."

Hiroyuki nods once. "I know," he murmurs. "I watched the tape. The real Aramaki’s the one who dismantled Junpei in that exhibition."

"Good," Sugimoto says. "Then you already know what’s coming."

The announcer’s introduction swells toward its final line, and the audience leans forward with a ripple of restless energy.

Sweat and resin tint the air. The ropes creak. The ring feels smaller than usual, like a place where mistakes shrink down to seconds.

Sugimoto lowers his voice further. "When the bell rings, you start serious. No testing range, no waiting a whole round to figure him out. He’s an in-fighter through and through. If he gets you on the ropes even once, he’ll smother you. Use your feet, but keep him in the center. Control the space. Lock him down before he locks onto you."

Hiroyuki draws in a steady breath, eyes sharpening. "Understood."

The lights return to their full brilliance, washing the ring in clean white glare. The corners empty in practiced rhythm, until only the fighters remain at opposite ends of the canvas.

Aramaki rolls his shoulders once, slow and controlled. Hiroyuki breathes out the last of his nerves. Both settle into the kind of stillness that only exists seconds before violence.

And then...

Ding!

The first round finally begins.

"Here we go," a commentator says, leaning toward his mic. "The first of the ten-round fight between Tatsuki Aramaki vs Yoshiya Hiroyuki. Let’s see whose rhythm takes hold first."

Hiroyuki wastes no time. He storms forward to seize the center, just as he planned, claim the space early, deny the pressure fighter any path inward. His gloves snap up, feet carving sharp lines on the canvas.

But Aramaki doesn’t explode toward him. He doesn’t blitz, doesn’t lower his head, doesn’t even try to shove Hiroyuki back.

Instead, Aramaki steps calmly into the same center Hiroyuki meant to control, looks unbothered, almost eerily composed.

His posture is different from the tapes, not the low coiled spring Hiroyuki studied. Aramaki’s feet stay flat for a heartbeat, then begin a shallow pendulum rhythm: weight rolling from rear foot to lead, heel lifting, then the other.

Always on the toes, but never really bouncing off the floor.

Still an in-fighter’s stance, guard tight, elbows tucked, chin protected. But he seems looser, less rigid, less easy to read.

Hiroyuki slows, eyes narrowing.

Is he trying to fight mid-range?

No... not quite.

Aramaki’s still close-quartered, but the shape is different, looks freer, more patient. It’s like he’s choosing the moment to collapse the distance instead of forcing it.

For the first time tonight, Hiroyuki feels a flicker of uncertainty. This isn’t the Aramaki he prepared for. And it means the plan might already be shifting.

Coach Sugimoto told him not to bother "studying" in the opening seconds. But Hiroyuki’s instincts won’t let him charge in blindly.

He picks up the pace instead, letting his legs do the talking. A few light jabs flick out...

Shssh-shssh-shssh!

...and he slides out again, his familiar hit-and-run pattern. Nothing lands; just a probe of distance.

Aramaki doesn’t give him a still target anyway. As Hiroyuki circles, Aramaki keeps drifting with him, small pivots, subtle angle shifts, all within a tight radius. He’s patient, watchful, waiting for the right path inward.

Hiroyuki steps back in, and this time his jab finds something...

Dsh!

...Aramaki’s right glove. A clean block.

Hiroyuki lingers a second longer, fires another jab and a lead hook to the body.

Aramaki swallows the jab behind his guard, slips away from the hook, and then executes a smooth L-step, cutting a new angle...

And that’s when he steps in.

One step, clean, so fast it barely stirs the canvas. Suddenly he’s on Hiroyuki’s chest, and a jab snaps forward, followed by a tight right hook.

Hiroyuki’s eyes widen. He blocks the jab, but the hook still angles in under his arm and lands...

Thud!

A sharp sting under the armpit.

He fires a compact left to break the momentum...

Dug!

...blocked, and immediately disengages. He coils his right for a counter, ready for Aramaki to chase him down.

But Aramaki... doesn’t follow. He just resumes that pendulum rhythm on his toes, swaying lazily, looks content to reset rather than rush.

Somehow, the lack of aggression unsettles Hiroyuki more than any attack.

He’s strange... this isn’t the Aramaki I knew.

Hiroyuki tests him again; jabs, crosses, a lead hook, then out.

And again Aramaki doesn’t chase recklessly. He only enters after stealing an angle. And when he misses, he resets, calm and selective.

Hiroyuki stays sharp, always braced for a counter, certain the in-fighter will crash in at any second.

But this Aramaki keeps shifting, side-stepping, circling, almost like an out-boxer, but without the bounce or distance of a true one.

And as Hiroyuki studies him with that hyper-focus, he’s unknowingly drifted into the corner.

Sugimoto sees it first. "Hiroyuki! What the hell are you doing there?!"

Hiroyuki blinks, realization kicks in, but too late. Aramaki is already closing in, pressure rising.

Shit... how did he get me cornered?

Hiroyuki throws a fast left to break Aramaki’s forward step. Aramaki simply raises his right glove...

Dug!

...and immediately fires back with a lead hook to the body.

Hiroyuki drops his right arm to block...

Dug!

...and he feels the hook is light.

But it’s deceptively light, because the real danger comes a heartbeat later. Aramaki repeats: compact left, compact hook...

Dug, dug!

... all blocked again, but then he shifts forward at the same time, sliding his lead foot deeper inside.

And then comes the real sequence: a low-high double hook. The first slams Hiroyuki’s arm, but the second cracks across his head...

Dsh!

Hiroyuki’s vision flashes white. For a split second, everything feels wrong.

What’s happening here?

Aramaki resets just outside smothering range, close enough to cage him in, far enough to avoid a clinch.

Hiroyuki throws back a few desperate punches, trying to carve a path out.

Aramaki reads it easily, the desperate retaliation. He blocks, ducks, slides in again, another tight combo; a left low-high, and a right body shot...

Dsh, Thud!

Hiroyuki manages to catch the first hook, but the next two slam in clean, each landing with a sharp, brutal snap that tears a gasp from the crowd.

Sugimoto stares wide-eyed from the blue corner, anguish tightening his face. The fighter he studied is gone.

This Aramaki is something unfamiliar, wild, and foreign. It feels like stepping into a jungle he never knew existed.

He warned Hiroyuki about the real Aramaki. But what stands in that ring now is a new version of Aramaki, one he never prepared for.