Yanagimoto stirs, blinking through the blur. He pushes himself off the canvas, gloves rising on instinct as the referee’s count hits eight.
"Are you okay?" the ref asks. "Can you still fight?"
Yanagimoto nods, steadies his stance, and the fight resus.
And Jurobei wastes no ti.
He steps in, calm but relentless, tightening the noose with compact pressure. Every motion is still asured, cutting angles, forcing Yanagimoto back without overextending.
DSH! DUG! DSH!
Yanagimoto’s guard trembles under the rhythm.
But the veteran doesn’t throw wild. He doesn’t have to. Every jab finds the gaps, every step steals space.
Soon, Yanagimoto’s back skims the ropes. Desperate, he fires a left, then another. But each one gets punished in return...
DSH! DSH!
...two clean, compact jabs snapping into his face.
He grits his teeth, mixing another left from a tighter angle, trying to push Jurobei off him.
The motion breaks the veteran’s rhythm for the first ti, making him hesitate a split-second longer than usual.
The crowd senses a flicker in montum.
Yanagimoto keeps throwing, left after left, sharper, faster, each one ant to buy just a breath of space.
Gradually, his feet shift, left sliding forward. It isn’t much, just enough to change the feel of his balance.
One of the comntators catches it. "Yanagimoto’s fighting back with a steady stream of jabs. Only lefts, but they’re landing heavy. He’s disrupting Jurobei’s rhythm here!"
His partner pauses, squinting. "Of course they’re heavy. He’s a southpaw. His left’s the power hand."
There’s a beat of silence.
And then...
"Wait, look at his stance. Would you still call that southpaw?"
The cara catches it too. Yanagimoto’s left leg now in front, right foot drawn back. It’s subtle, but unmistakable an orthodox stance.
The comntators are chuckling, half disbelieving.
"Hah... out of desperation he’s just thrown his whole form away."
"Whatever works, right?"
Either it’s planned or just desperation, it works to ruin Jurobei’s montum, and...
DING!
The bell rings.
Yanagimoto exhales hard, shoulders trembling, retreating to his corner with a shaky grin. The crowd cheers the effort, unaware of the quiet strangeness in his form.
Jurobei lowers his gloves, walks back to his stool, but glances over his shoulder, brows faintly furrowed. Sothing about that last exchange doesn’t sit right.
***
In the stands, Ryoma’s eyes narrow, fixed on Yanagimoto, not just his movents, but the mood inside the blue corner.
He studies their mouths, trying to read their words from afar. Yet no one ntions the strange stance shift. No praise, no correction, nothing that suggests it was part of their plan.
That makes Ryoma uneasy. Was that intentional... or just desperation?
When the seventh round begins, Yanagimoto is back in his southpaw stance. The break gave him ti to breathe, but not to fully recover.
Jurobei resus control with surgical precision, dictating every second. The fight almost looks one-sided now.
And then...
"Ah! Another knockdown!"
"Jurobei drops him again, second ti tonight!"
"Is this it? Can he get up in ti?"
Yanagimoto stirs, staggering to his feet by the count of eight. His legs wobble, eyes unfocused, but he stands.
Jurobei moves in, relentless but asured, pressing for the finish.
But Yanagimoto answers with instinct more than intent, throwing his left hand again and again, using it like a jab, forcing space, ruining the veteran’s rhythm.
And...
DING!
The bell saves him again.
Yanagimoto turns toward his corner, face battered, legs dragging, shoulders slumped.
Jurobei lingers a beat longer, watching him with a faint frown. He looks even more confused now compared to the end of the previous round.
"What’s wrong with him?" Aramaki asks, leaning in. "He could have ended it there. But why’d he back off?"
"It’s Yanagimoto’s stance," Ryoma says quietly. "I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose or not, but when he throws those lefts like jabs, his stance shifts gradually. It happened before in the previous round."
"So what?" Okabe scoffs from behind. "If he shifts to orthodox, that should make it easier for Jurobei. Southpaws are what ss you up."
Ryoma nods. "True. Southpaws are trickier. Jurobei already adjusted to that early on. But adjustnt doesn’t an the fight gets easier. It ans you’re constantly recalibrating, every second. It takes focus not to slip, because your instincts will always pull you back to orthodox rhythm."
Ryohei clicks his tongue, catching on. "So if your opponent suddenly switches to orthodox..."
"Exactly," Ryoma cuts in. "Even if you notice it, it sses with your rhythm. If you don’t notice, it is even worse. For a boxer like Jurobei, who relies on timing and flow, that tiny shift can turn the whole fight upside down."
"Can’t he just adapt back to fighting an orthodox?" Aramaki asks. "I an, if he figured out the southpaw already, shouldn’t adapting back to fighting orthodox be easier?"
Ryoma lets out a short scoff. "You’re saying that like it’s easy to constantly adapt mid-fight. You couldn’t even handle when I switched my rhythm without changing stance."
He leans back, voice low but edged. "Just the shift alone wrecks your rhythm. Sure, you can try to adapt. But one beat off, you lose your timing. Sotis, that one beat is all it takes for a fight to end."
Aramaki falls silent, turning the thought over. "So... that’s why Jurobei started hesitating?"
Ryoma nods slightly. "Yeah. Yanagimoto’s just jabbing with his left. But Jurobei’s instincts pick up sothing off. His body’s telling him an unknown danger’s coming."
***
When the eighth round begins, Jurobei cos out sharp and alert again, eyes narrowed, reading, studying Yanagimoto the way he did back in the opening round.
Yanagimoto, though, looks drained. The fire from earlier rounds is gone. He plants himself in the center of the ring, gloves high, feet steady. The plan is simple: buy ti, survive, recover.
Jurobei advances behind probing jabs. Yanagimoto answers with his own right jabs. He’s back in a southpaw stance for now, but Jurobei’s mind is tangled.
He has to readjust to the southpaw rhythm. But at the sa ti, part of him braces for that sudden stance shift again. That tension alone makes every move cautious.
"What’s going on here?" one comntator remarks. "Jurobei’s acting like he’s the one behind."
"Yanagimoto’s clearly hurt," another adds. "Jurobei could’ve finished this already."
"Maybe he’s just being careful now."
"Or maybe he’s overthinking it."
Gradually, Jurobei starts finding his rhythm again. The tempo builds, his punches flow cleaner and sharper. Confidence returns, and with it, carelessness.
He begins to forget the danger of that stance switch. To him, Yanagimoto is once again just a wounded southpaw, one step from defeat.
So he presses forward.
Yanagimoto fires back, both hands working now, right jabs from the lead, left crosses and hooks from the rear.
Then, slowly, the rhythm changes again. The lefts co faster, more often. His feet shift, subtly, almost unconsciously.
Ryoma’s eyes catch it instantly. "Look... he’s changing again. Good thing Jurobei noticed. He backed off just in ti."
The match steadies, both boxers circling, asuring distance like in the early rounds. Then Jurobei adjusts again, fully settled, and starts landing heavy rear hooks cleanly.
"See?" Okabe says. "He’s got it now. Switching stances to orthodox won’t save Yanagimoto anymore. He’s just digging his own grave."
And Jurobei believes the sa. He feels the fight coming under his control again, sees the opening, finally, at Yanagimoto’s head.
He steps in, feints a left, and commits.
"It’s over now!"
He launches a powerful right, timing perfect, distance calculated, only to find Yanagimoto’s head strangely farther away.
"What?"
Before the thought can even finish forming...
BAM!!!
Yanagimoto’s left hook detonates across Jurobei’s mouth. A clean, devastating counter.
Jurobei collapses like a switch flipped off.
Down!
The arena explodes, half cheering, half gasping in disbelief.
Only now, as replays flicker across the big screen, do people realize.
Yanagimoto has switched back.
He actually dropped Jurobei as a southpaw.
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