Sergei leans closer to the ropes, his earlier irritation fading into sothing quieter, almost awe. The rhythm Ryoma uses now isn’t Elliot’s anymore.
It’s steadier, cleaner. Every bounce of his heels, every snap of his jab carries that familiar Soviet groove, but smoother, refined to an impossible precision.
The tempo shifts are so subtle that even Sergei has to focus to catch them; one mont the slower patient beat, the next a tighter pulse, both blending into a seamless flow.
He’s seen countless fighters try to imitate that rhythm. Years of drilling under cold lights, endless footwork drills to capture that elusive sway.
Most never co close. And yet this boy, after one spar, after seeing it only once, moves as if he’s lived inside it his whole life.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. He wants to stay annoyed, to call it mockery. But watching that smooth deliberate transition, the balance between timing and control, he can’t deny it anymore.
Ryoma isn’t just copying. He’s understanding it deeper.
But Elliot is still burning from that previous counter, still not realizing the shift in Ryoma’s current rhythm.
Then Ryoma calls to him between jabs.
Pak, pak-pak!
"Hey, hey... why so worked up?"
Pak, pak-pak!
"Your rhythm’s gone stiff."
Pak, pak-pak!
He speaks in Japanese, and of course, Elliot doesn’t understand a word. He just responds with a burst of stiff punches, but Ryoma breaks the flow with those sa light slapping jabs.
Pak, pak-pak!
Pak, pak-pak, pak!
"Well then... why don’t I take you back to your rhythm?"
He throws probing lefts, keeping the tempo steady and smooth, adopting the Soviet-style himself to pull Elliot back into that groove.
He makes the shift between beats so seamless, so fluid, that it feels almost elegant, subtle enough to draw Elliot in without him noticing.
Gradually, Elliot begins to match him, his movent evening out, his tempo steadying.
And then...
Elliot stops. Realization flickers across his face.
"You?" he squints. "You’re mocking ?"
"Mocking?" Ryoma blinks. "No, no... I’m serious. I’m actually thinking of learning from you. No offense intended."
"Tch." Elliot clicks his tongue, and then smirks. "So that ’Chaleon’ nickna isn’t just for show, huh? Fine... let sing you a different song."
Ryoma tilts his head, puzzled. He doesn’t quite get why Elliot’s suddenly talking about songs.
He just doesn’t know that outside the ring, Elliot’s a fingerstyle guitarist, and to him, the Soviet-style isn’t just boxing rhythm. It’s music, all groove and tempo.
The spar resus. Both fighters now trade lefts in that sa Soviet rhythm, but their grooves diverge, like two musicians playing different songs in the sa room.
And of course, it looks chaotic at the mont.
Ryoma keeps his steady, chanical beat, while Elliot weaves through it like he’s playing a rhapsody, a single flowing composition of contrasting sections, shifting mood and tempo without breaking continuity.
Elliot’s transition is seamless. Ryoma finds himself caught in the flow, almost unconsciously syncing to it, like hearing a tune so infectious it forces your body to move.
But soon, as he tries to keep his own tempo, Ryoma’s own pendulum rhythm starts to unravel. His steps lose timing, the groove collapsing under Elliot’s fluid changes.
That’s when a few clean lefts slip through.
Dug! Dsh! DSH!
Ryoma halts his dance and raises his guard.
But Elliot stops, smiling. "That’s it. Let’s call it a day."
"Nani?" Ryoma blinks.
And right then, the bell rings. The referee calls the spar to an end.
Elliot lowers his gloves, offering one out. "Thank you for your ti. That was the first spar I’ve enjoyed in years."
Ryoma exhales, tapping gloves. "No, I should be thanking you."
"Oh? And why’s that?"
"You let steal your Soviet-style."
Elliot laughs, waving it off as he turns toward his corner.
"Nah, you’ve only covered one song. I’ll give you that. But I’ve still got a full album. Copying those will take you years."
***
The spar ends not in hostility, but laughter. The tension that filled the ring only monts ago dissolves into an odd, friendly calm, as if the two have just found sothing in each other that words can’t explain.
Two n who’ve traded sweat and rhythm, are now sharing the quiet respect of those who finally et an equal.
Around the ring, the murmurs rise. Spectators lean toward one another, talking, speculating. Not everyone understands English, but even those who do are still puzzled by the sudden talk about songs.
"Why are they talking about music all of a sudden?" one man asks.
His friend shrugs. "Don’t you know? Elliot’s a guitarist. He’s got a few videos on YouTube. Maybe Ryoma covered one of his songs."
"Ryoma plays guitar too?" the first man asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "I never knew that."
Ryoma catches their conversation as he steps toward his corner. He just shakes his head, smiling in quiet amusent while Coach Nakahara helps him unbuckle his headgear.
"Good job, kid," Nakahara says, his voice asured. "You’ve shown everyone you can stand toe-to-toe with a world ranker. If you hadn’t pulled your punches, you might’ve beaten him."
"Naah," Ryoma waves it off. "He just took lightly, and it cost him. In a real match, he’d fight differently."
"You think so?"
"Yeah. That last exchange made it pretty clear." Ryoma glances toward Sera. "There’s still a lot more to that Soviet style," he says.
"Oh? So your eyes are finally open now?" Sera replies with a small grin.
Ryoma just shakes his head, smiling, and slips through the ropes.
The journalists gather near the apron, caras still hanging from their necks, recorders already in hand.
Most of them ca expecting to get a few routine comnts from Elliot, but now their eyes keep drifting toward Ryoma.
"That kid’s rhythm... did you see how clean it was?"
"He copied Elliot mid-spar."
"Hell... he even almost beat him, the world ranker."
Their microphones hover uncertainly, tempted to turn toward Ryoma. But restraint wins, at least for now. Professional courtesy says they should start with the world ranker.
***
Ryoma actually catches their interest, but plays it cool.
He just walks to where his bag rests by the bench, unfastening his gloves and slowly unwrapping the tape from his hands.
After a quiet pause, he finally talks back to Sera. "You seem to know quite a bit about the Soviet style."
Sera doesn’t reply right away. He turns briefly toward Sergei, then looks back at Ryoma, sensing genuine curiosity in him.
"Not on the level of the one who taught it to Elliot," he admits. "But if you really want to try it, I know a few drills you could try in training."
Nakahara, listening nearby, doesn’t sound convinced. "Hold on, kid! You’ve got a fight with Sekino next month. Trying to learn a whole new style now won’t do you any good. Be patient. We’ll find ti after the fight."
"It’s fine, Coach," Sera cuts in politely. "It won’t ss up his form. The drills I’m thinking of will just add more fluidity, better transitions, more rhythm in his footwork."
Coach Nakahara exhales, nodding with an uncertain smile.
He was the one who first taught Sera how to box years ago, but he’s never leave Japan. His knowledge, like most local coaches, is rooted in the Arican and xican styles.
Still, Nakahara is humble enough to recognize the limits of his experience, and to trust the new generation.
He pats Sera on the shoulder before stepping away, heading toward the ring to thank the host.
"Man..." he mutters with a chuckle. "Two of my pupils already outpacing . Maybe it’s about ti I start thinking about retirent."
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