Kobo leaves first, trudging back to his corner, his gloves hanging low, chest heaving with ragged breaths. His face is twisted, not in fear this ti, but in raw simring anger.
Yet for a man who’s fought only one round, he already looks spent. Sweat drips from his chin, his shoulders sag, and his legs wobble as if he’s dragged through deep water.
From the stands, the once rhythmic chant of the Cruel King’s Army has broken apart into scattered voices. The crowd no longer roars in unison. It jeers in pieces, cutting through him like glass.
"Hey, Maruyama! That’s what you got after having four knockouts?!"
"Looks like a rookie who just got lost in the wrong ring!"
"Ten-rounder? He won’t last three!"
"It’s too soon for you. Your gym made a mistake pushing you into a stage like this."
Every shout hits him harder than Ryohei’s punches. He doesn’t dare look up, but he feels their eyes; mocking, gleeful, rciless.
The sha crawls under his skin, his earlier fire shrinking into a bitter ember. The stage fright he thought he’d shaken off starts creeping back, cold and tight around his chest.
When he finally slumps onto the stool, the corner isn’t any kinder. Shiki stands before him, towel over his shoulder, expression carved from stone.
"Look at you," Shiki says flatly. "You walk around the gym like so big shot, always talking about how you’ll rise faster than Ryoma. But tonight? You don’t even look like you belong here."
Kobo grits his teeth, trying to steady his breath, but Shiki doesn’t stop.
"You think boxing is about swagger? About that fake confidence you wear outside the ropes? Now you’re learning the hard way it’s not." His tone drops colder. "You didn’t take your cut, didn’t make weight right, ca in heavy, soft. Maybe that fat of yours helped absorb so of those body shots, huh? That’s the only thing it’s good for."
Kobo’s jaw tightens. He stares down, fists clenching around his knees. He wants to argue, to throw sothing back, but no words co.
Shiki’s words don’t just hit Kobo. They sting Tsuchida too. Standing beside him, the older coach looks suddenly small, out of place, guilty, ashad.
Tsuchida knows this is partly his fault. He’s never been the kind of trainer who scolds or pushes too hard. Even back with Kanzaki, he’d avoided harsh words, afraid of driving his fighters away.
Shiki glances at him for just a heartbeat, catching that guilt in his eyes. The younger coach exhales quietly. He was once Tsuchida’s student before retirent. He still owes the man a asure of respect. So, he lets it go. No more lectures about discipline, not now.
"Alright," Shiki says finally, lowering his voice. "Treat him."
The assistants move in quickly, wiping sweat, cleaning Kobo’s nose, massaging his legs, pressing a cold towel to his neck.
Kobo spits into the bucket, gurgles water, breathes raggedly.
Then Shiki notices his eyes. The fear is gone, replaced by anger.
For a mont, he almost scolds Kobo again, but stops himself. Anger, at least, ans he’s alive now. Anger can be used better than having a stage fright.
He crouches down in front of Kobo, speaking softer, calr, almost conversational.
"Good," he says. "Be angry. You’ve got every reason to be. But don’t waste it. Use it the right way."
But still, Kobo keeps his gaze fixed on Ryohei’s corner.
"Hey, look at ," Shiki says. "How do you feel right now?"
Kobo finally blinks, then lowers his eyes. "My legs... they’re heavy. But I can still move."
"Of course you can," Shiki nods. "It’s only round one. But compared to usual, it’s heavier, right?"
"Yeah. A bit."
"Your hands?"
"They feel stronger now. Steady. I can punch again. Before, they moved like they belonged to soone else."
Shiki nods again, satisfied. "Good. Then listen. Don’t rush. This isn’t a four-rounder anymore. It’s ten. He’s got more miles in him than you. Buy ti with your left, keep your guard high and tight. He’ll go for your body next, I guarantee it. Lucky for you, that fat might finally be useful."
Kobo exhales sharply through his nose. "His punches are strong... but not that strong. I can manage."
"Then aim for that," Shiki says. "When he goes low, stay calm. He can’t defend and punch with the sa hand at once, so ti it. Fire short, compact, at his head. Don’t chase the knockout. Land first, break his rhythm. That’s how you turn this around. Got it?"
Kobo lets the words settle, his breathing steadying. The fury in his eyes begins to cool, not gone, but focused now.
He nods once, sharp and clear. And for the first ti tonight, he looks ready to fight, really does look like a proper boxer.
***
The blue corner has already anticipated the shift in Kobo’s camp. And Ryohei is lucky to have soone like Sera in his corner tonight.
Hiroshi and Kenta have done their part; cleaning the blood from Ryohei’s lips and mouth, letting him gurgle so water, wiping the sweat from his skin, and pressing a bucket of ice against the back of his neck to cool him down.
Now it’s ti to talk strategy.
"Listen, Ryohei," Sera warns. "Forget the first round. Call it luck and move on."
Ryohei nods, not about to deny it. "His punch was real. But the second exchange felt lighter sohow."
"That’s the effect of the knockdown," Sera says. "The break will let him recover. His punches will co alive again. And I don’t think Mita Shiki’s just going to watch his fighter get bullied. They’ve adjusted by now. We need to stay at least one step ahead."
"So what’s the plan?" Ryohei asks.
Sera exhales, eyes narrowing with the weight of the gym rivalry.
"First, drop the grudge," he finally says. "You want to play the villain tonight? Fine. But even a villain uses his head, not his heart. Be cold. Be calculated. Don’t think about punishnt yet. Break him down first. Weaken him, torture him if you must. And rember, cornered cats bite, no matter how scared they are."
Ryohei doesn’t find it hard to accept Sera’s words. That’s his nature anyway, asured, cautious, never greedy.
"I get it," he says. "I’ll focus on scoring points, dragging out his recovery, and staying one step ahead."
"Good," Sera nods. "Now regulate your breath. Calm your mind while you still have the ti."
The hall buzzes with restless energy, a low murmur rolling like distant thunder. The Cruel King’s Army, once roaring, now just sounds whispering in anticipation, waiting for the next explosion.
Even the comntators lean in, their voices laced with excitent.
"We’ve witnessed fire," one says. "Both n already tested the edge, not holding back anything."
"If round one was the warning shot, round two might be the storm," the other replies, half-grinning.
Monts later...
"Seconds out!"
The referee’s voice slices through the hall. Both corners empty, stools pulled away, towels snatched back.
And then...
Ding!
Round two begins.
The fighters step forward. But this ti, there’s no reckless rush, no blind fury.
Compared to the madness of the first round, they look almost composed, two n walking on thin glass, testing the silence between heartbeats, waiting the other to make the first mistake.
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