Now that Ryoma finally stops running around the ring, Sekino steps back into the center with a single intention: reclaim control, reclaim the point lead.
"He’s exhausted... now I can rebuild my rhythm."
He begins pouring on pressure with the flickers, light and fast, angling in from every direction, each with a slightly different tempo.
Whsst!
Whsst! Whsst!
Ryoma rolls under the first, turning his lead shoulder to smother the next. Anything that threatens his face, he parries with a neat tap of his right glove.
He refuses to give ground, not with his legs anyway. He uses only tiny shifts of the rear foot, small rolls, a quiet L-step, and then he casually circles out as if strolling through an empty park.
"Wohoo... would you look at that?" one comntator bursts out. "Ryoma looks calm as a lake, making those veteran flickers look trivial."
More than twenty seconds pass with Ryoma spent almost no energy on his side, and still Sekino hasn’t landed a clean shot.
Sekino cuts more space, closes the ring, and fires off a few textbook jabs. Ryoma stays planted, shoulder turned toward him, calm as a stone.
Bug, bug, bug!
Then Sekino changes the tune. The two-beat flicker cos from the last textbook jab, sharp and fast, slapping air in a new rhythm.
Ryoma rolls away, leaning his head off the center line. The left cuts nothing but space. But Sekino pivot his lead foot, suddenly lunges forward and fires the shotgun jab.
But still...
Dep!
Ryoma catches it clean in the palm of his right glove.
Another L-step, and he slips away again by that sa casual, almost mocking walk.
"There he goes again," a comntator snaps. "I told you, he’s mocking him. He’s taking this fight way too lightly."
Ryoma even taunts his opponent. "What’s wrong old man? Aren’t you going to teach a lesson?"
But Sekino doesn’t bite. His experience tells him to keep the pace, ignore the antics, forget the feud, and focus on building back his rhythm.
***
A minute into round six, dozens of punches have been traded. Plenty have landed, but none clean enough to score.
Everything is unfolding exactly as Ryoma intended, hold the lead without burning energy.
>
"But this is getting dull... give it another minute and I’ll be dozing off."
Sekino doesn’t force recklessness either. He likes this rhythm too. In fact, this is how he won most of his fights, pilling up point through control, not rage.
There are still more than two minutes left, plenty of ti, enough to make the round matter and give his body a mont to recover.
"Just a few clean hits... that’s all I need."
He guides Ryoma toward the corner. And here, Ryoma’s L-step disappears. No more room. Ryoma has nowhere to angle out.
"He can’t just drift away from the action now," a comntator warns. "Are we on the verge of another slugfest?"
"This is it, folks..." another voice jumps in. "They’re going to trade bombs."
But no, it only leads to attrition of flickers, as Sekino doesn’t want to engage too deeper, not wanting to take any risk.
Their lefts trade like impatient taps on a door. Roll, slap, parry, and deflect. Still no clean blow, but each ti leather smacks skin, the crowd erupts at the sound alone.
Eventually...
Dsh!
A slapping left grazes Ryoma’s cheek. Light enough to shrug off, but by scoring logic, it’s a point.
And another...
Dsh!
This ti Sekino chains it into the reverse shotgun jab. And Ryoma can’t brush this one aside.
"The light slap is fine... but not this."
He tightens his guard.
Dug!
Sekino finally sees the gap he needs. He maintains the rhythm and sneaks in a few more slapping lefts.
Dug!
Dsh, dsh, dug, dsh!
"Light or not, they count. This round is mine."
But Sekino slips into the sa tempo too long. Ryoma reads it, feels the beat settle, and tis the two-beat flicker perfectly.
Light punches are fast, but no weight, easy to knock away.
Dsh!
Ryoma swats the left aside. Sekino’s rhythm shatters. His arm swings wide, too wide to fire the reverse shotgun jab.
"Damn it..."
Not wanting to be countered, Sekino instantly steps back.
And Ryoma seizes the opening, pivots, and circles out of the corner, slipping back into open space like a ghost that refuses to stay trapped.
He even yawns, covering his mouth with a glove, openly showing how bored he is.
A few pockets of the crowd burst into laughter.
"Slug it out!"
"We want see more."
Ryoma casually jabs the glove at the spectators, as if urging them to scream louder.
"Co on, Sekino," he taunts. "They want action. Let’s slug it out."
And they respond in kind.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
Sekino finally snaps back, confidence seeping into his voice. "Shut up, brat. If you want it, then get over here."
Ryoma glances at the HUD, one minute left in the round. And he smirks.
This was the plan from the start. Ti to raise the tempo and reclaim every clean punch Sekino scored.
"How many clean punches?"
>
"Oh, not that many. Alright... let’s even it up."
He begins to bounce. The footwork wakes up, lazy at first, smooth and slow, gradually closes the distance between them.
Then cos the shift, the swaying pendulum step.
It’s the first ti Ryoma has ever shown this Soviet rhythm in an official fight. The crowd knows Ryoma’s usual footwork, but not this strange foreign rhythm.
A ripple of intrigue spreads across the arena. Even Sekino’s posture changes; more alert, more cautious, unsure of what he’s seeing.
Ryoma starts moving forward and back again, probing with reluctant jabs that don’t quite reach. The tempo keeps rising as he inches closer.
Then the swinging jab finally starts landing, each beat matches his back-and-forth sway.
Pak, pak, pak!
Sekino blocks them all, but he hesitates to fire back.
When he finally does throw his flickers, Ryoma is already stepping away, just outside the edge of range.
However, right when Ryoma’s rear foot lands...
Pak!
His swinging jab clips Sekino’s cheek, almost playful, a tap more than a punch.
"There. My first clean hit."
Sekino resets his Philly Shell, eyes narrowing as he tries to read the rhythm, waiting, watching, hunting for the mont Ryoma steps into range.
He thinks he sees it. Ryoma shifts forward, and Sekino fires a flicker.
But Ryoma parries it with an easy sweep of his right arm and drives in with a swinging left, carrying all his forward montum behind it.
And he rocks back again without breaking his pendulum rhythm, tossing another swinging left as he retreats.
Dug, dsh!
The first is blocked, but the second taps cleanly against Sekino’s right cheek.
"There... second clean hit," he says with a smirk.
It’s light, but Sekino is starting to look irritated.
He refuses to take another one of those pesky taps. So he sharpens his focus, studying every pattern, every step, every shift in tempo and distance.
Seeing that, Ryoma smirks, the way an adult would after tricking a naïve kid.
>
"Too early for that, isn’t it...?"
>
" Alright... let’s test it out."
He keeps throwing the sa swinging left, still riding the sa swaying pendulum rhythm. This ti, Sekino reads it well and blocks every single one.
Pak!
Pak, pak, pak!
Then Sekino spots an opening, too tempting to ignore. He’s certain Ryoma will step forward next, so he lunges first, firing a straight right, timing it perfectly.
But...
"Nu-oh..."
Ryoma abruptly halts the pendulum, shaking his head once, the entire rhythm freezing mid-sway.
Sekino’s breath snags; the realization hits him. His right glove stall in the air, inches short of its target.
"Got you..." Ryoma murmurs, driving a cross straight through the gap.
Dhuak!
It lands flush on Sekino’s jaw, whipping his head to the right.
And...
Blug!
Sekino drops to the canvas.
The crowd cheers in one burst... then the noise fractures into confusion.
A bout that looked so calm, even soothing with Ryoma’s pendulum sway, suddenly erupts into a savage counterstrike.
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