Aramaki keeps hunting patiently, cutting Hiroyuki’s pathways one by one, edging him toward the corner again.
But Hiroyuki no longer chooses only to run. He steps in suddenly, unleashing another tight flurry...
Dug, dug, dug, dug!
...every shot blocked, yet enough to halt Aramaki’s advance for a heartbeat. He uses that instant to wheel out to the side and reclaim the center of the ring.
He refuses to let the tempo dip. His rhythm tightens, his legs blur, and for a mont the ring feels too wide to contain him, as he keeps claiming every inch of space he needs.
Aramaki blocks, slides, slips. But still a few jabs snap against his face, and one lead hook thuds behind his guard.
He loads his right hand, but Hiroyuki is already gone, darting back out of range before he can pull the trigger.
The hunt resets, slow and deliberate. But this ti, Hiroyuki’s the one dictating the pace.
The comntators scramble in, voices rising with the shift in tempo:
"Look at this... Hiroyuki’s alive now!"
"He’s cranking the pace up, forcing Aramaki to defend nonstop!"
"He’s taking the fight back, one step, one angle at a ti!"
And the crowd feels it instantly, a ripple becos a wave. The arena swells with heat and noise, a pulsing roar that seems to lift Hiroyuki’s feet, feeding his montum, urging him to push harder, faster, and brighter.
"Keep moving, Hiroyuki!"
"Beautiful footwork! Don’t let him touch you!"
"Hit and run! Do it again!"
Just like that, round two ends, with Aramaki unable to land a single clean shot.
***
The arena erupts. Cheers crash down in wild waves, praising Hiroyuki’s courage, his refusal to fold, the elegance and fire with which he seized the round back from the brink.
His hit-and-run, his rhythm, his footwork, they chant his na like he’s rewriting the fight in real ti.
But still, Aramaki’s composure doesn’t crack.
He walks back to his corner with the sa unhurried gait, showing no visible frustration, no signs of panic, not even the stiffness of a man touched repeatedly by jabs and hooks.
He sits on the stool, breathing already leveled, posture relaxed, as though the blazing pace of the round barely grazed him.
"Sorry," he says quietly, exhaling once. "I let him dominate that round. I couldn’t catch him. Not even close."
Nakahara doesn’t look bothered, not even remotely. He wipes sweat from Aramaki’s face, gives a small nod, and speaks in an even, almost conversational tone.
"It’s expected. We had Ryoma spar with you using Kanzaki’s style because Hiroyuki had a similar base. But... he’s grown a lot since the Serrano fight. Much more than we anticipated."
Aramaki lets out a soft, self-mocking breath, almost a laugh, and shakes his head as if embarrassed by a realization.
"What is it?" Nakahara asks.
"For a mont..." Aramaki opens his eyes, thinking aloud, "I saw Ryoma in him. The footwork. The pace. The tight, pulsing rhythm. And the way he slides in and out. It felt... familiar."
Nakahara’s brows lift. He blinks, and then replaying Hiroyuki’s movents in his mind. And soon, the realization hits him too.
"I see..." he murmurs. "Ryoma started from Kanzaki’s style before finding his own rhythm. Considering where Hiroyuki built his base, it makes sense he’d grow in that direction."
Aramaki’s gaze shifts toward the blue corner, his expression still calm, but sharpened with understanding.
"But..." he says quietly, "that was the footwork Ryoma used in the Rookie King tournant. The version of him that beat last year." He inhales slowly. "Hiroyuki’s grown to that level. But I’ve been sparring with the Ryoma who’s climbed far beyond it."
Nakahara chuckles, not mocking, not dismissive, just quietly amused by the way Aramaki fras the situation.
"That’s one way to put it," he says. "So... you think you can beat him?"
"There’s no way I take this on points," Aramaki answers honestly. "But his punches... they’ve got no bite. They sting, but not enough to worry ."
"That’s the tax you pay for light footwork," Nakahara says. "Gliding like that, he can’t plant his weight. His punches lose depth. Still, you need to stay alert. Don’t forget how Ryoma shut one of your eyes in the Rookie King tournant."
Aramaki nods with a grim half-smile. "It’s a terrible experience, I admit. And I don’t plan on repeating it."
***
The bell for the third round rings, and for a mont it feels like the second round never ended.
Hiroyuki launches right back into motion, legs working at full capacity, carving wide arcs through the ring, never staying still long enough for Aramaki to pin him down.
His rhythm returns with sharp gliding steps, jab and slide, hook and vanish, in and out, over and over.
Aramaki stays patient, tracking, hunting, but still unable to land a clean shot.
Yet sothing has changed.
Hiroyuki’s punches, though still crisp, connect far less frequently than before. And every ti he darts in with a sharp jab, Aramaki’s guard subtly shifts, ensuring nothing touches the area around his eyes.
He doesn’t mind taking light shots elsewhere. His body absorbs them without complaint. But his eyes, the only weakness he cannot allow, remain untouched.
The round closes with Hiroyuki still dancing, still attacking, still dominating, but with diminishing returns.
***
And the fourth round begins much the sa: Hiroyuki moving, Aramaki chasing shadows.
For the first minute, it feels like a carbon copy of the previous exchanges; fast feet, fast hands, and no clean counters from Aramaki.
But gradually... Hiroyuki’s rhythm falters, not dramatically, not all at once, just small fractures at first.
There’s a second longer between glides, a mont where he walks sideways instead of bouncing, and a beat of stillness before he re-engages.
Maybe it’s a deliberate effort to ration stamina, but the cost shows. The relentless tempo has gnawed at his legs. The burn finally sets in.
And with tired legs cos thinner concentration, barely a slip, barely a hesitation, but it’s enough.
Aramaki, now far removed from his old one-dinsional bulldozer style, has taken surprisingly little real damage.
Despite the steady stream of clean jabs he’s eaten, his face still looks fresh, his breathing controlled. His arms and legs remain solid and unspent, untouched by fatigue. He hasn’t used them much so far.
He continues the pursuit with calm precision, not wasting punches, letting the intensity show in the way he moves rather than the blows he throws.
And before Hiroyuki realizes it, the angle closes, the exit path vanishes. And he finds himself drifting straight into the corner.
Damn it... It eventually cos to this.
The comntary team picks it up instantly.
"Oh no... after dominating for almost two full rounds, Hiroyuki’s trapped again!"
"And folks... he knows what happened the last ti he got stuck there!"
"Is this it? Will the tide turn right here?"
"Or can Hiroyuki sohow find a way out again?"
The crowd’s on edge now. Everyone rembers that first-round beating. Everyone, including Hiroyuki.
Before Aramaki even makes his move, Sugimoto shouts from the blue corner:
"Hiroyuki! Don’t back down. Fight him! Go first!"
Hiroyuki responds instantly. His legs spark to life despite the suffocating space, and he unleashes a flurry.
Two jabs, a cross, a lead hook, another cross.
Dug, dug, dsh, dug!
Aramaki absorbs the sequence, blocking three, the hook sneaking in behind his guard and clipping his cheek.
Hiroyuki seizes the chance, trying to slip out. But Aramaki cuts the exit with a left to the body...
Dug!
Blocked, yes, but the force drives Hiroyuki right back into place.
Then cos the cross, and Hiroyuki barely raises a double guard...
BAM!
...even blocked, the impact blasts him into the corner post.
No... I need to fight back.
He lowers his guard just enough, and sees Aramaki pivoting his lead foot deeper. Sothing heavy is coming.
Aramaki dips his left, seeming to throw a body shot. Hiroyuki bites on the opening and fires...
Zrff!
...but he hits nothing.
Aramaki stops mid-motion, head pulling back, the entire punch sequence revealed as bait.
Hiroyuki’s breath freezes. It’s a move he’s never seen from Aramaki before.
"A trap...?"
He is wide open now.
And Aramaki slides in, burying a left hook deep into his ribs...
Bug!
Hiroyuki folds, posture collapsing for a single helpless beat. And Aramaki ends it with a vicious right hook.
BAM!
Sweat bursts off Hiroyuki’s head as the glove detonates against his cheek.
In the very next heartbeat, he crumples to the canvas.
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