His balance wavers, boots scraping across the canvas as he staggers back two uneven steps. Sohow, he stays upright.
But Park Hyun-seok doesn’t let him breathe for even a heartbeat. He surges forward, gloves already in motion.
Kenta tucks his chin and brings both arms up, folding into a tight shell. And Park hamrs at him imdiately.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Each punch slams into Kenta’s guard, shoving him backward until his spine grazes the ropes.
The mont Park feels the resistance of the cable behind Kenta, he changes angles, dipping and hooking hard to the sides.
Bug! Bug!
The blows rattle Kenta’s ribs even through his elbows. Park lifts his gloves again and smashes them into Kenta’s arms, pinning his guard high.
Dug, dug, dug!
Then he switches again, body, head, body.
Bug! Dsh! Bug!
On the red corner, Nakahara leans over the top rope, voice sharp but calm.
"Kenta! Don’t let him take it for free. Throw sothing back!"
But confidence is hard to summon when your own body refuses to obey.
Kenta feels the weight of the chant still echoing in his head, the pressure of proving sothing to his family, the suffocating fear of making a single mistake.
And the crowd joins in, impatient, loud.
"Co on, big bro!"
"Do sothing!"
"Don’t just stand there!"
"Fight back, Aniki-Oni!"
Their voices squeeze him from all sides.
He wants to move. He wants to answer. But uncertainty becos a chain wrapped around his limbs.
So he defends. He rolls his shoulders, shifts his hips, keeping his guard high and tight.
Park continues throwing, but now several punches skim past him or land awkwardly off-angle.
A few still hit cleanly, jolting Kenta’s head or thudding into his arms. But he forces himself to endure them, letting his body relearn the beat of being inside a ring.
Gradually, the panic loosens its grip. His breathing evens out. His senses sharpen. And finally, he sees a gap.
He fires...
Dsh!
...a compact hook snaps against Park’s upper arm, small and imperfect, but enough.
"Kenta finally fires back!" a comntator picks up. "That’s his first real answer of the round!"
Park tries to reassert control, throwing a probing left, testing for another opening. But Kenta reads it, braces, and commits to a trade. He digs a short punch into Park’s body.
Dsh!
Both land; Park’s jab taps Kenta’s cheek, while Kenta’s shot thuds into Park’s core.
And the comntators jump in:
"They trade! Kenta’s settling in!"
"Finally... He’s starting to feel the fight now!"
For just a heartbeat, Park’s montum buckles. It’s small, but it’s enough.
Kenta steps in close, not clinching, but close enough to shove Park off his line. The push creates space, just enough for him to slip sideways along the ropes and escape the trap.
Park chases, thinking the montum is still his. But this ti Kenta’s jabs intercept him, sharp enough to halt the advance.
And a few feints make Park hesitate, forcing him to reset.
His brow twitches. Tch... he’s settled in already?
Kenta exhales and slips into an L-step, moving with a steadiness that finally feels like his. A thin sliver of control returns to him, fragile, but real.
It’s the first clean breath he’s taken since the bell rang, a brief mont to reset, to gather the rhythm he lost in that disastrous opening.
***
The pace cools as both n circle. Park keeps a respectful mid-range, probing with light jabs, watching for openings that no longer co so easily.
Kenta answers with small movents, tight guards, subtle steps, the occasional feint, doing just enough to keep Park honest without overextending himself again.
The crowd settles into a low murmur, sensing the tempo winding down. The exchanges thin out, the urgency fading into a wary standoff as the final seconds tick away.
And then...
DING–DING!
The bell snaps the round closed.
"That’s the end of round one... and what a rough start for Kenta Moriyama."
"He took so heavy punishnt early. But give him credit... he adjusted well. Those last exchanges showed he’s finally warming up."
Park turns first, raising one glove with a self-satisfied smile. He walks back to his corner with the relaxed confidence of a man who believes he owned the round from start to finish.
"Park Hyun-seok clearly takes the round, though," a comntator continues. "He controlled the pace, pressed the action, and landed the cleaner shots."
"But Kenta..." another one adds, "he might have just found a foothold at the very end. Let’s see if he can build on it in round two."
Kenta trudges toward his corner. His stride drags slightly, not enough to alarm the crowd, but more than enough for his team to notice.
His mind is steady at last, no panic left in him. Yet his body already feels the toll of every punch, every defensive shell, every ounce of tension he carried... and maybe the fatigue from his morning labor.
He drops onto the stool with a muted breath. It’s only one round, and he already feels the weight of the fight settling deep in his muscles.
***
A low murmur hums through the hall during the break, restless, uneven, the kind of noise that fills the air when a crowd isn’t sure what to expect next.
It’s not quite excitent, not quite concern, just the unsure buzz of thousands waiting to see where the fight will tilt.
In the red corner, Nakahara and his team work quickly; cold water over the nape, a thumb pressing gently under the eye socket to check swelling, gloves adjusting, shoulders loosened.
Only after the basic checks does Nakahara finally speak. He clicks his tongue, half a scoff, half a sigh. "You fought like a total amateur in there. Did the crowd rattle you that much?"
Kenta lets out a breathy chuckle, trying to lighten the sting.
"Maybe... a bit more than I expected. Guess a year without fighting does sothing to you."
He rolls his shoulders, testing them.
"But I’m good now. Really. And from what I saw... he’s not that much of a problem."
Nakahara eyes him, gauging every nuance; breath, posture, and the clarity in the eyes.
"You’re sure?" he asks.
Kenta nods. "I’ll turn it around next round. Promise."
A beat of silence follows before Nakahara gives a firm nod.
"Good. Then finish waking up in the next round. I know he shouldn’t be a problem for you, not if you’re yourself."
Kenta offers a faint smirk, trying to match the confidence. He straightens on the stool, rolling his shoulders as if to shake the tension loose.
But deep down, under the adrenaline and the forced calm, a thin thread of doubt lingers.
The morning labor still clings to his muscles, subtle but real, a dull heaviness he can’t brush off. And the body blows Park landed on him clearly have so effect on him.
Now he can’t help wondering how long he can keep this pace, or how long before his body betrays him again.
"Just don’t let him be the type who can take punches."
"A durable fighter... that’s the worst match for tonight."
If Park is the kind of fighter that can eat shots and keep coming, Kenta isn’t sure he’ll co out the winner.
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