Still, his mind feels clear, too clear. Liam knows exactly where he is, knows the count, knows the crowd, knows the fight is slipping away. And that clarity terrifies him.
He forces himself up again. For a heartbeat, it looks fine. He’s standing, eyes open wide, seems trying to tell the ref to stop counting.
He even nods once, like he’s answering a question no one asked. The ref hasn’t even asked him anything.
Then his legs betray him. They don’t collapse outright. They hesitate, shake hard, refuse to sync with the rest of him.
The brain is issuing commands, sharp and urgent, but the body is lagging, half a second behind every thought.
"Oh... no," a comntator mutters, blinking. "This doesn’t look right."
Liam drifts toward center on unsteady legs, not by choice but by imbalance, his path curving awkwardly, almost circular, as though straight lines no longer exist for him.
Another step follows, wider, clumsier, drifting off line. Spectators stand without realizing it, heads craning as confusion spreads through the arena.
"He’s walking... but he’s not going anywhere," the second comntator says. "That’s balance loss."
The crowd’s roar fractures into confusion and concern. Cheers die halfway. Gasps replace them.
Liam lifts a glove, pointing forward, trying to assert himself. His shoulders are squared, his eyes furious, but his feet don’t match the picture.
He veers slightly, correcting too late, then overcorrecting the other way. The referee is already moving with him, close now, eyes fixed on Liam’s legs.
"This is what happens when you get up too fast," the comntator says, urgency rising. "The brain hasn’t synched with the legs. He thinks he’s okay. But his body denies him."
Liam plants his foot hard, trying to stop the drift. Instead, his knees buckle. The tremor runs up his legs, through his hips, into his spine.
His head snaps to the side, not from impact, but from the shock finally catching up now that adrenaline is leaking out.
He doesn’t even have ti to curse. Just as he’s going to drop again, the referee catches him this ti, arm around his chest, already waving it off with the other.
Both comntators get up, triumphant.
"That’s it!"
"He’s seen enough!"
"He can’t let this continue!"
Roar erupts. Shouts collide with stunned silence.
The bell rings a beat later.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Liam is upright only because the referee is holding him. His face is pale now, but eyes blazing with disbelief.
"What...?" he breathes. "No... No!!! Why did you stop it?!"
He shrugs the ref off, slaps his own chest, stomps a foot like proof.
"Look at ! I’m fine! I can still fight!"
The referee doesn’t argue. He just shakes his head, firm, final, gesturing it over as he steps away.
Liam follows him anyway, steps uneven, anger loud, still trying to convince the world of sothing his body has already confessed.
But there’s no more room for argunt. The bell has rung, decision has made. The fight has ended with technical knockout.
The ring begins to fill. Several officials slide in through the ropes to protect the ref. Then trainers. Then caran, climbing up the apron, lenses already raised.
The space tightens fast; bodies pressing in, voices overlapping.
Liam’s mother is also on her feet below the ring, friends in tow, shouting at the referee on the ropes, fingers jabbing toward him and the officials.
In the ring, Masahiro reaches Liam before anyone else. He wraps both arms around him, holding him close, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other firm against his ribs.
"It’s over," he says low, urgent, right into Liam’s ear. "It’s done. Listen to . It’s over."
Liam shakes his head violently, breath ragged. "No. No... let go. I’m fine," he snaps, trying to pull free. "I can still fight."
Caras crowd in, flashing lights. The mont is being swallowed whole.
"Look at him," one comntator says, voice strained. "He still doesn’t accept it."
"This is the hardest mont for a fighter," the other adds. "When the mind refuses to agree with the body."
Liam wrenches himself loose. He stumbles a step, regains just enough balance, and marches across the ring.
The referee is already by the ropes on the far side.
Liam closes the distance by slipping through the crowd of officials, jabbing a gloved toward the ref’s chest, pressing it there, hard.
"You stopped it for nothing," he spits. "You hear ? Nothing! This is disgrace!"
Two caran slide in close, circling, lenses inches from his face, capturing every twitch of rage, every denial.
But the referee doesn’t answer. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t gesture back. He just stands there, silent, eyes steady, letting Liam burn himself out.
"And that silence tells you everything," a comntator says quietly. "The referee knows exactly why he made that call."
Across the ring, Kenta hasn’t moved. He’s still in the corner, hands resting on the top rope, surrounded by Nakahara and his team.
His eyes are fixed on Liam, not in triumph, not even relief, but disbelief. He hasn’t processed the win yet, not really.
What holds him frozen is the sight of Liam’s face. The madness in it, the refusal, the way Liam tried to stand again after that counter, after everything his body was screaming at him throw that last punch.
"Man..." Hiroshi exhales, eyes still on the red corner. "He really looks like he could keep fighting."
"He shouldn’t have forced himself up," Nakahara says, voice even. "That counter knocked his balance out. His brain and legs weren’t synced at that mont."
Hiroshi glances at him. "But he did get up."
Nakahara nods once. "He could have beaten the count if he’d stayed down longer. Let his blood pressure settle. Let his body respond. But he rushed it. Adrenaline took over. He stood up before his legs were ready."
He gestures subtly toward Liam, now still arguing, still burning.
"And you saw what it did to him."
Hiroshi swallows. "So it wasn’t the knockdown."
"No," Nakahara says. "It was what he did after that pushed the ref to stop it. He showed everyone how terrible he was, that it’s too dangerous to let him fight."
He finally looks down at Kenta, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
"That’s the danger," he adds quietly. "The mind saying ’I’m fine’ while the body is already gone."
Kenta swallows, still not sure if any of this is real, still not registering his win. The fight is over. But the aftermath is only just beginning.
***
Monts later, the ring announcer finally delivers the decision.
"Ladies and gentlen... the referee stops the fight at two minutes and eighteen seconds of round five. This contest is ruled a technical knockout..."
Liam says nothing at first. Now that the chaos has thinned, the truth catches up to him.
His head still spins. His legs feel hollow, trembling under him. He stands in the corner anyway, forcing stillness, pretending the weakness isn’t there.
"I can’t accept this," he mutters at last. "Coach... make sure we get a rematch."
Masahiro doesn’t look at him. His eyes remain fixed on the blue corner, jaw tight, pride cracked but burning.
"Of course," he replies. "We’re not letting this end here."
His lip curls slightly.
"Losing to a no-na gym like theirs?" he continues. "I won’t accept it. I’ll send a challenge. For you... and for Hanazawa too."
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