Ramos gets up from the stool and faces the center of the ring, waiting for the bell.
The noise presses in again; shouts, whistles, the low roar of the crowd. But his breathing stays even. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Controlled.
This is familiar territory. Every fight he’s ever won lives here, in this waiting.
Not on a single punch. Not on a gamble or a flash of timing. Ramos has never needed that. He’s never trusted it. Counters break fights open by accident; montum breaks them on purpose.
For him, he’s always won in the sa two ways.
Drown them in punches, round after round, volu stacking like interest, damage accumulating until legs soften, guards sag, eyes slow. Or carry that sa pressure all the way to the final bell, where the numbers tell the story for him.
Either drop his opponent with accumulated damage, or win by majority decisions. Both need the sa thing.
Discipline. Tight rhythm. High volu of punches.
That’s how he builds his legacy. That’s how he’s stayed unbeaten.
"Stick to it."
"Once I do, there’s nothing he can do."
Across the ring, Ryoma stands loose, almost careless, eyes calm, offering nothing to read. For him, the plan has been set long before tonight.
Either Ramos keeps forcing that tight barrage of spears until every tell is laid bare, or he gets dragged into a slower lulling pace where the rhythm belongs to soone else.
Whichever choice Ramos makes, Ryoma has already prepared for what cos after.
Finally, the bell rings.
Ding.
Round Three.
Both fighters step out at the sa ti, movents asured, still looking careful.
"Here we go," one comntator says.
"Third round... and now we see who really owns the tempo," adds the other.
Ryoma settles first. He raises his mid-range pendulum stance, rear foot locked in place, lead foot sliding back and forth within a narrow lane.
His shoulders sway. Gloves drift with them, lazy and unhurried, following a subtle, almost musical rhythm.
Ramos ets him near center ring, still a few paces outside Ryoma’s reach. His stance stays even, posture relaxed in a way that speaks of efficiency. No wasted motion. Breathing steady.
Ryoma studies him, still approaching the fight with adaptive mindset.
"What’s he going to do now?"
Ramos begins to shift his angle, sidestepping left and right with small adjustnts. At first, nothing seems different.
Then Ryoma catches it. Ramos’ relaxation vanishes. Tension creeps into his shoulders and neck. His eyes harden. A short breath slips out and then stops, held as his body switches over to anaerobic work.
>
Ryoma adjusts imdiately. His stance folds into the Philly Shell; body angled, lead shoulder turned forward, left arm pinned tight to his side.
The right arm floats in front of his chest, glove coiled and ready to parry, to catch, or to fire straight back the mont an opening appears.
Ramos is already stepping in, and the flurry cos alive.
"Here it is," one comntator barks.
Spears shoot down the center, straight, compact, relentless.
"Ryoma rolls imdiately," another comntator follows.
"Shoulder rising to et the first impact. A punch skids off bone."
"Another slips past his cheek by a finger’s width."
Ryoma’s right glove lifts, catches one, nudges the next aside. When the line drops lower, his right arm sinks with it, sealing his ribs and solar plexus.
No retreat. He holds his ground.
Ramos keeps firing, no breaks, no pauses, subtly shifting his angle with each step, left then right, without ever breaking tempo. The pattern stays intact, the rhythm uninterrupted.
One punch sneaks through.
Thud!
Then another.
Thud!
Ryoma absorbs them without expression, guard tightening, stance anchored.
The eleventh punch lands, glancing, and then the flow snaps to stop. Ramos steps back imdiately, chest lifting as he takes the breath he needs.
That’s the mont Ryoma’s been waiting for. His lead foot slides in and the flicker snaps out.
Dug.
Blocked.
The flicker veers sideways, the second beat.
Dug.
Blocked again.
The third cos straight, the reverse Detroit Piston, but Ramos is already moving, stepping out of range before it can fully extend.
He resets fast, stance even, shoulders loose again. Breathing steadied.
Ryoma doesn’t chase. He watches, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of Ramos’s chest, counting silently.
One... two... three.
>
Ramos begins to shift his angle again, small steps, feints, waiting for Ryoma to loosen.
Ryoma lets the pendulum return, rear foot planted, lead foot rocking. But before the sway fully settles, he catches it again; the sa cue.
The tension. The breath held.
Ramos steps in, and Ryoma folds back into the Philly Shell.
The sequence repeats; punches slide across shoulders. One thuds into the body, muted by forearm and elbow. Yet Ryoma’s guard stays sealed.
"Still nothing clean," one comntator says.
"Ramos is working, but he’s not finding daylight."
Another barrage, twelve punches this ti, he lands another two scoring blows. Not everyone can see it, by Ryoma still absorbs the data.
And then it breaks. Ramos steps back again.
Ryoma doesn’t follow this ti. He stays where he is, shell intact, left arm dangling loose now, not taunting, not inviting.
A smirk crosses his face, brief and unhidden, like he’s seen sothing new.
Back in the blue corner, Sera frowns, arms crossed tight.
"I really don’t get it," he says. "You conditioned him to fight inside. In the first two rounds, he had chances to step deep. And he could just bury body shots."
He doesn’t take his eyes off the ring. "He could’ve drained Ramos’s tank. Instead, he holds back, keeps throwing body shots from mid-range, sa way everyone else did."
Sera finally looks away, turning toward Nakahara. "Isn’t that exactly why they always fail?" he asks. "The kid said it himself. So why repeat it?"
Nakahara doesn’t hesitate. "That’s part of the plan. For his strategy to reach its maximum output, a few conditions have to line up."
He pauses, eyes narrowing. "They all lead to one thing. Breathing patterns."
***
By the ti the third round ticks past the two-minute mark, the story looks simple from the outside.
Ramos has piled up the cleaner scoring blows. Straight punches slipping through just enough, a few landing flush.
Ryoma has answered only twice with the two-beat flicker, and neither sequence finds anything clean.
To anyone watching, he’s losing the round.
But Ryoma’s face tells a different story. There’s a brightness there now, a contained excitent.
Ramos has just finished another tight barrage and stepped back again. And this ti he is taking longer than before. More than five seconds to settle his breathing.
Sure, he’s a relentless pressure fighter. Famous for stamina. Known for holding that tight rhythm deep into fights, ten rounds if needed.
But he’s still human.
The barrage demands breath control, every spear thrown on held air, body locked until the last punch fires. After that cos the release, the need to breathe again.
And as the minutes pass, as the cycle repeats more often, each ti the reset takes longer.
Ryoma lets him do it again; another barrage from mid-range, another step back, and another attempt to steady the chest.
This ti, the rise and fall in Ramos’ chest linger. But Ryoma doesn’t wait.
He gives him three seconds only, and then he steps in.
Ramos tries to keep him out, reflexive, disciplined, but the punch isn’t as sharp this ti, not as fast.
Ryoma blocks it cleanly and keeps moving, closing the gap until he’s standing at the eye of the storm.
He lifts his right hand, aiming high. Ramos reacts instantly, guard tightening, elbows pinching inward.
But it’s a decoy.
Ryoma drops his level instead, swiftly widens his stance. Weight transfers from right foot to left. Hips and spine twist together, torque snapping through his fra as he drives a brutal shot into the midsection.
BUGH!
Ramos’s posture buckles. His cheeks puff as air explodes out of him, the worst possible mont to lose it.
He’s taken body shots before, plenty of them. But this one feels different. Not just pain in the gut, but also pressure in the lungs. Like the air itself has turned heavy.
He staggers half a step back, desperately swinging one left hook.
Ryoma ducks, and there’s small space creates, barely there. And he fires a straight left into the solar plexus, shoulder twisting, punch corkscrewing short and tight to drive deeper.
BUGH!
Ramos takes two full steps back now, arms instinctively dropping as the pain blooms upward, stealing breath when he needs it most.
The storm breaks. Ramos can’t draw air into his lungs, not fully, not fast enough.
And Ryoma is already there, right in front of him. His gaze is sharp now, predatory, as his right hand fires straight toward Ramos’s face.
Dread crawls up Ramos’s spine. He brings his guard up on instinct, but it’s late.
The punch slips through.
Dhuack!
His head snaps back. Blood and sweat spray into the lights.
"OH-MY-GOD!!!"
Ryoma follows with a sharp left hook...
"Ah... he isn’t finished yet."
....but it cuts through empty space above Ramos’ head as he drops to his knees.
Down!
The comntators erupt.
"Ramos is hurt. Ramos is down!"
"That ca out of nowhere... straight through the guard!"
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