A montary silence smothers the arena as Umoto feels a searing heat at the bridge of his nose. But he wastes no ti, exploding forward with his signature move: a heavy right launched in perfect sync with an explosive step-in.
The punch doesn’t hunt for an opening. It smashes directly into the heart of Ryohei’s guard like an iron mace shattering a wooden shield.
Ryohei, having weathered this exact pressure countless tis during sparring sessions with Ryoma, does not attempt a rigid block. The mont he feels the crushing weight of Umoto’s glove, he intentionally loosens the tension in his right arm and subtly tilts his body’s angle.
Dhuack!
Ryohei’s right arm is thrown aside violently, creating a dramatic visual as if he is about to be sent reeling.
"A massive gap! Ryohei is wide open!"
"Umoto is going to finish him right now!"
The crowd at EDION Arena gasps, believing Ryohei’s defense has been utterly demolished. But this is a controlled redirection.
Umoto, certain his prey is exposed, imdiately fires a massive lead hook toward the unprotected side of Ryohei’s head.
"He’s really this simple," Ryohei thinks coldly.
Ryohei doesn’t panic. His right arm might have been blown away by the first blow, but his left hand remains free and chambered.
Before Umoto’s hook can find its mark, Ryohei fires a left jab; short, compact, and razor-sharp.
Dsh!
The punch snaps directly onto Umoto’s nose. It isn’t heavy enough to drop him, but it’s more than enough to shatter the champion’s rhythm.
The montum of the lead hook falters for a fraction of a second, granting Ryohei the crucial window to whip his right arm back and brace his upper arm as a shield.
Dug!
Umoto’s hook thuds harmlessly against Ryohei’s tensed upper arm, its explosive power stifled. And imdiately, Ryohei snaps another compact left jab directly into his exposed face.
Dsh!
The entire four-punch exchange unfolds in less than three seconds. A burst of pure reflex that dissects the champion’s lethal intent into useless fragnts of montum.
Umoto staggers back, his head snapped slightly upward by the constant, stinging harassnt of Ryohei’s left hand.
Ryohei doesn’t wait for Umoto to recover. With the precision of a surgeon, he executes a swift pivot on his lead foot, gliding into a smooth side-step to reclaim the center of the ring.
He stands tall and calm, while Umoto is forced to reset his stance, his face flushing deep red with mounting fury.
"Incredible! Did you see that?!" the comntator screams, his voice nearly cracking. "Two of Umoto’s destructive strikes neutralized just like that!"
"Ryohei isn’t just surviving," the co-comntator shouts. "He’s dismantling the champion’s rhythm with terrifying composure. It’s as if he knew where every inch of those strikes was headed!"
***
A surge of adrenaline rushes through Ryohei as he reclaims the center. For a fleeting second during that exchange, a seed of doubt had flickered, a fear that he might not make it out of the corner in one piece.
But the fact that he did, and so cleanly, brings a sharp wave of relief.
"I can do this," he realizes, his breathing steadying. "That sparring was a bit late, but useful."
Across from him, Umoto seethes. He keeps his face an icy mask, but inwardly, his irritation gnaws at him. The disrespect is gone, replaced by a grim realization.
Not bad... Umoto thinks, narrowing his eyes as he recalibrates. I thought he was just another coward who only knew how to run. But he’s actually got teeth.
The champion steps forward again, but this ti, the recklessness is gone. He moves with calculation, asuring the exact inch where he can trigger his next explosive entry.
Ryohei senses the shift in mindset and imdiately settles into a relaxed Soviet-style rhythm. He consciously loosens his muscles, letting his gloves begin a lazy swaying motion. It’s a hypnotic, deceptive cadence designed to blur Umoto’s perception of distance.
It is a hypnotic, deceptive cadence designed to blur Umoto’s perception of distance.
"Wait, look at that rhythm!" the lead comntator exclaims, leaning forward. "The swaying gloves, that rhythmic bounce... it’s the trademark Nakahara Soviet Style! You don’t see many Japanese boxers move with that kind of elastic fluidity. It looks lazy, almost careless, but it’s a psychological trap!"
"Exactly," the co-comntator adds, his voice hushed with intrigue. "It’s a masterclass in distance deception. Ryohei is effectively ’background noise’ right now, making it impossible for Umoto to tell when the real strike is coming."
As Umoto creeps into range, Ryohei doesn’t wait for the attack. He initiates a pendulum step, his body rocking like a trono, and begins flicking out the swaying lazy jabs.
Dug.
Dug.
Dug.
The sounds are muffled, hitting Umoto’s high guard. The champion parries them with ease, his feet staying planted, but the rhythm is botherso.
It’s a constant, rhythmic noise that masks Ryohei’s true intent.
Without breaking the pendulum flow, Ryohei suddenly shifts his angle. He loops a lazy right hook that falls just short, steps back instantly, and then fires two lead hooks in rapid succession; one as he lunges forward, and another as he bounces back.
Dug.
Dug.
Nothing land clean. But Umoto can’t touch Ryohei either.
His eyes dart back and forth, his brows furrowing in frustration. The predictable target he expected has vanished, replaced by a flickering ghost that moves in a weird bouncy tempo.
He tenses his muscles, ready to explode, but he can no longer find the start button.
Every ti he thinks he has the timing, Ryohei’s rhythm shifts again, leaving the champion frozen in mid-calculation, unable to find the perfect mont to launch his assault.
***
The final minute of the round remains locked in this hypnotic cadence. There are no more explosive clashes, no more clean blows.
Ryohei stays disciplined, his pendulum rhythm keeping Umoto at bay as he secures his lead with a steady stream of lazy interference.
Even when Coach Ishimaru thumps the canvas to signal the last ten seconds, Umoto doesn’t rush. He stays behind his low guard, his eyes narrowed, fully focused on studying the swaying jabs and recalibrating his range.
And then...
Ding!
The first round, which began with such violent intent, ends in an eerie, tactical peace.
Ryohei walks back to his corner, clearly marking this as his round, while the champion returns to the red corner looking unbothered, as if he had simply spent the last two minutes reading a complex map.
"An intriguing opening round!" the lead comntator remarks. "It started like a hurricane, but Ryohei’s Soviet-style rhythm effectively neutralized the champion. Umoto looked genuinely troubled by that swaying movent."
"He did," the co-comntator agrees. "Ryohei looks incredibly sharp today. If he can maintain this composure and keep the champion guessing, we might actually see a massive upset tonight. But I doubt Umoto Kimitada will let his belt slip away that easily."
Despite all that, there is absolutely no sign of panic in the red corner.
Coach Ishimaru calmly wipes the sweat from Umoto’s face and offers him water to rinse. Remarkably, he says nothing, no shouting, no frantic tactical adjustnts.
Across the ring, Ryoma watches them intently. His eyes are fixed on their lips, trying to catch even a fragnt of their strategy. But as he expected, they remain silent, just like all Umoto’s previous fights.
As Ryoma turns back to the team, Sera raises an eyebrow, expecting for an intel from him.
"Well? Did you catch anything?" he asks.
Ryoma simply shakes his head, his expression grimly neutral.
On the other side, Umoto is also watching Ryoma. He has studied Ryohei’s previous fight in the Class A tournant final, both live and on tape. And he knows the truth: it was Ryoma’s mid-fight coaching that significantly shaped Ryohei’s victory.
Umoto remains wary, waiting for the genius to intervene. Yet, Ryoma stays silent, offering no words to Ryohei. And a cold smirk forms in Umoto’s face.
"So, you really think you don’t need to coach him this ti, huh?"
"Do you really think he’s already winning this fight?"
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