In the blue corner, Narisawa doesn’t wait for the stool to settle before he starts. He crouches before Hamawaka, leaning forward, jaw tight.
"How did you fall for that sa cheap trick?" he scoffs. "You saw what Okabe did to Wakabayashi. We broke that down round by round after the fight. A full-length analysis. And yet..."
Hamakawa pulls the mouthpiece halfway out, breathing through his nose. "How am I supposed to know he’d run the exact sa sequence?"
"They’re from the sa gym," Narisawa snaps. "You think they don’t share ideas?"
Hamakawa shoots him a sharp glare. "If you were in there, would you see it coming?"
The question lands heavier than intended. Narisawa pauses, montarily caught off guard. He doesn’t answer. Hamakawa doesn’t press him either. He exhales, irritation written plainly across his face.
"He went all out in the first round like it was the deciding mont," he mutters. "I didn’t expect him to close the distance that deep. I thought he was the type to work from his comfort zone."
"Comfort zone?" Narisawa gives a dry laugh. "You forgot what he went through to take the belt from Umoto? He’s champion now. You’re the challenger. Prepare for the worst. Don’t assu this is supposed to be easy."
"I know," Hamakawa replies, though his tone still carries annoyance more than acceptance.
Narisawa studies him carefully. "That pendulum rhythm. Is it really that troubleso?"
Hamakawa shakes his head slightly. "It’s not just a normal pendulum step. It’s the old Soviet boxing, the real structure. We studied it before. We both saw how Okabe used that cadence to drop Wakabayashi. But without proper sparring against it, it’ll take another round to sync up."
"Then study him," Narisawa says firmly. "But don’t overread it. And if you think about countering, watch the step-back trap. That’s how he landed the ’lucky punch’ in the Class-A final. And against Umoto too."
Hamakawa nods once, eyes already drifting past his coach’s shoulder, back toward the center of the ring. This ti, he intends to be ready.
***
Across the ring, the red corner feels different. There is no sharp edge in the air, no raised voice cutting through the noise.
Sera stands before Ryohei, pressing a towel against Ryohei’s neck while another cornerman removes the mouthpiece and hands him water.
Ryohei takes a quick rinse, spits cleanly into the bucket, then nods once when offered another splash over his hair.
An ice pack touches briefly under Ryohei’s left eye, though there is no swelling yet, just prevention. Hiroshi massages his shoulders lightly, checking for stiffness.
Ryohei’s breathing remains steady, almost relaxed, as if he has just finished a controlled sparring round instead of a heated opening on a title stage.
Sera crouches in front of him, voice low but direct. "What do you see?"
Ryohei wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and answers without hesitation. "He still hasn’t adjusted. He thinks he’s punching from safe distance."
Sera studies his eyes for a mont, then nods. That is enough.
"He’s trying to solve you," Sera says. "Use it. While he’s thinking, you assert control. Build the damage early. Don’t hunt the head. Invest in the body."
Ryohei gives a small nod. There’s no excitent in his face, only clarity. "That’s the plan."
Sera leans a little closer. "Don’t let him settle into rhythm."
A faint smirk appears at the corner of Ryohei’s mouth. "I won’t."
He adjusts his mouthpiece as the cutman dabs his cheek one last ti.
"I can’t start running now," Ryohei adds casually. "Or that kid’s going to be mad at ."
Sera doesn’t need to ask which kid. He knows it’s Ryoma, the one who told Ryohei to raise his level from the opening bell and treat this fight like it could turn at any second.
"Just be aware of his counter," Sera warns, his tone sharpening slightly. "He’s a head hunter when he fires back. The mont he sees an opening, he’s looking upstairs."
He taps lightly at Ryohei’s forehead with two fingers. "Keep your head off the center line after you punch. Don’t admire your work. Even if you can’t avoid it clean, make him miss the line. Don’t ever let it land straight on you."
***
Monts later, the official calls for both corners to be cleared.
The stools are pulled away, buckets vanish, and towels are tossed aside. Cornern step down from the apron one by one, leaving only the fighters and the referee inside the ropes.
In the blue corner, Hamakawa rolls his shoulders slowly, then snaps a short one-two into the air. He bounces once on the balls of his feet, testing balance, jaw set tight around the mouthpiece.
Across the ring, Ryohei rotates his neck without hurry, and then resus that lazy pendulum sway, left and right, weight shifting in an unbothered rhythm. His gloves dangle on both sides, relaxed but ready.
The arena noise rebuilds in layers. Loyal supporters clap in steady rhythm. Neutral spectators lean forward in their seats, sensing that the tone of the fight has shifted.
"Round two coming up!" The comntator’s voice cuts through the rising sound. "And that first round left us with more questions than answers."
The analyst responds calmly. "Early control from Hamakawa. Late surge from Ryohei. The montum isn’t clear, but psychologically? That last minute matters."
"If Hamakawa reestablishes the jab and keeps this at long range, he restores order," the comntator says.
"But if Ryohei keeps disrupting distance and investing in the body," the analyst adds, "this becos uncomfortable very quickly."
The referee glances at both corners, then steps back. For a brief second, the arena holds its breath.
And then...
Ding!
The bell for round two rings.
Hamakawa steps out imdiately, no bounce this ti. He walks to center ring and plants his feet, settling into a squared Philly shell. His left shoulder rolls forward, right glove near his cheek, elbows tight.
The stance is compact, defensive, reactive. He is no longer trying to impress the crowd. He is studying.
Ryohei has expected this. As Sera predicted, Hamakawa wants to read first.
So Ryohei shifts gears. He glides in smoothly and snaps a stiff double jab, and a lead hook toward the body.
Hamakawa rolls the impact across his shoulder, blocks the hook on his elbow, and parries the follow-up touch. Nothing lands clean.
Dug. Dug. Dug.
When he cocks his right hand, coiling for a counter, Ryohei is already gone, stepping back outside the arc of danger.
But he does not retreat far, and doesn’t linger out there for long. He sways to his left, changing the angle subtly, then springs forward again.
Hamakawa tries to ti the entry, eyes sharp, weight ready to fire. But Ryohei only steps in half a beat this ti and shoots a low, spearing jab to the body.
Dugh.
It only smacks against Hamakawa’s right forearm.
Hamakawa begins to uncork a chopping left, and again, Ryohei has already pulled away, swaying off-line again.
He shifts once more, then steps in a third ti. A single jab lands firm on the guard, not ant to score but to anchor his feet.
This ti, he stays. The distance collapses into close range now.
And the comntator’s voice rises imdiately. "Oh, he’s not letting this breathe!"
The analyst leans in. "He’s forcing inside exchanges early. This is exactly what makes things chaotic."
The air thickens. There is no space now, no geotry, no long-range calculations.
Ryohei sends a short left hook toward the ribs. Another follows, tighter, slamming the side of the elbow. He shifts his weight and rips a right to the opposite flank, compact and vicious.
Dug, dug. Dugh!
Hamakawa absorbs it on tight elbows, shell compact, spine angled. He gives nothing free. His gloves stay disciplined, chin tucked behind his lead shoulder.
"He’s mauling him in there!"
"This is dangerous! Ryohei’s forcing sustained infighting!
"Hamakawa wants single counters, not this kind of trench work!"
Hamakawa exhales sharply through his mouthguard. But he waits for the opening.
Finally, a slight overcommit from Ryohei’s right shoulder, and Hamakawa coils.
The right hand shoots from the shell, tight and sudden.
Dsh!
It lands, but at a miserable angle, glancing across Ryohei’s temple instead of catching him flush. But the crowd gasps anyway.
"Oh! He found the right hand!" the comntator shouts.
"But not clean!" the analyst imdiately counters. "Too close... he couldn’t extend!"
Ryohei doesn’t step back, doesn’t even blink. If anything, he steps deeper.
He answers with a brutal hook to the body that folds into Hamakawa’s side, then another to the opposite ribs, pounding with spiteful rhythm.
Thud! Thud!
The sound is dull and sickening at this range.
Hamakawa’s guard tightens further. He shifts his hips, trying to carve space for another counter, but Ryohei keeps crowding him, shoulders bumping, gloves tearing at the midsection.
Eventually, Ryohei bullies him all the way to the ropes, fists still churning. Hamakawa plants his feet against the cables and fires back, refusing to be overwheld.
The arena is no longer buzzing now. It erupts into a deafening, primal roar.
"They’re trading in a phone booth!" the comntator nearly yells. "This is turning into a war!"
And then, Hamakawa subtly loads his weight again.
"Stop it already..."
He sends a compact left hook, elbow tight, ready to explode inside the pocket.
Ryohei sees it. Instead of slipping away, he commits. He swings heavier, a full-blooded left hook, thrown with violent intent.
For a split second, both n are in motion.
And then...
Crack!!!
Leathers crash against bones almost simultaneously.
Hamakawa’s hook clips Ryohei high on the cheek, but Ryohei’s heavier shot detonates against the ear, driving Hamakawa away.
And the crowd erupts in madness. Both comntators explode through the chaos.
"They just stood and traded!"
"And Ryohei’s the one marching forward! He’s daring Hamakawa to match him punch for punch!"
The challenger yields a step, then another, trying to reset and reclaim open canvas.
Ryohei simply stalks forward through the sting of the last exchange, eyes burning, shoulders rolling as if daring the next counter to co.
"You want a rematch with Umoto? Then earn it. I’ll give you a nightmare worse than anything he ever did."
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