Sera studies him for a mont, weighing it, then exhales through his nose. "...Even like this, I don’t see Satoru winning on points. There are only three rounds left. If he loses another round, it’s done. Even if he turns sothing around in the fourth and fifth, I’m afraid it won’t be enough."
When Satoru drops onto the stool, Sera steps back without a word, while Hiroshi and Okabe shift aside as well, clearing space in front of him.
Then Ryoma steps in and lowers himself in front of Satoru, one knee touching the canvas, his presence closing the distance in a way that imdiately changes the corner.
The reaction doesn’t stay contained there. It carries across the arena, the murmur dipping as more eyes turn toward the blue corner.
Even from the opposite side, Takasugi’s corner shifts; the easy confidence from monts ago gives way to alertness, their posture tightening as they fix their attention on Ryoma taking position.
"Wait... Ryoma Takeda just stepped in. Is he taking over as chief second here?" one of the comntators says, his tone lifting with sudden intrigue.
There’s a brief pause before the other answers, more asured. "No, he’s just stepping in to talk. That’s completely allowed."
"Still," the first comntator adds, unable to hide the edge in his voice, "when soone like him moves like that mid-fight, you have to think sothing’s about to change."
anwhile, there’s Kenta standing along the upper zzanine, leaning lightly against the tal railing that overlooks the ring. From there, he watches without being part of the crowd below, close enough to see everything, far enough to stay out of it. The bruises on his face haven’t fully faded yet, faint marks still visible under the arena lights.
The others are in this hall as well, seated together among the crowd. Ryohei, Aramaki, and the younger mbers gather in one section, loud and unified as they call out for Satoru.
But Kenta keeps his distance from them, his loss to Della Cruz and that eting with Reika and Jackson Rhodes still weighing on his mind.
The mory doesn’t stay quiet either. It circles back in fragnts, the words replaying whether he wants them to or not.
"Co with to Arica."
"Just like your old gymmate, Shimamura Suzuki."
Kenta’s fingers tighten slightly against the railing. The temptation is strong enough to make sleep difficult ever since that eting.
"With our support... forget regional titles. We can turn you into a world champion in one or two years."
***
Just like everyone else, Kenta also feels the shift when Ryoma crouches in front of Satoru. But his attention doesn’t stay on the blue corner for long, drifting back across the ring toward Takasugi and the energy surrounding him.
Even from a distance, the presence of his family is impossible to miss, especially his mother, whose voice keeps breaking through the crowd with the sa unwavering praise, feeding a confidence that never seems to dip.
"Don’t let him hit your face, Renjiro! You’re too handso for that!"
The words co out with complete sincerity, untouched by any understanding of the sport, yet loud enough to carry.
Beside her, his father leans forward, voice lower but far more precise, cutting through with a different kind of intent.
"Keep the lead foot outside. Don’t square up after the jab. Reset your angle before he steps in. He’s waiting for your rhythm, so don’t give it to him."
Takasugi’s coach and team pause for a mont, visibly unsettled by the intrusion, but they quickly rein it in out of respect.
The father’s words, however, are incidentally caught by a nearby ringside cara and microphone as the broadcast continues. And the comntators react as the audio slips into the feed.
"That’s... a very involved family corner from ringside," one of them says with a small laugh. "You don’t often hear that level of constant input from both parents during a fight."
The other comntator nods in agreent. "True, but you can’t deny the effect it’s having. One side is emotional support, the other is almost acting like an extra analyst. Whatever you think of it, Takasugi’s not fighting alone out there."
Kenta watches it longer than he ans to. It’s not sothing he ever had, not that kind of constant reassurance, not that kind of certainty built around him from the start.
For a mont, he finds himself wondering how different things might have been if his career had begun that way, shaped by support instead of resistance, guided instead of forced through situations he could barely control.
His jaw tightens before he looks away, pushing the thought aside as his focus returns to the blue corner, to Satoru. He studies his junior in silence, the earlier thought settling into sothing heavier. Against a fighter controlling the pace this cleanly, Kenta can’t see a clear way for Satoru to turn it around.
And even if Ryoma manages to pull another miracle out of this, the question doesn’t end here. What cos after? How long can he keep stepping in like this, holding Satoru up, while dealing with everything waiting for him beyond this ring?
The kind of opponents he’s moving toward now aren’t just fighters. They’re people who reach beyond the ring, who don’t just co after him, but after everything he’s trying to build.
Just as Kenta sinks deeper into that thought, a voice pulls him out of it.
"So you are actually here."
It isn’t loud, but it carries enough familiarity that he doesn’t mistake it.
He turns his head, and see Nakahara standing a short distance away, his expression carrying a quiet solemnity that doesn’t quite blend with the atmosphere around them.
Nakahara’s eyes stay on Kenta for a mont before he speaks again, his tone steady but carrying a quiet edge of curiosity.
"Why are you here?"
His gaze then shifts briefly toward the group from the gym below, toward Ryohei, Aramaki, and the younger mbers packed together in their section.
"You’re practically their leader," Nakahara adds. "Shouldn’t you be down there with them? Giving those youngsters the kind of insight only a veteran would understand."
Kenta still doesn’t say a word. The silence between them stretches just long enough for Nakahara to step closer, joining him at the railing where they both look down at the ring from the upper zzanine.
Nakahara’s gaze stays forward as he speaks again. "I tried calling you yesterday. You didn’t pick up."
That pulls sothing in Kenta’s mory. There had been a few missed calls. His phone had been on silent during the eting with Reika and Jackson Rhodes, and after that he had simply forgotten to turn it back on.
Nakahara’s voice cuts in before he can finish building it into an excuse. "That loss against Della Cruz..." he says quietly. "Are you avoiding because of that?"
"No, no... that’s not it," Kenta answers imdiately, shaking his head a little too fast. "I missed your calls because..."
He stops again as the words don’t form properly. Reika and Jackson Rhodes sit too firmly behind that silence, and he doesn’t want to bring them into this conversation.
Nakahara finally turns his head toward him, expression tightening, the patience thinning into sothing sharper.
"Or are you blaming Ryoma for that controversial stoppage?"
The question lands heavier than the previous ones. Kenta doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t deny it either.
The hesitation is enough to expose what he’s not saying. Because sowhere inside, he knows Nakahara already understands the situation. And denying it out loud would only turn it into a lie, especially when he’s already standing apart from the others from the gym down below.
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