The atmosphere inside Ota Gymnasium spreads far beyond the ring itself. By the ti the third undercard reaches another violent exchange, the noise rolling through the arena already sounds like a storm pressing against the building itself.
Inside one of the red corner locker rooms, Higuchi Naoya moves through his shadowboxing with smooth rhythm while the roar of the arena bleeds faintly through the concrete walls around them.
Every few seconds, another wave of noise swells from outside, loud enough to remind everyone backstage how heated the atmosphere inside Ota Gymnasium has already beco tonight.
At one point, Higuchi stops briefly and exhales through his nose. "They’re screaming over garbage boxing again," he mutters.
Coach Shii Ueno, standing beneath the mounted flatscreen, gives a faint shrug. "Crowds always react to violence."
Higuchi lets out a quiet scoff before slipping back into motion. "Only clowns turn their faces into minced at just to entertain spectators."
Another quick combination slices through the air before he pivots sharply across the floor.
"That kind of boxing only works on people who don’t understand the sport," he adds.
Higuchi has every reason to carry himself with that kind of confidence. His professional career still contains only a single loss. Even that defeat never really damaged his pride, because it ca against a champion.
The reigning Japanese champion had simply been stronger, better timing, better composure, better experience. Higuchi accepted that reality without excuses.
What continues irritating him even now is that people still questioning his Class-A Tournant final win over Okabe.
What continues irritating him even now is the way people still question his victory over Okabe in the Class-A Tournant final.
The sa argunts resurface every ti his na enters discussion; that the decision was controversial, that Okabe deserved the win more, that Higuchi only walked away victorious because the judges apparently had terrible eyesight that night.
And the more people talk like that, the more it starts feeling insulting on a personal level. Because to Higuchi, Okabe is not a rival. He is not even soone Higuchi considers technically comparable to himself.
Okabe fights like a brute, ugly exchanges, stubborn durability, the kind of boxing that survives through grit rather than refinent. And sohow people still keep using Okabe as a standard to evaluate him.
Just recalling Okabe’s battered face is already enough to irritate him, and the change imdiately seeps into his shadowboxing. His combinations turn slightly rougher and more violent than before.
"You’re thinking about Okabe again," Ueno says calmly.
"They keep talking like we’re on the sa level," Higuchi says flatly. "That’s the irritating part."
Ueno slips on the mitt pads before stepping toward him and raising them into position, expecting the opening one-two.
"Then settle it properly tonight," he says.
Higuchi gives a small nod. "That’s the plan."
He fires the one-two imdiately before slipping to the side, snapping out another jab, pivoting sharply, then flowing straight into another one-two.
Pak-pak!
Pak!
Pak-pak!
"I’m not leaving this to the judges again."
He resets his feet, then drives forward with another one-two...
Pak-pak!
... before slipping inside and unleashing a tight uppercut-cross combination.
PAK! PAK!!!
"I’ll settle it with my own hands."
Ueno raises the mitts again, signaling for Higuchi to continue. But before the next combination cos out, the mounted flatscreen suddenly erupts with noise as the entire arena roars through the live broadcast.
On the screen, both fighters exchange at the exact sa mont near center ring before collapsing together.
"BOTH OF THEM GO DOWN!"
"DOUBLE KNOCKDOWN!"
"OH MY GOD, THEY HIT EACH OTHER CLEAN AT THE SA TI!"
The comntators nearly scream over one another while the crowd noise behind them becos completely unhinged.
The cara shakes slightly from the reaction inside the arena while both exhausted fighters struggle back toward their feet.
Higuchi grimaces faintly. "...Seriously?"
It is not admiration in his voice. If anything, he sounds irritated.
He understands what this kind of atmosphere does to a crowd. Once people get pulled into this level of violence and desperation, technical boxing starts looking boring afterward.
Most spectators stop caring about those things once they taste chaos. And unfortunately, Okabe’s ugly brawling style fits perfectly into nights like this.
***
Back inside the ring, both fighters still look barely functional while the referee continues counting over them.
"Three...!"
"Four...!"
Shigenobu is the first one to rise, mostly because he collapses closer toward the ropes. Using the top of the ropes, he drags himself upward while the crowd keeps roaring around him.
Nearby, Matabei manages to stand roughly three seconds later. But the referee does not resu the fight imdiately.
"Seven!"
Matabei is still hunched forward, gloves hanging low while trying to steady his legs. anwhile, Shigenobu still leans partially against the ropes instead of standing freely.
Then at the count of eight, they turn toward one another again and raise their gloves. And the comntators’ voices explode above the roar of the spectators.
"This is absolute madness tonight!"
"More than six rounds of nonstop exchanges and neither of these n wants to quit!"
"Look at them! They can barely stand, but they still want more!"
The referee hesitates briefly while looking between both fighters before his attention lingers longer toward Matabei.
The damage on Matabei looks more severe. His face is swollen badly, his stance unstable, and even breathing already seems difficult.
For a second, it genuinely looks like the referee is considering stopping the fight himself.
But then...
"Box!"
The arena erupts once more.
The fight resus imdiately, though neither man has much left anymore
They collide at close range again, throwing exhausted hooks and short uppercuts with arms that now look unbearably heavy. Every punch seems powered more by stubbornness than strength.
Then finally, Matabei’s legs give out. No massive punch lands cleanly on him, but the accumulated damage simply catches up to him all at once as he drops onto one knee near center ring.
And the referee instantly waves both arms.
"IT’S OVER!"
"SHIGENOBU TAKES IT!"
"WHAT A FIGHT!"
The audience rises into loud applause throughout the arena, cheering both fighters equally despite the result.
Even Ryoma stands and applauds from ringside, looking genuinely satisfied by what he just witnessed.
But before he can sit back down, Shigenobu walks toward the side of the ring closest to Ryoma. So Ryoma takes the ti to congratulate him.
"That was electric, Shigenobu-san," Ryoma says. "You just gave us the best fight of the night."
Shigenobu points one glove toward him, grinning. "I did it exactly like you wanted. You better keep your promise, kid!"
Ryoma grins lightly. "Of course, of course."
Then he finally sits back down, crossing one leg over the other while leaning deeper into his chair.
"I’ve done my part," he mutters. "Okabe better get another knockout after this."
Beside him, Kirizu glances sideways with growing suspicion. That short exchange bothers him more than he wants to admit.
Several things begin connecting inside Kirizu’s head at once; the pacing of the event, the deliberately violent atmosphere, and the "promise" Shigenobu just ntioned monts ago.
He glances around at the arena, noticing the crowd has been getting conditioned into craving reckless exchanges before Okabe’s fight even begins.
Kirizu knows Okabe well enough. He has invited him onto his own events before. And he knows this kind of environnt favors soone like Okabe far more than a technical fighter like Higuchi.
A bitter realization settles inside his chest. Ryoma is not rely organizing tonight’s event. He is shaping the emotional flow of the entire arena itself.
And the part Kirizu dislikes most is rembering that Ryoma is still only twenty-two years old, barely over a year ago started involving himself as a co-promoter in boxing events.
Yet sohow, he is already thinking this far ahead into the structure of a fight night.
***
Inside the shared locker room for Nakahara’s camp, Okabe stands directly in front of the flatscreen. He stares at it with the expression of a delinquent already itching for a fight, the kind of face that looks more suited standing outside Suzuran than inside a boxing venue.
But compared to the reckless hothead he used to be, there is sothing colder in him now. The adrenaline is clearly there, flooding through his body little by little. Yet he keeps it contained beneath a heavier, more controlled intensity while watching the arena lose its mind outside.
Behind him, Kurogane lets out a low whistle while watching the flatscreen from beside Sera.
"Ryoma’s seriously insane," he says. "He basically turned the whole arena into a street fight before Okabe even walks out there."
Sera folds his arms loosely. "I don’t completely like the idea. But he used his own money for the bonus. Not really my place to complain."
A few feet away, Ryohei sits relaxed on the bench with arms crossed on his chest while watching Okabe’s unmoving silhouette near the television.
"Just saying, Okabe... I know Ryoma offered you triple purse for a knockout," he says casually. "But don’t get too greedy and kill yourself chasing it."
Usually, Okabe would have snapped back imdiately, or at least thrown so dumb joke back at Ryohei. But tonight, he says nothing.
His eyes remain fixed on the flatscreen while he quietly tries containing the adrenaline steadily building inside his body, along with the ugly frustration that has stayed with him ever since the Class-A Tournant final.
Because no matter how many tis people call it a controversial decision, it does not change the feeling that his ticket to challenge the champion was taken from him unfairly.
He lost that final. But sowhere deep inside himself, Okabe still cannot fully accept it.
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