The referee shoves between them, shouting for order. Seconds from both corners climb through the ropes, grabbing at shoulders and arms, dragging their fighters apart.
But Ryoma and Kanzaki both keep snarling over their handlers, veins tight, fists twitching, eager to close the distance again.
The comntators are in chaos, their voices cracking over the roar.
"This isn’t just boxing anymore!"
"They’re not fighting as Kouhai and Senpai. This is two n, pride against pride, tearing at each other!"
The crowd surges to its feet, so roaring for blood, others shouting for order. The arena trembles with the sound of it.
The referee wedges himself between fighters, voice booming above the crowd.
"Enough! This is a boxing match, not a street fight! One more stunt like that, and I start taking points."
He glares at both corners in turn, making sure the warning lands.
Ryoma and Kanzaki don’t answer. Their eyes still burn across the canvas, their teeth grinding as the seconds drag them back to their stools.
Only then, in that uneasy lull, does the storm show signs of breaking.
And through it all, Ryoma’s Vision Grid flickers alive across his sight.
***
[SCAN: SUBJECT – KANZAKI]
Posture: unstable.
Eyes: locked, no retreat.
PRIDE STATUS: CRACKED... RESISTING.
Integrity: 62% → 58%
Confidence: flaring, unstable.
Conclusion: Anger masking collapse.
***
The readout fades and Ryoma’s jaw tightens. His eyes go hard, and he mutters, low and furious, "You talk about my mother? I’ll break your face so bad you’ll never dare step in a ring again."
Kanzaki does the sa, though slower, his back rigid, his eyes refusing to glance across the ring. His teeth grind; words slip through them in a low, venomous grumble only he can hear.
"Tch... don’t get cocky, bastard. I’ll pay you back. Just you wait..."
The arena swells and the comntators jump back into the feed, trying to steer the audience toward the fight itself.
"What a second round we just witnessed. Kanzaki went down, but he wouldn’t stay there. That was grit."
"Yeah, and Ryoma didn’t rush to finish. He’s running the fight on his own terms."
"And that exchange at the bell? I don’t think the rookie tournant’s ever seen anything like that."
"These two aren’t just fighting for a rookie crown tonight. They’ve brought sothing older into the ring: pride, grudge, history. It’s beco personal."
The crowd slowly settles, though restless murmurs ripple through the arena, carrying the sting of that last taunt. The words hang in the air like a bruise that refuses to fade.
Ryoma steadies his breath, chest rising and falling in asured rhythm. But when his eyes drift from Kanzaki, he finds Nakahara glaring, arms folded, jaw locked, a hard scowl carved into his face.
"You had him," Nakahara snaps. "You had the chance to end the fight, but you threw it away. And now you talk about breaking his face?"
Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just wipes sweat from his brow, eyes sharp, unbothered. The words Kanzaki hurled at him still hang in the air, even here in the corner.
Nakahara exhales, realization creeping in. He gets it now. Ryoma isn’t just trying to win. He’s trying to settle sothing by shattering Kanzaki’s pride.
This fight isn’t about winning anymore. It’s about ego, ideology, and principle, about two n proving who has the right to stand in that ring.
Even so, Nakahara leans closer, his voice low and harsh. "Don’t forget... you’re fighting with one hand. Kanzaki still has a chance to turn this around, and if he does, you’re not just losing this fight. You’ll lose your face. Everything you just said to him will co back on you."
Ryoma finally lifts his gaze, steady and unwavering. But he doesn’t speak imdiately, only breathes slow, as if Nakahara’s warning has already been weighed and accepted.
He takes the bottle from Hiroshi, swishes the water in his mouth, then spits it out into the bucket at his feet.
"You are right," he says.
Then a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"He can try." His tone hardens. "But this fight’s already mine."
***
While Ryoma sits with quiet certainty, Kanzaki’s corner drowns in silence. Bruises swell across Kanzaki’s cheekbone, his nostrils streaked with fresh blood, skin puffed and raw from the storm of jabs.
The cutman moves in, hands steady: swab, press, clean. Cotton dabs at the blood, iron-slling vaseline sars across the swelling, pressure held to keep the damage from spreading.
Tsuchida stands just behind the stool, hands tucked in his jacket, jaw clenched. He says nothing. His stance is small, heavy with the thought he can’t shake, this fight’s slipping away from their grips.
Kanzaki watches him for a long, hot second. Tsuchida’s silence tastes worse than any punch, and he doesn’t like it.
"Aren’t you going to say anything? You think I’m already done?"
Tsuchida startles, exhales, then folds himself into the role he hates, the pragmatist, not prophet. He slides closer, voice low but edged with cold steel.
"Sa as before. You slip past that flicker, get inside. Make it a war up close."
Kanzaki’s laugh is short, bitter. "We tried that. And you saw what happened."
"You tried it stupidly," Tsuchida cuts in, blunt. "You let him get under your skin, and you sent a telegraphed punch, wide swing, no cover. Any counterpuncher can eat that easy."
Kanzaki can’t et the man’s eyes. He knows that it was his anger that threw the plan away.
Tsuchida leans in, fingers rubbing the bridge of Kanzaki’s nose as the cutman presses a fresh pad.
"Listen, this is your only way. Smother his flicker, and close the gap cleanly. Compact punches. Don’t throw your heart; throw small, hard shots, body then head. Mix the levels so he can’t slide away. Drive him into chest-to-chest. And for God’s sake, don’t rush. Wait for his arm to hang, then punish. Drain him. Like Aramaki did, slow and patient, until he’s tired enough to open."
Kanzaki swallows. The plan is the sa as before, and he hates it. Just as he hated watching the video of Aramaki grind Ryoma down, he hates the thought of copying that path.
To fight this way ans abandoning the boxing he takes pride in, the style he swore was untouchable.
Yet doubt claws at him. This is his first ti facing a flicker jab, and he can’t see any way his usual rhythm will ever touch Ryoma.
Tsuchida’s voice then drops, private: "You do that, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll steal this back."
Kanzaki’s fingers curl around the glove, knuckles white. He nods once, not convinced, but resolved.
Finally, the referee’s voice slices through the noise.
"Seconds out!"
The cutn and seconds slip back through the ropes.
The referee motions both fighters forward, and invites them to touch gloves.
But neither moves.
Ryoma and Kanzaki stay rooted near their corners, eyes locked. No gesture of respect, no ritual courtesy. Only hatred, simring and sharp, each man waiting for the signal to settle it.
The bell rings.
Ding!
The referee exhales, and finally chops the air.
"Box!"
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