Beside them, Aki and Reika hide their laughter behind polite hands, shoulders shaking. Then they clap along for Sekino, just out of mercy, trying to make his entrance look a little less pathetic.

"You know," Tanaka murmurs, voice half-drowned by the crowd, "the way things are going… Ryoma looks ready to be the next Japanese Champion."

Aki waves him off immediately. "Come on, that's too soon. He's not even ranked yet."

Reika chimes in, tilting her head slightly. "But my father said they're aiming for a title fight right after this one."

She says it so casually, so matter-of-fact, that it takes a beat for the words to sink in.

Tanaka and Sato freeze, mid-breath, their smiles slipping into disbelief.

The two exchange a glance, half shock, half calculation, the look of men who've just stumbled onto something far bigger than gossip.

Now the ring announcer's voice booms through the speakers, sharp and practiced:

"Now entering the red corner, representing Minato Bayside Gym! Twenty-nine years old, ranked tenth in Japan's lightweight division! Officially scaled at 61 Kg, with twenty-two wins, eight losses, and seven victories by knockout, the former number-eight contender at Super Featherweight, Sekino Yasinobu!"

The crowd answers with polite applause. But Tanaka and Sato barely hear it. Their eyes are still on Reika, still processing what she said.

"You mean…" Sato starts carefully, leaning forward. "Your father, Logan Rhodes, made some kind of deal with Nakahara's gym?"

He stumbles a little over his words, but Reika catches the sharp focus behind them, that unmistakable hunger journalists get when they smell a story.

And that's when it hits her. She probably shouldn't have said anything about this issue.

"N-no…" Reika waves her hands, forcing a small laugh. "Our company hasn't done anything. It's just that my father… um…"

Her smile stiffens. She laughs again, lighter this time, trying to steer away.

"Anyway… let's talk about it later, okay? The fight's starting."

She nods toward the ring, grateful for the distraction.

In the center of the ring, Ryoma and Sekino already stand face-to-face as the referee gives his words: fight clean, obey the break, protect yourself at all times.

"Now touch gloves," the referee says.

Ryoma raises his glove first. Sekino mirrors him, calm and polite. But Ryoma suddenly pulls back, dodging the gesture with a faint grin.

"You'll have to do better than that to touch me," he murmurs.

The crowd reacts in a low ripple of laughter and surprise.

Up at the commentary desk, one of the hosts chuckles.

"And there it is, the mind games start early tonight!"

"You can feel it, folks," his partner adds. "This is more than a fight. This is pride, revenge, and spectacle rolled into one. Ten rounds in the lightweight division: Sekino Yasinobu versus Ryoma Takeda, your main event begins now!"

Ryoma bounces lightly in his corner, small smile playing at his lips, soaking in the moment. Sekino stays still, chin tucked, eyes locked forward, looking focused, controlled, waiting for the bell.

Finally…

Ding!

Sekino surges first, claiming the center of the ring.

Ryoma doesn't rush to meet him. Instead, he slides sideways, circling, feet gliding with the easy rhythm of someone already at home under the lights. His toes tap the canvas in a light, playful bounce, eyes sharp, smile still faint.

He keeps the rhythm for a few seconds, but then stops, raising his gloves slightly, inching forward, little by little, eyes observing every part of Sekino's body.

Sekino holds a firm Philly Shell, left hand tucked tight against his ribs, not yet flicking, just watching.

The added muscle on his arm is obvious. Ryoma notices it right away, wondering if that new bulk still hides the same snap.

<< Look at his body. He's planning to drag you deep, wear you down and drown you in the late rounds. Make every shot count. No waste. >>

"That's already our plan…"

Ryoma tests the range with two light jabs. The first taps against Sekino's guard…

Dug!

…and the second misses as Sekino slips back just enough, torso bending from the waist while his feet stay planted.

Ryoma keeps up the lefts, but without urgency. His tempo tonight is slower than usual, his legs quieter, conserving energy.

The jabs aren't meant to score, just to read distance, to study the small tells in Sekino's reactions.

And Sekino just rolls each one away, gloves whispering against leather, feet rooted. He doesn't give ground, and Ryoma circles, step by step, feeling the shape of his opponent's rhythm.

The round unfolds with strange patience. No bursts, no clashes, just quiet calibration. Even the commentators notice.

"Ryoma's pacing himself tonight. Different energy than usual."

"Careful… he's the type who lures you to blink, then turns the whole fight upside down."

Almost a minute in, Sekino still hasn't thrown a punch. But neither has Ryoma landed anything clean.

Then, once Sekino settles; space measured enough, timing learned, rhythm understood, the left arm comes alive.

Wssht!

Wssht!

Wssht!

Three flickers, sharp as whips, each one fast, but separated by brief pauses. He's economical, not machine-gunning, testing the air before the storm.

Ryoma slips each flicker cleanly, not a glove raised, not a strand of hair touched. His movements are small, surgical, conserving energy while keeping the distance measured to the inch.

The fight stays eerily calm. No wild exchanges, no shouts from the crowd. Yet the precision, the quiet grace in Ryoma's slips and Sekino's controlled offense, holds every eye in the hall.

The audience begins to adjust, learning to watch differently. They aren't craving chaos anymore. They're leaning in, holding their breath, savoring the silent dread.

Two minutes in, Sekino hasn't landed a thing, but his calm hasn't cracked.

Then, a subtle shift, his feet start moving, just enough bounce to shorten the range. He also abandons the flickers, switching to textbook jabs, compact and straight, trying to touch Ryoma, to feel the skin he's been missing all round.

"Interesting," one commentator notes. "Sekino's dropped the flicker already, looks like he's switching to fundamentals to break that distance."

The space eventually closes. Ryoma, still mindful of his stamina, brings his guard up, deflecting two quick jabs.

Thc! Thc!

Then, on the third, right after hitting Ryoma've glove, Sekino changes the tune.

He doesn't fully retract his left. Instead, he slides the lead foot half a step forward, the glove veering wider, part jab, part slap, and lets it snap from the side.

Dsh!

The flicker suddenly comes alive, and lands clean across Ryoma's cheek.

The crowd murmurs, the first real sound since the bell. It's light, barely hurting, but it's the first mark for Sekino leading on the board.

Ryoma steps back, circling off the corner, calm as ever. But behind that mask, his mind is already spinning, trying to decode the trick.

But Sekino doesn't give him the luxury of time. He's already advancing, cutting the ring with short steps, herding Ryoma toward the ropes.

Then comes the rhythm again, textbook jabs driving pressure. After a few misses, Sekino finally reaches him.

Thc!

Thc! Thc! Thc!

Four sharp jabs hammer against Ryoma's guard, forcing his gloves high. And then, just as the rhythm sets, Sekino changes the tune.

Without fully retracting his left on the last jab, he snaps it out again, wider, faster…

Dsh!

Another flicker slaps Ryoma's cheek.

This time, Ryoma fires back, answering with two quick shots, both caught on Sekino's guard

And the bell slices the air.

Ding!

Sekino lowers his gloves.

"There… I touched you."

He simply turns away without a glance, walking back to his corner, composed, emotionless.

Ryoma exhales, frowning. "What was that slapping left just now? Twice…And it came so fast, faster than any flicker he's thrown before."

<< There must be a trick behind it. Veterans like him always have one tucked away. Solve that puzzle, or he'll dictate the tempo all night. >>

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