Okabe's shout is still vibrating in the air, raw, ugly, and jagged enough to exfoliate a man, while the entire red corner goes dead still.

His chest heaves like a busted accordion, sweat pattering off his chin, and his one functional eye wobbles with so much fury it looks like it's trying to detach itself and fight independently

Ryoma, meanwhile, stands there with the unblinking serenity of someone who has fully transcended earthly concerns, including the very real possibility of being punched by his own teammate.

And of course, this, naturally, pisses Okabe off even more.

But Sera moves fast, wedges an arm between them, palm out, trying to herd Okabe back onto the stool like an especially violent farm animal.

"Stop. Both of you. Just stop it already."

Okabe shakes him off, shoulders rising like a bull preparing to argue with gravity.

"Don't tell me what to do! I said I…"

But he doesn't finish, because the crowd has finally connected the dots that 'Something Is Happening'.

A switch flips in the hall. Noise ripples outward like someone dropped a toaster into a pond.

"Huh? What's going on in the red corner?"

"Did he just stand up on his Second?!"

"Oi! Someone zoom the camera!"

Phones are raised. Heads swivel. Even Fukui's corner, currently pretending to be very professional, sneaks glances between their ice packs.

And, right on cue, the commentators swoop in with the sort of enthusiasm normally reserved for tax refunds.

"Wait… wait a second," the first commentator says, half laughing as the camera wobbles toward the commotion. "What's happening in the red corner? Are they… are they actually fighting each other?"

"Oh, that's definitely a domestic dispute," the second replies, delighted. "I don't think Okabe's mad at Fukui anymore. I think he wants to deck his own team."

"Hold on. Is that Ryoma Takeda right there?"

"Sure is. And wow, he looks like he's regretting every decision that led him to this moment."

"That's Nakahara Gym's camp, alright… though no Nakahara tonight."

"Nope. They came without the boss. And it shows."

"Yeah. Ryoma's a lightweight contender now, but Okabe's still the senior."

"And as we all know, seniors do not enjoy tactical explanations from rookies. Especially rookies who got the same energy as a first-year giving notes to the team captain."

"Oh, the fighter definitely isn't accepting the kid's advice."

"Accepting?!" the second commentator sputters. "He looks like he wants to beat the advice out of him!"

Sera finally clamps a hand around Okabe's wrist and drags him back onto the stool, voice low and sharp enough to peel paint.

"Sit down, Okabe. If the ref sees this, you'll get disqualified on top of everything else."

And then, Ryoma's eyes flick, not dramatically, just enough, to Fukui's corner. They're all watching. The coach is grinning, whispering something that makes the bucket man snort into his towel. Even Fukui is chuckling, shoulders loose, confidence inflated like a budget balloon.

They're entertained, which is, conveniently, exactly what Ryoma wants. The more Fukui laughs, the less he thinks. And the less he thinks, the easier he is to break.

Ryoma turns back to Okabe, voice low and steady, each word sharpened like a passive-aggressive email.

"You're pathetic," he says quietly. "And you know it."

The words nearly detonate Okabe. The crowd reacts instantly, roaring, phones flashing like a colony of angry fireflies.

But Sera is faster, pressing a firm hand onto Okabe's shoulder, anchoring him to the stool before he can self-destruct.

"Ryoma, that's enough," he warns.

Ryoma glances again at Fukui's corner. His Vision Grid snaps online:

***

[SCAN UPDATE: FUKUI YUDO]

– Eyebrow relaxation: 87% → Confidence spike

– Mouth tension: 12% → Amusement, not focus

– Pupillary constriction: 64% → Goal lock decreasing

– Overall combat readiness: Dropping >>

Fukui's shoulders are loose, his smile too wide. His rhythm dissolves into something careless, overconfidence blooming like mold in a forgotten lunchbox.

***

The system also chimes in, sounding like it disapproves of fun.

<< That's enough. He's already full of himself. Push it further and you'll only add unnecessary damage on Okabe. >>

And just like that, Ryoma drops the theatrics.

"I know you can't stand me, Okabe," he says. "But don't you dare lose this fight."

Okabe's face twitches, a fissure in the anger.

"Think about the old man," Ryoma adds. "Think about how he'll feel if you lose. He'll blame himself for not being here."

That one… it lands hard.

Okabe stiffens. The guilt he's been wrestling since the incident three days ago rears up like it's been waiting backstage for its cue.

He's blamed himself for what happened to Nakahara, and the idea of adding another burden to the old man scrapes at him like broken glass.

And now his breathing steadies. Even with one eye nearly sealed shut, a spark flickers there, actual resolve, not just fury.

He still hates Ryoma, still rejects everything the younger fighter says.

But for Nakahara's sake, just this once, he forces himself to swallow his pride.

***

The bell rings, and Okabe moves out like someone who's finally stopped wrestling with himself. His body's a mess, his vision's a letterbox. But there's a clarity to him now, the kind that comes only after a man has digested his own pride and accepted the indigestion.

Across the ring, Fukui steps out like he owns not only the fight, but the entire prefecture. And to be fair, eight straight rounds of domination will do that to a man. Even if he lost the next two rounds, the judges would still tuck him into bed and hand him a warm milk of victory.

So Fukui saunters into center ring with the swagger of a final boss who skipped the cutscene. He opens with his signature three-pattern jabs, tap, tap, and spear.

And then, feeling a bit theatrical, he tosses in a fancy shuffle he definitely did not practice in training. Once, twice, as if auditioning for a footwork talent show, before peppering Okabe with more lefts.

The crowd eats it up.

"Look at him dance!"

"Okabe's done for!"

"Red corner's comedy hour continues!"

Someone even hollers, "Hey Okabe! Ask your teammate for advice again!"

But this time, Okabe lets it all slide off him. His vision may be a postage stamp, but his mind is finally clear.

Through that miserable slit of vision, Okabe catches it, the damn gap, in all its stupid glory. Fukui's rhythm is the same as ever; he still tugs his left back with that tiny drag after the third jab, a habit he clearly hasn't noticed.

Ah yes, overconfidence: nature's gift to everyone except the man who has it. And Okabe waits, expecting for the next chance, counts the beats, and then times the breath.

Finally, he steps-in, crisp and sharp, sudden enough that Fukui's lungs forget how to function.

And…

BAM!

A clean body shot sinks into the ribs, not heavy, but brutally precise.

The crowd's jeers choke into gasps.

Fukui staggers, wind stolen. He fires back a right hook out of pure reflex. And Okabe slips in a left uppercut from underneath, compact, neat, and so mean.

Dsh!

Both punches land.

But Okabe grits his teeth through the impact, thinking about Nakahara's burden.

"This is nothing… compared to the old man's struggle."

He answers immediately, a tight hook comes next, as Fukui also throws his left.

Dsh!

Another exchange, and Okabe holds his ground.

"Endure it…"

He punctuates it with a sharp left, small, compact, but vicious.

Dhuack!

Fukui's head pops back, legs wobbling.

There Sera's voice slices through the air.

"Now, Okabe! Finish it!"

This time Okabe loads up, finally charges the punch first, with weight, hips rotation, coiling thighs, everything.

BAM!!!

A full-force hook slams Fukui's temple, and…

Blug!

…his knees hit canvas at once.

Silence detonates across the arena.

The commentators finally sputter to life.

"W-wait, what… did he…?"

"Fukui's down?! He's actually down?!"

"No, hold on… how did that just happen?!"

"I… I don't know, but ladies and gentlemen… the fight has completely flipped!"

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