The Cruel King Army is still roaring "Aniki-Oni! Aniki-Oni!" when Moriyama rises from his seat. He doesn't join them, simply stands and turns away.

His wife blinks in confusion. "Dear… where are you going?"

"Home," he says, bored, almost dismissive. "We saw what we came to see. No reason to stay."

Izumi jerks up in his seat. "Dad… wait! It's the main event after this. Ryoma's fight! Everyone's here to watch him. Can't we stay a little longer?"

Moriyama doesn't answer. He just walks.

For a moment, Izumi and his mother hesitate. And then, reluctantly, they follow him.

Meanwhile, Kenta's left the ring and currently walks down the aisle. He's exhausted but steady, drinking in the last of the arena's fading cheers.

But before he reaches the hallway, he turns to the seats where Izumi had been. But there he sees them already leaving.

He catches a glimpse; his mother's apologetic look, Izumi waving desperately, and his father, who meets Kenta's eyes for one brief second.

Moriyama's eyes are cold, unmoved, completely uninterested.

The relief Kenta felt moments ago evaporates. He wins, yet his chest tightens as if he lost.

Izumi calls out, "Ni-chan! We're going home now!"

His mother adds a soft, "Good job, Son!"

Kenta forces a smile, nods, and then turns away. By the time he steps into the corridor, the smile has completely vanished.

***

The moment Kenta steps into the locker room, Murakami's camp bursts into applause.

"Good work out there!"

"Way to grind it out!"

"You survived that hell!"

The noise is warm, loud, and full of relief. Kenta tries to smile, but it barely forms. His eyes stay dim, shoulders slumped.

Ryoma notices instantly. He looks up from his wraps, smirks, and calls out.

"What's with that face? You look like you're apologizing for making me wait too long."

Kenta exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "…Sorry. I was lucky just to win it."

Ryoma scoffs and rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders before slipping into a light shadowbox.

"Don't mind it. You won. That's enough. Leave the fireworks for me."

Kenta forces a small nod as Hiroshi and Sera pull him aside to cool him down. Nakahara, meanwhile, steps away and joins Ryoma, watching the slow, controlled arcs of his punches.

Ryoma keeps shadowboxing, silent but sharp, each motion coiled with intent.

After a moment of observation, Nakahara finally speaks in a low, steady voice. "Your opponent tonight… twenty-six fights on record. Eighteen wins by knockout."

Ryoma's punches don't slow. He's not stopping, but still listening.

"That alone tells you everything," Nakahara continues. "He's got dangerous power, a tight rhythm, no wasted motion. His rotation is clean. The kind of guy who can fire three, four shots in a single second if you give him the window."

Ryoma's eyes narrow, footwork shifting subtly, already adjusting to the warning.

Nakahara adds, "Respect his hands. Break his timing early. If you let him set the cadence, even you will feel it."

Ryoma doesn't answer, doesn't need to. He's already built his plan, every angle chosen, every rhythm mapped out.

Now all that's left is sharpening his focus, punch by punch, slicing through the empty air with growing precision.

Moments later, a staffer pokes his head in. "Masuda's heading into the hall. You've got five minutes."

Nakahara gives Sera and Hiroshi a small nod. And they move at once, preparing water bottles, the ice pack, the Vaseline, the towels, every tool a corner might need.

But none of the bustle touches Ryoma's concentration. His shadowboxing continues, crisp and unbroken, breath steady, gaze fixed on some invisible opponent only he can see.

***

Meanwhile, Masuda Kokushi makes his walk down the aisle, the spotlight trailing him in a wash of bright color. A familiar guitar riff bursts through the speakers, sharp, upbeat, and almost theatrical, followed by a chorus that hits like an anthem.

It's the same entrance his camp uses every fight. A theme song built to hype the crowd, loud enough to feel in the chest, flashy enough to make every fan jump to their feet.

It's something straight out of a wrestling arena, catchy and dramatic, designed to make Masuda look larger than life.

And it works. The crowd erupts the moment the hook drops.

"Masudaaa!"

"He's here!"

"Show him the true face of the KO King!"

Masuda walks in with calm confidence, hands loose at his sides, chin high. He doesn't dance or swagger. he simply lets the music do the work.

The lights trail him, strobes pulsing in perfect time with the anthem. Even at a Nakahara-hosted event, his fans roar like they own the building.

"Win tonight's fight with another finish!"

"Show that cocky brat how dangerous Japanese boxing really is!"

"Make him regret every word he said!"

"No… make him regret being born in the same era as you, Masuda!"

Masuda acknowledges the noise. He lifts a hand slightly, just enough to let the arena know he hears them, accepts them.

Initially, this fight was supposed to be simple business: a paycheck, a showcase, nothing personal. But after what Ryoma said at the press conference, now Masuda has a reason to treat this bout like something closer to a holy war.

It's not just to defend his own dignity, but to honor the contenders Ryoma dismissed.

And many of those contenders are here tonight. Amongst them, sit side by side in the lower reserved seats; Hisashi Murai, ranked number one, and Harada Tanimoto, ranked number three.

"Masuda better end that kid's career," Harada mutters, voice laces with contempt, "before his mouth goes too far."

Murai snorts, waving a hand. "Even if he doesn't, I will. Kinda regret not accepting the brat's challenge now. I'd have shut him up myself."

They both fall silent again, watching Masuda climb the steps with a quiet, lethal purpose.

***

Moments later, the arena lights dim to black. A hush rolls through the stands as the door to the red-corner hallway slowly swings open.

The spotlight snaps toward it. And Ryoma stands there, hood drawn low, wrapped in a simple robe, motionless.

Unlike Masuda's booming entrance, no music plays this time, no drums either, no fanfare, only the silence.

He lingers there longer than anyone expects.

And whispers spread.

"What's he doing?"

"Did something happen backstage?"

Even the commentators sound thrown off.

"Uh… folks, Ryoma Takeda is… here. But, wait… Is this part of the plan?"

"I… I don't know. Maybe there's a delay?"

And then, their confusion dies instantly as a lone trumpet cuts through the silence.

PAAAAA–PA,PA,PAP—PAAAAAAAAAA!

PAAAAA–PA,PA,PAP—PAAAAAAAAAA!

A piercing, solemn call, like the opening of a classic battle requiem.

All eyes whip toward the source: a single girl at the very top row of the Cruel King Army's main east-side legion, lifting the trumpet with both hands like an offering.

And then Ryoma moves.

He begins walking forward, each step in sync with a slow, heavy drumbeat that rises behind him, played not by speakers, but by the Cruel King Army themselves, marching behind him like pallbearers at a grim procession.

They don't chanting his name this time, no roaring cheers.

At the front of the formation, their general, Kenji Matsuda, lifts the Cruel King Army war banner straight into the air, held aloft, absolutely still.

It's as if they were escorting a king into a funeral.

"This… this is intense," one commentator says, voice low.

"It feels like a ritual," another one whispers. "A march to execution, maybe. I don't know if I should be hyped or terrified."

Even the contenders who came to mock him feel the shift. They still smirk, still showing contempt with their sour faces.

But they can't deny the weight of the atmosphere Ryoma drags in with him.

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