Kurose turns back to his fighter, ready to give him a plan, something that might finally let Masuda drag the fight back into his terms.

"It can't be helped," he says. "You'll need another round to study him. Read his rhythm. Time your punch when he slides forward. But remember, he can change that rhythm and trap you."

Masuda's face wrinkles. "You're telling me to step into the trap… but also avoid the trap? Did I hear that right?"

Kurose exhales deeply, choosing his words with more care. "This is the problem when you fight Soviet-style rhythm. You need to read it to gauge distance. But if you read too deeply, he'll fool you by changing it, and catch you by surprise."

"So don't read too deep?" Masuda repeats. "How the hell am I supposed to do that? Give me something I can use, not a lecture."

"Read just enough to gauge distance," Kurose explains. "Just enough to see where your punch can land. But don't use his rhythm to predict his next move. That's where the trap lies. The moment you think you can read him ahead, he'll break the rhythm."

"So never aim for a counter?"

"Yes! Exactly. Keep your punches tight. Pull your hand back immediately. Always expect the surprise. When he breaks the rhythm and comes to you, don't counter. Protect yourself first. He will close the distance, and that's when your chance comes. But before that opportunity shows up… you can't let his rhythm-breakers break you."

Finally, the picture becomes clear in Masuda's head. His eyes sharpen again with clarity, no more doubt.

***

Meanwhile, in the red corner, Nakahara is having the easiest round of coaching in his entire career.

He doesn't need to draw up a plan. He doesn't need to fix anything. Ryoma already knows what he's doing. He already has his own structure, strategy layered in detail.

All Nakahara needs to do now… is make sure Ryoma stays ahead.

"He'll need another round to re-study you," Nakahara says. "Don't let him catch up. Don't let him read your rhythm completely. End it before he adapts. If his destructive combination lands clean, it'll break you."

Ryoma nods once, calm and certain.

"I'm not planning to drag this," he says quietly. "This round, I'll put him down. Even if it doesn't end the fight, I'll break him enough that he can't fight back."

Hearing that, Nakahara simply steps back and leaves Ryoma to his focus, no more extra words, no more distractions. He just gives him space, the calm for the boy to sharpen the edge of his mind.

***

In the VIP section, Frank Donovan has finished observing Ryoma with razor focus. Now he leans back casually, like he already knows the ending of the story.

"What do you think, Marcus?" he asks. "If you were in his weight class… think you could beat him?"

Marcus scoffs instantly. "Come on, Frank. He shuts down his guy for one round, and suddenly you put him on my level? Please. He looks good only because his opponent looks terrible."

"Hey, hey…" Logan chimes in lazily. "If anyone here understands English, they're gonna take that as an insult to Japanese boxing. Masuda is ranked fifth in Japan. Show some respect."

"Ranked fifth, and he can't deal with a rookie who has only six fights," Marcus jeers. "He spent the whole round confused. Didn't land a single clean punch."

"Then why is that, you think?" Frank asks, eyebrow rising.

"Because he's bad. What else?"

Frank laughs softly. "Then you really don't know what that Ryoma kid did. With this mindset, I bet you'd end up in the same situation as that guy over there… uhh, what was his name again?"

"Masuda Kokushi," Logan says.

"Ah yes. Masuda. Japan's number five."

Marcus bristles. "What are you implying? You saying I'm as bad as that number-five dude?"

Frank just chuckles, shakes his head, and turns his eyes back to the ring as the referee calls seconds out.

***

Ryoma rises from the stool. Nakahara gives a short nod, and the team clears the corner immediately.

Now only the referee stands in the center. Both fighters roll their shoulders in their respective corner, loosening their arms, waiting for the next round.

The arena stirs with anticipation. The commentators lean in.

"Alright, folks… Round two is moments away. Masuda Kokushi survived the first, but he looked completely shut out by Takeda's rhythm."

"He can't afford another round like that. If he doesn't adjust, this could get ugly fast."

And then…

DING!

Round two begins.

Both fighters march to the center, but neither throws immediately.

Ryoma stands exactly as he did in the opening seconds of round one; orthodox stance, shoulders square, lead glove lazy but poised, right hand tucked near his chin.

His back foot stays rooted. His lead foot shifts ever so slightly, sliding in that subtle pendulum rhythm.

Marcus frowns at the stillness, eyes razor sharp in reading Ryoma's movements.

And there Frank fills the silence with explanation.

"You see," he says, "the kid fights orthodox, but there's Soviet influence in that lead-foot rhythm. That tiny step alone can mess with your range judgment."

"I've fought people like that," Marcus says shrugging. "And I beat 'em all."

"That's only the first layer of the trick," Frank replies.

"What?"

"Keep watching. You'll see."

Back in the ring, Masuda makes his move. He times his jab perfectly, right when Ryoma's lead foot slides forward.

Dsh!

His glove thuds against Ryoma's guard.

Ryoma throws his own jab, short, doesn't reach anything but the empty air.

This continues for a while, a slow war of left hands. Masuda's jab always reaches Ryoma, he never steps deep enough to threaten the head. Meanwhile, Ryoma's jabs always hits empty air, just inches short of Masuda's face.

And again Frank makes his point. "That's the second layer. He's creating an illusion about his reach."

"You sure it's not just his reach shorter?" Marcus mutters.

"Judging by height… yes, Masuda has the longer arms," Frank says. "But Ryoma's making his own jab appear even shorter. Watch again. He's throwing that jab only when his lead foot is shifting back. And he keeps his shoulders square. It's deception."

Right then, Masuda falls on the deception. He inches forward, just an inch, thinking he's still safe.

Ryoma's lead foot slides forward farther this time. His left shoulder rotates more than before as he snaps a jab.

Masuda, always prepared for the surprise, tightens his right glove into place.

Dug!

Blocked clean.

But Ryoma doesn't slide his foot back.

From that position, he shifts into the flicker stance, weight tilting forward, shoulder rising.

A looping left whips around Masuda's guard.

Dsh!

Clean on the cheek. Masuda's head jolts slightly sideways.

"That's the third layer," Frank points again. "He's blending three styles; orthodox, Soviet foot rhythm, and flicker mechanics. Not switching between them. He blends them. You almost can't tell where one ends and the next begins."

He casts Marcus a small, cold smile.

"The fact you didn't notice until now? That's how good he is."

Frank's gaze returns to Ryoma, full of rare admiration.

"To pull off that three-layer blend, you need to have mastered all three forms first. And he's doing this… what? After six pro fights?"

Back in the ring, Ryoma's shoulders shift again, smooth, and terrifyingly fluid.

The audience starts to feel it too. The fight has only just left the shore. But the current, is already fully on Ryoma's side.

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