Chapter 4: Standing His Ground

Aramaki wastes no time. The bell has barely faded when he storms forward, smothering distance before Ryoma can even reach the center.

He’s done his homework. He knows Ryoma likes to take the first round slow, circling, using his feet to measure. So the plan is simple: don’t give him that chance. No air. No rhythm.

But the welcome he gets is not what he expected.

Dsh!

A jab threads past his right guard, snapping against the skin above his eye.

Aramaki blinks in surprise.

"What the...?"

Ryoma isn’t circling, isn’t bouncing on his toes. He’s rooted, standing his ground just a meter off the corner.

Left foot braced forward, right foot set behind, heel coiled like a spring as a jab flies again, followed by a sharp straight.

Dug, dsh!

Both punches meet Aramaki’s gloves, but they halt his charge all the same.

Aramaki freezes, reassessing the situation.

What’s this? He looks different tonight.

Ryoma’s posture says it all: chin tucked, shoulders high, hands twitching like triggers. He isn’t drifting, he isn’t measuring. He’s crouched slightly forward, putting weight into every shot, daring Aramaki to step in.

The crowd stirs, sensing something different already. Even at this early stage, the rhythm isn’t what they expected.

From ringside, the commentators lean in, voices cutting through the hum.

"Hold on... he’s not backing up. Ryoma’s choosing to stand his ground."

"Yeah, that’s unusual. He’s usually a slow starter, but tonight he looks ready to trade right away."

From the press row, murmurs spark. Sato leans toward his colleague, eyes narrowing.

"Reminds me of that spar with Kenji Kuroiwa... he got bullied on the ropes that day. Maybe he doesn’t want to give up ground anymore."

Tanaka nods. "Could be. Kuroiwa forced him to fight rougher, close in. Looks like he took that lesson to heart."

Aki, seated next to them, doesn’t share their surprise. She only folds her arms, lips curling into a small smile. She has watched Ryoma’s recent training too closely to be shocked.

And there’s Reika, restless with anticipation, sensing she might feel again that same rush Ryoma gave her during his spar with Renji.

Jab. And another jab. A feint, then a one–two. Ryoma keeps the stream constant, forcing Aramaki into defense.

Aramaki slips low, weaving left and right, catching what he can’t dodge on his guard. But Ryoma’s Vision Grid begins mapping the rhythm, tracing the arc of his head movement.

Green rectangles blink across his vision, targets and timings laid bare. Testing the rhythm, Ryoma throws a probing left, nothing more than bait.

As expected, Aramaki slips to the side, the same move he’s used twice already. And there it is: the line, the destination where his head will fall.

Then a green rectangle flares.

Now!

A quick straight catches Aramaki by surprised.

Dsh!

Ryoma’s right snaps across Aramaki’s face.

It’s the second clean shot to get through, and this time the impact doesn’t just sting. It drives Aramaki back, forcing him off his line and out toward the center of the ring.

Instead of circling to control the space, Ryoma steps forward. Not deep, just enough to reach, laying pressure again.

From the blue corner, Masato Kanda snaps in irritation. "Why the hell are you cowering there, Aramaki? Throw something back!"

Aramaki obeys, finally daring to punch. But Ryoma doesn’t flinch, no step back, no guard raised. He simply times it, his left lands flush before Aramaki’s glove even comes close.

Then a right follows, snapping Aramaki back on defense.

"Tch..." Masato clicks his tongue. "Damn kid’s already taking advantage of his reach within the first minute."

It’s true. Ryoma’s longer frame compared to Aramaki gives him the edge. But Aramaki knew this before the bell. He’s prepared to take damage just to close the gap. He grits his teeth, neck stiff, and drives forward low, both arms shielding his head.

The moment Ryoma’s lead foot crosses into his range, Aramaki whips a tight hook. Ryoma leans back, and...

Whssh!

The hook cuts air.

Aramaki pivots, firing a strong left across.

Dsh!

It’s blocked.

But now he’s in, right under Ryoma’s chest. He plants his back foot, hips twist, and sends a heavy right hook to the ribs.

Dsh!

It’s blocked again.

Aramaki simply pushes through, throwing the same sequence once more. But this time Ryoma’s left hand snaps out first.

Pop!

The jab smacks Aramaki square in the face, halting his momentum.

Ryoma immediately slides back half a step, planting his feet, and then drives both fists into Aramaki’s guard to reset the distance.

"Good, kid!" Nakahara calls. "Control the tempo! Don’t rush it!"

That’s their rhythm, the one they’ve built day after day. Watching Ryoma execute it now, Nakahara feels the plan taking shape, steady and real.

A minute and a half has gone. But the hall is still hushed. No cheers, no jeers, not even the usual hecklers baiting rookies to brawl.

Because Ryoma doesn’t fight like a rookie at all. And Aramaki? He may lack polish, but he doesn’t need to be told to advance. He’s got the grit to risk himself inside Ryoma’s reach.

Masato Kanda bellows from the blue corner, voice sharp over the silence.

"That’s it! Keep chasing! Don’t let him breathe!"

The final twenty seconds ignite. Aramaki hounds forward, relentless. Ryoma holds ground, sidesteps only when needed, leaning just out of range, firing jab after jab in return.

And then, his Vision Grid pings.

Not only that, it’s followed with a green rectangle, smaller, flashing at Aramaki’s jaw.

The initial plan was to play safe, but temptation wins. Ryoma drives in, snapping a left, his right already coiled for the cross.

But Masato Kanda slams the canvas, also signaling his fighter. Aramaki responds and steps in, bracing for the impact from Ryoma’s left, and...

Bam!

He slams his right shoulder into Ryoma’s chest.

"...Ukh!" Ryoma’s breathe catches.

He never saw that one coming, too much occupied on Aramaki’s gloves and head movements.

Wasting no chance, Aramaki drives a left hook to the body. Ryoma drops his right to block, but there’s a quick shift, a low-high combo...

Dug, dshhh!

The body blow is blocked, but Aramaki’s left smashes Ryoma’s cheek, whipping his head sideways.

But even in that tight moment, Ryoma’s also sneaked in a short uppercut.

Pop!

Aramaki’s chin jerks up.

Two heads snap back almost at once. Gasps ripple through the hall, an audible intake of breath from hundreds of mouths.

Both fighters don’t even stop, trading a few compact punches in tight space. But before the fight escalates even further...

Ding!

The referee steps between fighters. Only then do the spectators exhale.

As both fighters step back to their corners, the roar finally comes. Cheers, whistles, claps, shouts, all at once, like the room had been holding its breath for the entire round.

"Did you see that hook?"

"He stood toe-to-toe with him!"

"Ryoma’s sharp tonight! Damn sharp!"

"Aramaki won’t back down though, look at him!"

The noise swells, but inside the ring, the two fighters don’t hear it. Ryoma and Aramaki glance across the canvas as they walk away, eyes locking in the same instant.

There’s no anger, no malice. But their hunger’s palpable.

Both unsatisfied, both burning, as if one round wasn’t nearly enough.

The bell promised a break, but their gazes already vow the fight isn’t slowing down.