Chapter 5: Catch Me If You Can

Even the two commentators forget to speak for a moment, caught watching the exchange instead of calling it.

Finally, one of them finds his voice. "Well, folks... that’s it. The end of round one."

"What an opener," another one follows. "That was far more intense than you’d ever expect from two rookies."

"Ryoma Takeda... he’s done an excellent job controlling the fight down there. You have to wonder if this kid really only has one pro bout under his belt."

"And don’t overlook Tatsuki Aramaki. He answered with pure grit and courage. He’s not just here to survive. He’s here to fight."

Despite the excitement, Kirizume sits with a sour look. It’s only the first round, but already he doesn’t like how the fight has gone. Especially the part where Aramaki fought clean, without a single hint of the rough tactics meant to wear Ryoma down.

A faint scoff slips from him, irritation leaking through. "Tch... does he really think he can beat that kid by boxing straight?"

His wife turns at the sound, brows raised. "What is it, dear? Didn’t Aramaki look great up there?"

Kirizume schools his face, hiding the contempt behind a gentle smile.

"Of course. He’s doing fine."

But his eyes shift past her, finding Masato Kanda at ringside. And Masato Kanda feels the weight of that gaze. He stiffens, and lowers his head.

No words pass between them. None are needed. But the message is clear: Aramaki’s performance is not what the boss wanted.

In the red corner, Nakahara doesn’t look pleased, even after a strong round. He watches Ryoma closely, arms folded, waiting while Hiroshi finishes applying vaseline to his fighter’s cheek.

Ryoma notices the expression. "What is it, Coach? You don’t look happy. Didn’t I just take that round?"

Nakahara exhales, low and heavy. "Yeah, you took it. But what was that rush in the last seconds? I told you to keep it safe."

Ryoma fiddles with his gumshield before speaking. "I know. I just saw an opening... thought I could sneak one in before the bell."

"No." Nakahara taps his chest with two fingers, firm. "Not in a four-rounder. Don’t chase knockdowns that aren’t there. Win the points, use your reach, and come back here intact. That’s the job."

Ryoma doesn’t argue further. His jaw tightens, but he nods all the same.

Then he fixes his gaze on the blue corner, studying Aramaki’s condition.

Visible Damage: localized swelling above right orbital ridge (minor).

Respiratory Pattern: steady intake/output, no irregularity detected.

Condition Assessment: negligible impairment → sustainability for full 4R confirmed.

The readouts confirm Coach Nakahara’s warning: Aramaki isn’t someone he can break within just four rounds.

But then his focus shifts. Masato Kanda turns his face toward him, and something in that look prickles.

Ryoma tracks the micro-expressions flickering across the Second’s features as he speaks, issuing instructions with sidelong glances his way. Not enough with that, he also examines Aramaki’s response.

And soon, his Vision Grid flickers alive, boxing the blue corner in frames.

Micro-expression: gaze tension → sharpened focus with hostile undertone (2.1 sec).

Social Read

Behavior Probability: 64% likelihood of strategy outside regulatory norms.

Initial Cue: lips remain closed → absence of verbal agreement.

Affective State: reluctance detected, gaze drop signals hesitation.

Recovery: ocular lift, renewed focus → engagement locked onto subject (Ryoma).

Conclusion:

Opponent remains durable and resolved.

External influence (Masato Kanda) classified as potential source of non-standard tactics.

Recommendation: expect adaptation pressure, sustain caution.

The conversation is inaudible, yet his Vision Grid warns him that the malice in Kanda’s gaze is still there, sharp as ever.

Ryoma closes his eyes, steadying his breath, weighing his options. When they open again, the hesitation is gone, his gaze carries the edge of someone who’s made up his mind.

"Coach," he says quietly. "Let me switch back to my original style. Just for this round. Think I can get under his skin a bit."

Nakahara scoffs, shaking his head. "Switch back? Kid, when did I ever tell you to change? I had you train in that tiny ring to prepare for the worst, not to rewrite who you are."

Before Ryoma can answer, the announcer calls the seconds out. He rises to his feet, gumshield pressed firm between his jaws, while Hiroshi pulls the stool away and slips through the ropes.

Nakahara lingers a beat longer, repeating the same advice. "Don’t do anything reckless. No gamble, no risk!"

Ryoma nods. And only then does Nakahara step out of the ring, eyes still shadowed with concern.

Maybe it’s just pragmatism, born of love, protecting the brightest talent he’s ever had. Or maybe it’s his own inferiority complex as a no-name trainer, that nagging voice telling him not to hope for too much.

Whatever the reason, Nakahara isn’t dreaming of victory. All he wants is to see his fighter return to him in one piece.

The bell rings for the second round. The referee signals both fighters forward.

And then...

Box!

Aramaki crouches low and suddenly charges in. But Ryoma shifts gears instantly: a jab snaps out, followed by a clean step back.

He feints, pumps another jab, and then another. Aramaki weaves and guards, bracing to break through.

But again...

Dsh, dsh, dsh!

Three jabs spear him back, and Ryoma quickly steps back.

That’s when Aramaki notices something off. Ryoma’s front foot no longer roots to the canvas. Both feet spring light, carrying him on the tips of his shoes.

Aramaki keeps pressing. But each time he nears the pocket, Ryoma snaps a jab into him, then slips away before the counter can reach. Aramaki’s right flies, but only cutting empty air.

When Ryoma attacks again, his feet dart in, quick, sharp bursts, like a whip cracking through space. But once he settles back to range, the tempo shifts entirely: light, measured steps, gliding in a slow circle.

Fast when he strikes, smooth when he drifts. His rhythm changes so fluidly it looks less like fighting and more like a butterfly hovering above still water.

From ringside, the commentators react.

"Hold on... this is the footwork we know!"

"Yeah, he’s gone back to his out-boxing game. Sharp entries, clean exits. Aramaki’s gonna hate chasing this all night."

The grim tone of the first round fades, replaced by something else, livelier, almost like a dance. Hit and run, smooth footwork. Quick jabs laced with the occasional straight. In and out, sting and slip.

Before long, the balance tilts hard, almost cruel. Aramaki chases, but catches only shadows as Ryoma slips away, peppering him with light needling jabs.

Then, for once, Ryoma pumps his left, a false jab. Aramaki reacts, weaving his head sideway. But suddenly...

Bam!

The right hand crashes through, snapping his head back. And before Aramaki can reset his stance, Ryoma has already slid out of range.

"I don’t know what you were planning back there," Ryoma scoffs. "If you want to hurt me, then come... catch me if you can."