Chapter 5: Borrowed Time

In the red corner, Nakahara and Hiroshi welcome Ryoma with worry carved deep into their faces. This time, Ryoma can’t fake toughness.

His shoulders sag as he mutters, "Sorry, Coach... I couldn’t finish it."

"Don’t talk. Sit." Nakahara’s voice is cold, clipped.

Ryoma eyes the stool, then shakes his head. "If I sit, I might not stand again. And worse... I hurt my right knuckle."

Nakahara and Hiroshi trade a grim look. Now they understand Ryoma’s hesitation throwing his right earlier.

"Caught his elbow clean," Ryoma adds, slightly clenches his fist. "Bad luck, maybe. The sting’s still there. And my legs..."

Hiroshi cuts him off, seizing his arm and forcing him down.

"That’s why I’m here. To patch up what’s left."

He kneels, kneading Ryoma’s thighs, then grips his glove.

Nakahara leans closer. "How bad?"

Hiroshi shakes his head. "Can’t tell without unwrapping it. And we can’t. Not here."

Ryoma exhales through his teeth. "Doesn’t matter. I just need it to last a little longer."

Hiroshi grips his wrist. "Then don’t force it unless you must. Your left can carry you further than you think."

"Enough," Nakahara snaps. "Thirty seconds left. Just get his legs alive."

Hiroshi returns to rubbing Ryoma’s thighs, though his eyes linger on that glove, the unseen injury throbbing beneath the tape.

"So, Coach..." Ryoma calls. "I lost the bet. What now?"

Nakahara flinches, pulled from a daze.

And Ryoma smirks faintly. "What’s with that face? You think I’m done?"

The smirk fades when Nakahara crouches close, voice heavy.

"Look! This tournament was never our endgame..."

Ryoma scowls. "Don’t tell me you’re throwing this fight."

"No." Nakahara shakes his head. "Do what you want. I won’t chain you anymore. But I need your word. If it turns ugly, if you can’t protect yourself... I’m throwing the towel."

Ryoma closes his eyes, smiling faintly. He then grips Nakahara’s shoulder, steady and firm, his hand brushing the towel.

"You’re my Second. I trust my career in your hands. And it’s not like I’ll just stand there and let him tee off on me."

After the full minute break, the announcer calls the Seconds out.

Well, in the blue corner, only the cutman lingers, fumbling for purpose. He reaches for the ice bag, but Aramaki simply tosses it to the floor outside the ring. Without another glance, he steps away from the corner.

Kirizume catches it all, and his expression hardens. That single gesture tells him everything he needs to know. Aramaki’s turned his back on him now.

In the red corner, Ryoma rises with his team bracing him on both sides. Even Nakahara, one foot already through the ropes, lingers as if unwilling to let go.

"Kid..." he calls, low, almost pleading. "Don’t force it!"

Ryoma just lifts his left hand in answer without turning, a silent wave that ends the conversation. He keeps walking, step by step, until he’s standing still at the center, staring across at Aramaki.

The bell splits the air. And the referee cuts down with his arm.

"Box!"

Aramaki lifts his arms, planning to start cautiously, probing how much the treatment in Ryoma’s corner helped.

But Ryoma doesn’t even move his guard, arms hanging at his sides. Aramaki blinks, confused, until Ryoma raises his left hand, offering a glove.

"Looks like you’re done with Kirizume," he says, "I’m not surprised. I know what kind of man you are."

Aramaki freezes. Those words, from someone he admires, strike deeper than any punch.

"Yeah. I’ve cut the ties," he breathes, before tapping Ryoma’s glove.

The referee’s brows twitch. This should earn them a sharp scolding, stalling after the bell, wasting time.

But he lets it slide. Maybe because he sees it too: the crowd is rising to their feet, eating this moment alive.

And sure enough, the arena erupts.

"Respect! That’s real boxing right there!"

"Don’t waste it, fight your heart out now!"

Both fighters step back into their rhythm. Aramaki crouches low, shoulders rolling as he sets into his tight in-fighter stance. Ryoma stretches his guard wide, feet light, sliding back into his long-range out-boxer’s stance.

One glance is enough, and Aramaki sees it: Ryoma’s not looking to exchange. He’s looking to buy time, run down the clock, and protect his lead.

Which means, he hasn’t recovered, not fully.

So Aramaki takes the initiative.

"This is the last... no more holding back."

Ryoma’s legs still carry him, but he refuses to waste too much fuel. Instead, he tries to hold ground with his left hand, snapping jabs one after another, his right glued low to shield his ribs.

Aramaki just shrugs them off, pushing past the stinging taps, and buries a right hand to the body. Ryoma yanks his left down to cover his side, and...

BAM!

It’s blocked.

But Aramaki’s already layering the attack. Left hook upstairs, missed by a hair. Right scrapes the chest as Ryoma slips away, and then another left thudding into the arm.

None of them break clean. But once it collides, even if blocked, Ryoma flinches and his frame jolts under the pressure.

Ryoma finally raises his right, tempted to fire back, only to freeze. He withdraws it instantly, and flick a few jabs with his left.

It’s enough to interrupt the rhythm, to give his legs a sliver of room to slide away. But the commentators catch the oddity instantly.

"Wait... why’d he pull his punch like that? Is he... showing mercy?"

"Mercy? No. That’s desperation. He doesn’t trust that right hand anymore. It could’ve been injured. Look, he’s only surviving now!"

And the picture proves it. Ryoma backpedals too late, his heels brushing the ropes. The corner looms, no escape left.

Aramaki seizes it, chest to chest, pouring on the pressure. Hooks, uppercuts, digging straights, high and low. He blends everything in the suffocating pocket, fists pounding from every angle.

Ryoma gets no room to slide away, and feels unable to withstand all the punches despite blocking most of it.

But still, he isn’t out of idea yet.

"There’s no other choice now..."

After blocking another body blow...

Thud!

He deliberately drops to his knees.

"Down!"

The referee steps in, and the arena explodes. Fans are roaring at the sight of the underdog clawing momentum back.

The referee tells Aramaki to go back to his corner, and starts the count.

In the red corner, Nakahara grips the towel, but Ryoma raises his left hand and shakes his head. He steadies his breath, waits out the count, then rises at ninth.

Smirking faintly, he tells the referee, "Just taking a breather to get away from the corner. That’s not against the rules, is it?"

The referee blinks, then chops the air.

"Box!"

Aramaki lunges in, eyes narrowed.

"Stalling like that... Is your condition really that bad?"

Ryoma already gets away from the corner. His guard’s up, but his steps are heavy, his body sagging with every exhale.

He flicks out his left, one, two... but there’s nothing on them. Aramaki just eats the jabs and keeps marching.

And then...

Thud!

A right slams into Ryoma’s ribs. He grits his teeth, firing another jab to hold him off, but Aramaki rips low again.

Ryoma see it coming, and blocks.

Boom!

His knees dip. His legs feel like they’re sinking into the canvas. He tries to circle, but Aramaki’s already cut him off, pinning him in place.

Another jab, sloppy and desperate. And again, Aramaki brushes it aside and answers with a left hook to the body, forcing Ryoma to fold at the waist despite the block.

"This fucker..."

But before Ryoma can reset...

Dsh!

A sharp hook smashes the corner of his lips, whipping Ryoma’s head sideways. His body unravels, and he finally crashes to the floor.

Blug!

The referee steps in.

"Down!"

Spectators erupt, and the commentators explode.

"He’s down again!"

"That’s the second knockdown... just within fifteen seconds!"

The cheer cuts off almost at once, a burst of adrenaline spent too quickly. In its place, low murmurs ripple through the crowd, doubt creeping in about Ryoma’s true condition.

This time, it’s no trick. Ryoma’s tried his best to slip the shot, yet his head drags like lead now, the canvas tilting and warping under his gaze.

He stares down at it, jaw clenched, his thoughts racing.

Damn it! One more and I’m done... my lead’s slipping away...