Chapter 5: Trading Madness

The first knockdown was deliberate, a way to buy time and slip free from the corner. With a wide lead on points, Ryoma figured one trip to the canvas wouldn’t matter.

But now it does. If he down again after this one, the third could sway the judges, or worse, convince the referee to stop it outright.

And if his body betrays him again... maybe he won’t get up at all. Even now, rising at eight, his legs feel carved from stone.

"Damn it! My legs..."

"...Nine!"

Ryoma steadies himself, lifting a hand. "Wait... I can fight!"

The referee narrows his eyes, unmoved. "Come to me."

Ryoma steps forward, raising both gloves. "See? Nothing serious. Just using the count. It’s strategy, that’s all."

The ref’s expression darkens. "Don’t play games. You go down again, deliberate or not, I’ll stop this."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it!" Ryoma snaps, forcing a crooked grin.

Aramaki calls from across the ring, voice sharp. "Enough talking... let him fight!"

The referee takes one last hard look, and then waves his arm.

"Box!"

The crowd erupts again, shrieking for blood, urging both fighters to tear each other apart. Ryoma flinches at the noise, irritation flashing across his face, while Aramaki seems to drink it in, eyes wild.

Ryoma has stolen time twice already, sure. But there’s still a full minute left, and Aramaki intends to spend it ending the fight. He brushes aside a jab and drives back into Ryoma’s chest, swarming him.

The life in Ryoma’s legs has gone; they can’t carry him anymore. He shells up instead, arms folded tight, betting he can smother the headshots and absorb the rest.

In the red corner, Nakahara shouts out loud. "Ryoma! Get away from there? Send a left and pivot!"

Ryoma knows the theory, but he just doesn’t have the stamina to carry it on. The body blows thud into his guard, each one rattling his frame but failing to break through. He holds, stubborn, forcing Aramaki’s frustration to boil.

Then Aramaki shifts his stance and whips a wild hook upstairs.

Swsssh!

Ryoma sees it clean.

"That’s too obvious..."

He jerks his head back and snaps a counter left across Aramaki’s eye. It lands flush, but weak, no weight behind it.

Aramaki hardly blinks. He barrels forward, fists flowing in vicious bursts, hooks, uppercuts, pounding from every angle. Ryoma soaks most of them on his guard, staggers under the rest.

Then finally, feeling unable to endure much longer, Ryoma locks Aramaki in a clinch, one arm cinched around his shoulder, the other clamping down on his right hand.

"That’s it, kid..." Nakahara mutters with desperation written in his face. "Buy more time. Keep holding him there. Don’t let him go."

Aramaki still swings with his free left, but the shots glance off Ryoma’s back, more harassment than harm.

The referee steps in, wedging himself between their tangled frames.

"Break!"

He slaps at Ryoma’s arm, barking,

"Hey, step back! Clean break!"

He pushes them apart, one hand on each chest, making sure neither sneaks in a cheap shot.

Then Aramaki sets himself again, ready to pour the pressure back on. But Ryoma flicks out quick lefts, snapping toward Aramaki’s right eye.

The jabs don’t hurt, but they irritate, forcing Aramaki to shield the side he knows Ryoma is trying to blind.

And in that instant, Ryoma dives in, wrapping him once more, one arm hooked over Aramaki’s shoulder, the other pinning down his right hand.

From the booth, one commentator groans into the mic.

"Ahh... another clinch. The crowd won’t like this one bit."

The referee storms over, prying them apart with sharp hands.

"Break it up! No more holding!"

This time, the arena doesn’t cheer. The swell of support that once lifted Ryoma has shifted, now souring. Boos scatter through the seats, followed by jeers.

"Fight, damn it!"

"Stop running, golden boy!"

"Is that how a prodigy box nowadays?!"

The same fans who once hailed him now mock his every move.

Even Reika sits rigid, her face carved with disappointment. She doesn’t speak, but the bitterness in her eyes says enough. This wasn’t the Ryoma she came to see, not the electric fighter who thrilled her before.

Beside her, Aki leans forward, watching with the patience of someone who understands every angle of Ryoma’s struggle. Sympathy softens her expression, though she doesn’t voice it.

And on the other side, Kaede can hardly look at the ring, her hands clutching the hem of her skirt.

Her face twists in fear as Aramaki slips a brutal body shot through Ryoma’s guard. She flinches as if the blow landed on her own ribs, watching Ryoma buckle under the weight.

"Please stop! That’s enough!"

No, she doesn’t beg Aramaki for mercy. She knows what boxing is. All she can do is silently wish Ryoma would stop struggling, stop hurting himself.

But Ryoma isn’t built to quit. He entered this tournament without a grand goal, yet his stubbornness is something he can’t shed.

It’s pride, madness. It’s resentment for the life he had once lived. He’s had enough of losing, and he won’t accept another defeat.

"Hey, Aramaki..."

"I know your struggle..."

Eventually, Ryoma cocks his right.

"But you have no idea the kind of misery I’ve gone through."

Aramaki sees it, and believes it’s just another feint. Hence he just follows through a body blow.

But he can’t be more wrong.

Dsh!

Both men land at once: Aramaki’s fist burying into Ryoma’s ribs, Ryoma’s right cross snapping against Aramaki’s jaw.

Aramaki reels back, stunned. Disbelief twists across his face as he watches Ryoma grimace, torn between the agony in his ribs and the fire burning through his right knuckle.

But Ryoma doesn’t stop. He whips a left, and then drives another straight with that ruined hand.

And Aramaki’s face twists by the thrill.

"This is it... The kind of fighter I’ve been dreaming of to fight!"

Admiration surges through him, and he answers the only way he knows, by trading blow for blow.

BAM!

Both fists crash home, each man’s head snapping to the side, sweat arcs in the air after the impact.

Nakahara grips the towel, hand twitching to hurl it in. But he hesitates because Ryoma is still fighting.

The crowd falls silent, no more boos, no cheers either, leaving only a stadium full of people gasping, too tense to breathe.

And then...

BAM!!!

Another brutal exchange detonates, and blood splatters on the canvas.

Now the spectators look stricken, faces grim, hands on heads, whispers of stop the fight bleeding through the air.

Ryoma’s the first to falter. His arms sag, too heavy to lift.

Aramaki twists his hips, launching a vicious hook.

But the bell cleaves the air first.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

"At last... it’s over," a commentator beams. "But wait... Aramaki?"

The hook lands anyway, crashing into Ryoma’s temple, knocking him sideways.

Miraculously, Ryoma doesn’t fall. He braces on one leg, thigh trembling, teeth clenched.

And then, as if deaf to the bell, Ryoma grips his broken fist, snarls, and swings again.

"Ah, god! This is pure madness," the other commentator holds his head.

But the referee dives in, seizing both of Ryoma’s wrists.

"Hey... stop!"

Still, Ryoma strains forward, chest heaving, eyes blazing with raw madness.

"Ryoma! Snap out of it!" the ref barks, shaking him hard. "It’s over! The bell’s rung!"

Aramaki stands frozen, staring at him, at the blood-smeared mouthpiece, at the wild eyes lit by sheer madness.

There’s a time he saw Ryoma as a prodigy with fine technique, but fragile and weak. And he thought he could beat him.

Only now does he realize how dangerous the man truly is.