Sekino regains his composure. Instead of charging, he stalks forward in measured steps, right glove tucked under his chin, left hand hanging low.

Ryoma stays on his toes, sidestepping left and right, then begins circling to his own right, using the whole ring with ease.

Some of Sekino's fans start jeering, calling Ryoma scared, a runner, a coward avoiding a real exchange.

But Ryoma isn't circling out of fear. He's observing.

And that observation is done now.

"Let's test him out…"

He dips left with a sharp body feint.

Sekino reacts instantly, firing a flicker, and Ryoma ducks and slides right, smooth as water. Then he steps in from a fresh angle with a blazing 1-1-2; jab, jab, and a cross.

Sekino pulls his left arm in time, catching the first jab on the forearm, rolling the next two off his lead shoulder.

Dug!

Dug, dug!

He cocks his right, but Ryoma is already gone. Sekino reins himself in; no point throwing at shadows.

Sekino's stalking continues, calm and measured, step by step.

When he finally feels he's pressed Ryoma near enough to the corner, he opens up…

Whsst!

Whsst! Whsst!

Three flickers snap out.

Ryoma parries the first…

Dp!

…then ducks and slides away from the next two cleanly.

But the space behind him is tightening. So he flicks a probing jab, a feint to earn a path out.

Sekino doesn't bite. He pivots his lead foot, cutting the angle, right fist chambering.

Ryoma fires a quick left to break the timing. And that's when Sekino shifts the tune. He catches the jab with his right, steps deeper, drops low, and shoots a spearing jab, fast and straight to the body.

Ryoma reads it, but there's not enough room. He takes a half-step back, skin grazing the ropes, leaning away.

But still…

Thud!

The glove digs into his solar plexus, not deep enough to crumple him, but enough to choke a breath.

"Urkh…"

Ryoma fires a quick counter immediately: chopping right, chopping left.

Sekino pulls his left in time, blocking the first…

Dug!

…and slips away from the second, letting it cut through empty space.

"That's it," Shiki calls out, fist clenched. "One at a time. Don't rush it."

Sekino resets, right hand tucked under his chin, left low, shoulders swaying in that familiar rhythm. His eyes lock onto Ryoma, unblinking, determined not to give him a way out.

"I'm not letting you go," he mutters, stepping forward inch by inch.

Ryoma lifts a brow, and then a takes quick glance at the system HUD: 38 seconds left in the round.

He exhales, settles into a tight infighter's stance, focus sharpening like a blade.

"Then come…" he answers.

It's not a taunt.

It's just a man acknowledging a challenge.

"Let me remind you… how dangerous it is when you stand this close to me."

From ringside, one commentator yelps, "Ryoma's trapped! What's he gonna do here?"

The other cuts in immediately, voice rising, "No… he's not looking to escape. Look at that posture. He's welcoming it!"

The sudden shift sends a ripple through the arena. For a heartbeat, the crowd falls silent, caught between thrill and disbelief.

Then voices start to rise, one after another:

"Slug it out!"

"Come on, mix it!"

"Give us a war!"

The tension snaps like a live wire. The stage is set.

And finally, Sekino commits. He probes twice with the lead hand, quick testing shots, and then snaps the rhythm into something sharper, bursting into a chain of flickers.

Ryoma rolls, parries, catches leather on forearms and gloves, but one flicker grazes his cheek. He doesn't blink, doesn't flinch, because it's too light to matter.

Then comes the shift, Sekino keeps the left extended, twisting it straight into a reverse shotgun jab, stiff and jarring.

Ryoma braces, raising his guard while leaning back into the ropes.

Dsh!

The jab shakes through his right arm. And then he sees Sekino firing the right cross.

Ryoma tightens the double door…

Dsh!

And then comes the trick.

Sekino snaps his right glove against Ryoma's right elbow, prying it open while dipping his posture low, his weight coiled, ready to bury a hook into the exposed ribs.

But Ryoma's not fooled this time. His expression goes cold, eyes locked, jaw set, and right fist chambered, ready to trade.

"Bring it on…"

Thud!

Sekino's left hook crashes into the ribs. And Ryoma's counter detonates on Sekino's face the very next instant.

Dsh!

Both men freeze for half a heartbeat; Ryoma swallowing the pain in his ribs, Sekino's head rocked backward.

Ryoma moves first, and a compact left shoots out. Sekino pulls his right glove up just in time…

Dug!

…and then fires back with a left hook upstairs.

Ryoma reads it, ducks low, slips to the right, and drives a brutal hook into Sekino's ribs.

Thud!

Sekino folds with a sharp grunt, and immediately clinches, arms wrapping tight around Ryoma.

The spectators roar, and from ringside, the commentators explode.

"Sekino's… clinching?"

"He's the one who forced the exchange… And he's the first backing out?!"

"He lost that trade! Ryoma beat him to every punch!"

The referee steps in, ready to pry them apart. But Ryoma sneaks a short, spiteful shot into Sekino's side.

"Is this the lesson you're trying to give me, old man?" he murmurs.

Sekino's face twitches. He jerks one arm free and swings, but Ryoma instantly traps it with his left, locking him back into the clinch.

The ref reaches them, slapping at their arms, yet the bell rings first, cutting him off.

Ding!

Ryoma releases the clinch and raises his right glove high, calm and deliberate, marking the round as his.

The arena erupts in thunderous approval, drowning out the frustrated cries from Sekino's supporters.

The Cruel King's Army surges louder than all of them, chanting Ryoma's name again and again, claiming the moment as if victory is already decided.

RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!

Ryoma keeps his hand raised, glaring at Sekino without blinking.

"Careful, old man," he says, voice level and cold. "I might give you the same treatment I gave Kanzaki."

Sekino's jaw tightens. His breathing is heavier now, but he forces himself to turn away first, swallowing whatever reply he wanted to throw back.

He walks to his corner in silence, hiding the frustration burning behind his eyes.

What he doesn't realize is that Ryoma is hiding something too. The hook to the ribs still pulses with a deep ache, and his legs feel just a touch heavier than they should.

It's the reason he doesn't move immediately. Ryoma takes a slow breath, raises his fist to the crowd, and lets out a short, explosive shout, more for show than release.

And the crowd answers with a fresh wave of cheers and applause.

It buys him the few seconds he needs before he finally strides back to his corner, every step measured, posture regal, giving away nothing.

Even as he sits down on the stool, Ryoma keeps his composure sharp, back straight, breathing steady, every trace of exhaustion buried beneath the presence of a king.

And the Cruel King's Army roars their anthem once more:

"Long live the Chameleon King… Cla-clap-clap!

Crown of the cruel, rule of the ring! Cla-clap-clap!"

But he can't fool Nakahara's eyes.

"How're the legs?" the coach asks quietly. "Don't tell me that last body shot did nothing to you."

Ryoma exhales through his nose, calm as ever.

"Yes… It's starting to take a toll on me," he admits.

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