He imagines Kanzaki suffering, tortured, body too battered to answer back, while Ryoma kept hitting not out of cruelty but out of something colder: the belief that Kanzaki had asked for it, provoked it, earned it.

And then Sekino imagines himself in that same place. Ryoma leaning over him. Ryoma refusing to let him fall unconscious fast. Ryoma stretching the punishment second by second, punch by punch, until the ropes were the only thing holding him up.

A chill curls through Sekino's mind, a thin wire of thought that he doesn't want but can't shake.

He warned me.

Not just about the fight… about what it means to step in the ring with someone who still remembers what pride tastes like.

He dragged up the real reason I started fighting in the first place.

The words settle, heavy and strange. The hatred he felt minutes ago flickers, shifts, and dims. In its place comes something close to respect, uncomfortable, unwanted, but undeniable.

Maybe Ryoma isn't some loud-mouthed kid swinging to embarrass him. Maybe he's just a man defending his own pride, the same pride Kanzaki once tried to crush.

And Kanzaki… Sekino knows what kind of man he truly was. Knows what he provoked. Ryoma's reaction, maybe it wasn't cruelty. Maybe it was retaliation.

That realization settles in Sekino's chest with a surprising, almost eerie calm. His head lifts. His eyes find Yuichi's, and a small peaceful smile shapes his mouth.

"Coach…" he murmurs. "Why do you think we're really here?"

Yuichi blinks, thrown. "What…? Sekino, what are you talking about? You do know where we are, right? Are you okay?"

Sekino exhales through his nose, controlled and steady. "I'm fine. Honestly? This might be the best fight I've ever had. He's pushing me right to my edge. So let me see it through. Let me finish this."

Shiki, standing near them, watches closely. A few minutes ago he was begging Yuichi to stop the fight, to protect their fighter before something irreversible happened. But now, seeing Sekino like this, composed in a way that feels almost unreal, he can't form the words to tell him to quit.

This could be his last real chance. His last night under the lights. Who knows?

But one thing is clear: Sekino is ready to give everything he has left, even the pieces that will never come back.

The referee's shout cuts through the corner. "Seconds out!"

Yuichi pats Sekino's shoulder, giving a firm nod. "There are chances left. You can still turn this fight around."

Sekino nods, still wearing that unsettlingly calm smile.

Shiki steps down from the ring apron but keeps looking back, uneasy.

"Yuichi-san…" he says quietly.

Yuichi turns. "Yeah?"

"You better prepare yourself."

Yuichi scoffs, already watching Sekino again. "I told you… he's not as weak as you think. Maybe he won't win, but he'll go the distance. He'll leave a fight good enough to bring the crowd back to our side. Put our gym back into the map."

Shiki doesn't answer.

Because to him, the smile Sekino wore didn't look like someone planning to go the distance. It looked like someone ready to walk into a fire and stay there.

***

Across the ring, Ryoma's legs come alive the instant he rises from the stool, light, springy, refreshed. Managing his output in the previous round bought him exactly what he needed: another full tank of movement.

And now he's not thinking about round ten, not even round eight.

He's planning to end it here.

The damage he carved into Sekino is blooming now, and the Vision Grid gives him a cold, clinical verdict.

<< Knock him down once more… and he won't beat the count. >>

The bell rings, the start of round seven.

Sekino steps to the center, and sets his Philly Shell. It somehow looks tighter, too tight. His left hand no longer dangles loosely; it's glued to his ribs.

His whole frame looks smaller, compressed and stiff. Both feet are flat, weight pinned to the center. It's a shell that's meant to absorb, not answer.

Ryoma steps in, and unleashes.

A burst of punches tears open the space between them. The tempo spikes so fast Sekino can't keep up.

He rolls, angles his lead shoulder, dips, twists, tries to make his body a moving target. But some shots slip in anyway, threading through the cracks in his guard.

A shot digs into his ribs. Another snaps against his chest. One grazes the back of his left ear.

Bug, bug!

Dsh, dsh… thud, bug!

The commentators pick up instantly, voices rising with every blow:

"Ryoma's pouring it on again!"

"Sekino can't stop all of that… those punches are slicing right through!"

"But look at Sekino! He's refusing to break! He's still rolling, still trying to answer!"

Sekino even tries, desperately, to fire back. A small flicker jab meant to interrupt Ryoma's rhythm, just enough to buy a second of breathing room.

But his arm is too slow, too heavy, telegraphing every inch of its path.

And Ryoma reads it instantly. He beats the jab with a cross that lands flush on the corner of Sekino's mouth.

Dsh!

Sekino's head jerks sideways. His stance wobbles, nearly unravels.

But he forces himself back into place, feet scraping for balance, lungs dragging in air like it weighs something.

Then he closes up, stacking his gloves tight against his temples, elbows welded to his body. It's the turtle defense, compact, desperate, a man bracing for a storm he no longer has the speed to escape.

Ryoma buries him without mercy, pounding the guard over and over. Even blocked, each collision drives Sekino backward, an inch, another inch, then another.

He tries going upstairs, but Sekino's guard is welded shut. So Ryoma changes angles, whips a long hook around the outside of the gloves…

Dhuack!

It lands flush on Sekino's cheek, snapping his head sideways. Sekino staggers but pulls his guard back together, stubborn, refusing to fall.

But Ryoma has more than brute force. Sekino's taught him tricks tonight, small and clever things. Now Ryoma returns the favor.

"Here," he mutters under his breath, "have one of your own."

He slams a punch into Sekino's guard, then hooks his glove behind Sekino's right elbow and yanks.

The arm jerks outward, pried open just enough. Sekino's right side lies exposed.

And Ryoma tunnels in, not one, but…

Bug, bug, bug!

Three savage hooks crash into the ribs, each one deeper than the last. Sekino's vision flickers as white-hot pain tears through his ribs.

"Oh my god…" a commentator shoots out. "Three in a row! He folded that guard open and went straight for the ribs!"

"That's filthy! That's disgustingly good work by the Cruel King!"

"He used Sekino's own trick on him. That's the Chameleon shading its skin."

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