And he isn't going to just wait for Aramaki to close the distance. Junpei pivots, slides forward just enough to reach, and strikes.

Wssht! Wssht! Wssht!

Three flicker jabs snap from three different angles, fast and surgical, each one grazing the edge of Aramaki's guard.

Aramaki waves, blocks, retreats again, still trying to catch the rhythm. But Junpei doesn't give him a second to breathe. He's already seized the center of the ring, pressing Aramaki backward, not with brute force, but precision and control.

Fifteen seconds into the first round, Aramaki still hasn't thrown a punch. How could he, when he can't even step into range?

Junpei, though on the offensive, never overreaches. He holds the pocket perfectly; that narrow punishing distance where he can hit, but Aramaki can't hit back.

"This is new," one of the commentators beams. "Junpei's never fought like this before."

"Yeah," the other replies, "he's usually the counterpuncher, waiting, reading. But look at him now. He's dictating the pace."

There's a brief pause. And then the crowd noise swells.

"Maybe that loss to Serrano did something to him," the first commentator says quietly. "You can see it. He's not tentative anymore. He's taking the initiative."

"He's learned how to hurt without hesitation."

Aramaki searches for an escape, trying to keep Junpei from cutting him off. He shifts sideways, but…

Dsh! Dsh!

…Junpei's lefts finally land clean across his face.

They're light, but sharp enough to sting, breaking his composure. Still, they tell him something, that he can take a few of those. Maybe he can bull his way in.

Aramaki tightens his guard, lowers his stance, and charges in. Junpei is flicking his left, but Aramaki gets inside, and ready to finally throw a left.

But still…

Dug! Dug!

Junpei folds in his right hand, mixing body blows between the jabs; one thudding into Aramaki's upper arm, the other forcing him to flinch his left back.

Then comes the third, a right straight. Aramaki is forced to put on a solid double door before it hits his face.

BAM!

It's blocked cleanly.

Once he throws a hook, Junpei's already gone, stepping out, reclaiming that perfect distance. And the flickers come alive once more.

Thirty seconds into the first round: Aramaki's only thrown one punch, missed it, and now he's back under the sting of Junpei's lefts.

One minute in, Aramaki finally gets another chance. He throws a left, but Junpei blocks it, digs a right into the body, then slips out and restarts his barrage.

The same rhythm holds for the next two minutes. Every time Aramaki steps in, he's met with a wall of jabs, one right, and distance.

The flickers come alive, Aramaki forces his way in, Junpei cuts with a right, and distance.

And then again; jabs, right cutting in, and distance, a rhythm hidden inside the chaos of flickers.

Aramaki keeps pressing, but he's being played on a loop he can't break.

And then…

Ding!

The bell rings. The first round ends.

"That's all Junpei right there," one commentator says. "Total control from start to finish."

"Aramaki couldn't even get set," the other one adds. "Every time he tried to close in, he always ran into a wall."

Aramaki trudges back to his corner, breathing hard, still searching for an opening; six punches thrown, none landing.

His eyes narrow; he knows something's off, but he can't quite name it yet.

Across the ring, Junpei walks back with that calm, almost satisfied nod. He's owned the round, and he knows he can keep this rhythm until the end.

His corner greets him with quiet satisfaction, stool, towels, water, calm nods. The air feels lighter than it has in months.

The secret drills, the endless repetition, the flickers and the new footwork, all of it is working exactly as they'd hoped.

"Good. That's good, Junpei," Junji says, voice low and even. "You see how he can't read it? Keep that rhythm; jabs, mix your right when he comes, and distance. Don't rush the finish. Just keeps the control."

Junpei nods, but his expression doesn't quite settle. There's still that flicker, the echo of Serrano, the loss that rewired him.

For a second, doubt edges into his focus. Then Junji leans closer, eyes steady.

"Hey," he says quietly. "This is your idea. Your rhythm. And it's working. Put more confidence in your boxing."

Junpei finally exhales, slow, controlled.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "It's working."

***

Across the ring, Aramaki sits down hard on his stool. Hiroshi presses the cold metal against his cheek, a faint bruise already darkening under the eye.

The hiss of the end-swell is the only sound between them for a moment. Nakahara, arms folded, stays calm, hasn't raised his voice once all night.

"Keep your chin up," he says evenly. "We knew this'd happen. First few rounds don't matter."

Aramaki doesn't answer, just breathes, deep and measured, still feeling the sting on his face.

"Forget the points," Nakahara continues. "We never had them to begin with. This is ten rounds. You don't win this by outscoring him, you win by breaking him."

Aramaki looks up now, the calm returning to his eyes.

"Your chance'll come," Nakahara says. "Sooner or later. Just be ready when it does."

***

Moments later, the ref calls for seconds out.

Aramaki draws one last breath before standing, the kind that tastes like metal and resolve.

Across the ring, Junpei rises with renewed confidence. He nods once, almost to himself, as if saying, I've got this.

And then…

Ding!

The bell rings. Round two begins.

Aramaki steps forward first, seizing the center ring. But Junpei's flickers keep him fenced out.

Gradually, Junpei works his way in, forcing Aramaki to deal with the constant sting of his left while reclaiming center ground.

Flicker after flicker; two sneak through between the blocks. And Aramaki still can't find a way to turn the fight into his rhythm.

His plan is simple: get inside and trade. That's all he has when his reach is this short. So he waits, not throwing anything until he's in range.

He knows the struggle. He's supposed to be patient.

But eventually…

"Enough of this."

He lunges forward, wild and desperate, telegraphing his punch from a distance.

And Junpei punishes him instantly, a stiff left snapping out as the setup…

Dsh!

…cracking across Aramaki's cheek.

Then the right hook…

Dsh!!!

…slams into his temple, twisting his head sideways.

Aramaki grits his teeth, arms rising to cover up.

But Junpei doesn't chase, he's not greedy. He slides out again, reclaims his ideal range, and resumes control with the same relentless flickers.

It's part of the plan, but more than that, it's part of him. Years of fighting from the Philly Shell shaped that instinct: calculated, alert, never reckless.

The Philly Shell guard isn't there tonight, but the mindset is.

And soon, the rhythm returns, the same loop. Aramaki fights his way in, eats the flickers, gets inside. Junpei clips him with a right, steps back, and reestablishes distance.

The flickers begin again. He works with lethal precision, piling up points, marking Aramaki's face with bruise after bruise, never staying in the pocket long enough for danger to reach him.

And back in the locker room, Ryoma watches the broadcast, eyes sharp, his Grid System overlay tracing patterns across the screen.

He exhales through his nose, irritation thinly contained.

"What are you doing, Aramaki?" he grumbles with restrained voice. "Don't you see it already? Is the drill you had with me… all for nothing?"

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