The punches collide in a violent burst. But there's nothing behind Hanazawa's shot. And Aramaki's hook slams hard and clean into Hanazawa's skull.

Sweat explodes into the air on impact. One commentator clutches his head, exploding in disbelief.

"Oh my god… he ran straight into it!"

Hanazawa is flung backward, his body crashes into the ropes, and by instinct alone he snakes his right arm over the top strand, dumping his weight onto it, refusing to fall.

But the next instant…

Dhuack!

Aramaki's left hook smacks his face dead on.

"Oh my god…" the second commentator breathes, horror creeping into his voice. "This is turning into a disaster!"

Hanazawa's head snaps back toward outside the ring. Sweat arcs again, this time streaked with red, and a bead of blood sails past the ropes and splashes onto a spectator in the front row.

"Eh?" someone gasps. "Is that blood?"

Still, Hanazawa won't go down. Even without his legs, he stays upright, guard clamped tight, letting the ropes carry his weight while he endures.

Aramaki keeps pounding the guard, driving him deeper until the ropes bow under the strain.

Then a short punch slips under the left armpit, and…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the chaos, but Aramaki still swinging.

The referee wedges himself in just before Aramaki's next hook can crash home.

"A bell," one commentator gasps. "Hanazawa's saved by the bell."

Hanazawa remains standing, head already tilted away on instinct from a punch that never arrives.

He's wrecked, face battered, blood soaking his mouthpiece and streaking from his nostrils. His breath comes in harsh broken pulls. But his eyes are still sharp, burning with contempt.

But Aramaki doesn't return the stare. For him, this is work, nothing more. He turns away without a word. And somehow, that indifference lands harder than any insult ever could.

***

The hush spreads in the arena, the crowd's roar thinning into uneasy murmurs as people crane forward, trying to read Hanazawa's condition from the way he hangs on the ropes.

"Look at Hanazawa," one commentator finally says, concern edging his voice. "He's still on his feet, but he's hanging on those ropes. That's not a good sign."

The other nods. "His legs are gone. You can see it. He's conscious, he's angry… but the body's not answering the way it needs to."

"Do you think he can survive another round like this?" the first asks.

There's a pause before the answer. "Survive, maybe. Turn it around?" He exhales. "That's a much harder question."

Hanazawa finally drags himself to the corner, one hand hooked over the top rope. Each step is forced, boots scraping as the rope does half the work his legs can't anymore.

The referee shadows him closely, eyes sharp, patience gone. He steps in front of Hanazawa, forcing him to slow.

"Are you continuing?" the ref asks.

Hanazawa waves him off with a rough jerk of the hand. "I'm fine," he grunts, breath ragged.

Then, with lower voice, venom thick in his throat: "That fucking brat… who the hell does he think he is…"

The referee doesn't look convinced. He follows Hanazawa all the way to the red corner.

Masahiro and his team are already there, arms under Hanazawa's shoulders, guiding him down onto the stool.

The referee leans in, lowering his voice. "You know the risk," he says. "Sometimes the right call is ending it before it gets worse."

Masahiro nods once. And the ref steps away.

Back in the corner, hands move in practiced urgency. The mouthpiece is pulled free, blood wiped from lips and teeth.

A towel presses under Hanazawa's nose, clearing the red smear from his nostrils. Ice is packed against his jaw and cheek, another hand carefully dabbing at the small cut beneath his swollen right eye.

Masahiro watches it all in silence, eyes scanning Hanazawa's face, the way his gaze wavers before locking back in, the way his chest rises too fast.

Hanazawa spits once, thick and red, and snarls through clenched teeth.

"That… fucking… brat…"

Masahiro Nishiyama just keeps watching, weighing how much damage Hanazawa's pride can carry before it breaks.

Then his gaze drifts across the ring, first to Aramaki, observing his condition. And the contrast is brutal.

Masahiro's jaw tightens as his eyes shift again, this time to the old man Nakahara.

The memory comes back uninvited. The day Nakahara stepped into his gym, and the warning he'd given before leaving.

"You'd better prepare your boys for the worst. My fighters have a habit of breaking their opponents mercilessly."

Masahiro'd laughed it off, mocked him, treated it like an old man's delusion.

Now, standing here, watching Hanazawa barely holding himself upright while Aramaki waits without strain, that warning is impossible to dismiss.

Masahiro swallows. His pride doesn't shatter all at once. It cuts, slow and precise, like a blade peeling skin, layer by layer.

Finally, after weighing it again and again, he crouches in front of Hanazawa, resting a steady hand on his thigh.

"I'm sorry, Hanazawa…" he says quietly. "But the ref's warning me not to continue this fight."

Hanazawa's breathing stutters. His eyes snap open. "Coach… what are you saying? You're throwing in the towel already? You really think I can't fight that fucking brat?"

"He's not a brat," Masahiro snaps, the restraint cracking for just a second before he reins it back in. "Look at you. Look at what he's done. This happened because you kept underestimating him."

Hanazawa squeezes his eyes shut, teeth grinding. "I know I screwed up," he growls. "I dropped my guard once. Once. And that fucking brat…"

"Enough," Masahiro cuts in sharply. "If you hate him that much, we can demand a rematch later. But tonight, in this condition, you can't do anything more."

Hanazawa laughs weakly, bitter. "So you want me to crawl away with my tail between my legs? How the hell am I supposed to ask for a rematch if I run now?"

Masahiro watches him in silence, already knowing what he's about to do, and why. Part of him is worried for his fighter's body. Another part, the louder one, refuses to accept this loss.

Not like this. Not to Nakahara.

He's too proud to let this end here. He'd mocked Nakahara openly once; accepting defeat now would make him look absurd.

Still, he won't shoulder the burden alone. He refuses to be the one blamed later for forcing his fighter to continue in this condition.

"The ref's watching you closely now," Masahiro says at last. "If you go back out there and show weakness, he'll stop it himself. And when he does, there's no arguing it."

Hanazawa grits his teeth. "So what? You're telling me to quit?"

Masahiro meets his eyes, voice steady. "I'm telling you the risk. If you stand up, you do it on your own will. I won't protect you. I won't save you with a towel. If this goes bad again, I'll let it end."

Hanazawa's fists tighten, letting the words sink in. His breathing steadies, and rage stitching him together where pain couldn't.

"And if I fight?" he asks.

Masahiro doesn't hesitate. "Then fight smart. No chasing counters. No pride plays. Survive this round. Buy time. Recover. That's all."

Hanazawa lifts his head, eyes burning toward the blue corner. Then he nods. "Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down this time."

Masahiro straightens, signaling the team. "Bring his legs back," he says. "He's going to need it."

And with that, it's settled. He's found his excuse not to throw in the towel. And even now, he can't imagine himself doing it, especially not against Nakahara, a man he still, deep down, considers beneath him.

If it goes worst, he tells himself, let the ref do his job.

***

Meanwhile, despite everything that's gone right, Nakahara's eyes never leave Aramaki's face. The round ends to their favor, and still, the old man's first concern isn't the momentum.

It's the fighter's condition.

"That exchange just now…" he mutters.

Aramaki exhales once. "There's no weight behind his punches anymore. He's badly hurt."

Then, for the first time in his career, Aramaki allows himself something bolder. His eyes sharpen, confidence surfacing without apology.

"I'll finish him next," he says. "I haven't even shown everything yet. And I'm going to use them this time."

Hiroshi's breath catches, excitement flickering across his face.

But Nakahara doesn't share it. "Don't let that get into your head. Confidence is fine. Carelessness isn't."

Then he grips Aramaki's shoulder. "Respect your opponent. Don't chase moments just to show off your weapons. Only use them when you have to."

The words settle. Aramaki nods, grounding himself again.

"So what do I do?" he asks.

Nakahara answers without pause. "He's hurt, badly. Now just keep building damage. No rush. No openings. Let it accumulate until he can't hold himself together anymore. Don't show mercy, but don't give openings either."

He meets Aramaki's eyes. "That's how a professional does his job."

Moments later, the referee's voice cuts through the noise.

"Seconds out."

The ring is cleared, leaving only the fighters behind.

Aramaki rolls his shoulders and shakes out his arms, easing the tension from his limbs.

There's no bravado in the motion, only control, a quiet display of professionalism, exactly as his trainer expects.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.