Hanazawa looks almost fresh again at a glance. His face has been wiped clean, skin slick with Vaseline, catching the light as if the damage has been erased.

The swelling has been pressed down, the small cuts sealed, the bruises muted beneath careful hands. From the outside, he looks restored. But no one knows the truth better than he does.

Beneath that polished surface, everything aches. His body is heavy, hollowed out, every breath reminding him how deep the damage runs. Strength hasn't returned; it's only been masked.

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round Four.

Aramaki claims the center immediately, feet set, posture calm. Hanazawa chooses the long way around, circling the perimeter with no urgency, casual and careful.

He keeps his distance measured: not too close to the ropes, not close enough for Aramaki to work.

"Aramaki's still patient," one commentator notes. "No rush, no chase."

"The question is…" another one adds, "how Hanazawa plans to survive this round."

Aramaki stalks, closing the space with measured steps, cutting angles as Hanazawa drifts along the ropes.

Near the corner, Hanazawa stops. He steps in just enough and flicks a few textbook jabs, light but sharp.

Aramaki blocks them cleanly and lets him slip away to the other side. He watches closely, measuring how much that short break has restored his opponent.

At least, those two blocked punches tell him one thing: Hanazawa can still bite.

But it could just a façade. So he tests it with a one–one–two.

Dug. Dug… Dug!

Hanazawa's guard holds, tight and disciplined. But Aramaki can see it; the faint hitch in his balance, just a fraction late.

He then steps in deeper. But Hanazawa coils his rear foot, and fires a sequence: jab-cross-jab, jab-jab, a cross, lead hook.

Aramaki blocks the first three, slips the next two, blocks again, and then steps back.

The final hook cuts nothing but air. And that miss costs Hanazawa his balance.

Immediately, Aramaki slides his lead foot forward and snaps a one–two.

Dsh! Dug!

The jab lands. Hanazawa manages to react for the cross, blocks, but the impact still drives him back.

That impact is enough. Aramaki accepts a little more risk now, stepping in deeper. He probes with the left, then chains crosses and lead hooks from mid-range.

Dug. Thud! Dug. Thud!

The crosses thump into guard, but the hooks dig clean into the side.

Hanazawa fires a sharp right hook in answer to the last lead hook. It whistles past Aramaki's head, but it's enough to force him to step back.

"That's textbook damage management… Aramaki's taking pieces without giving Hanazawa anything back."

Hanazawa takes the space immediately, walking away, buying himself a breath.

Aramaki follows, surges in just enough, never too deep, flicking a probing jab into the guard, then chaining it smoothly: two straight crosses, two lead hooks.

Dug!

Dug. Thud! Dug. Thud!

The rhythm is suffocating.

Hanazawa's anger flares. Being dissected like this by a kid gnaws at him. He snaps back with two sharp hooks, one from each side, thrown on raw pride.

This time, Aramaki stays. He blocks the first, slips under the second, and answers with a heavy shot to the body.

Thud!

Then he's gone again, already stepping out, leaving Hanazawa with nothing but the ache.

"Look at this…" the commentator beams again. "Nothing flashy, nothing rushed. But it's brutal."

"He's not hunting the knockout," says the other one. "He's poisoning him, minute by minute, and Hanazawa can feel every second of it."

The fight slows to a crawl. But only for Hanazawa, it's unbearably slow.

Aramaki's supporters rise for every clean connection, sharp cheers cutting through the air, while Hanazawa's side has fallen into uneasy silence.

Hanazawa tries to buy time, hoping the measured pace might let his body recover. And Aramaki doesn't rush the finish.

But he never grants mercy.

He gives Hanazawa no more than a few seconds of peace at a time. Every step in comes with two, sometimes three clean punches that thud into flesh.

Aramaki doesn't touch the head once. And Hanazawa's vision stays clear, his mind stays sharp. But the body doesn't. The lead hooks and body shots drain him piece by piece.

First the strength bleeds out of his legs. Then his arms grow unbearably heavy. And soon, circling isn't a choice anymore. Even holding his guard high starts to feel like labor.

Desperate for a breather, Hanazawa throws a hook that sails wide and lets his body go with it, collapsing forward as if the legs simply gave out.

"Oh… what's this?" a commentator perks up. "Is he down?"

The referee steps in at once, eyes sharp, then waves it off.

"Slip," he calls.

"Nope," the other commentator says flatly, already unimpressed. "Aramaki didn't even touch him."

Instead of buying dignity, Hanazawa earns laughter. The fall, forced or not, draws jeers from the crowd. Snickers ripple through the stands, and then grow louder.

"Two million yen, huh?"

"Guess that bet didn't age well!"

"That's the guy who called this an easy payday?"

"Funny how quiet he's gotten."

The mockery stings sharper than any punch. What once sounded like confidence now comes back as ridicule, echoing every boast he made before the bell.

Hanazawa is back to his feet, but still buying time to recover. And Aramaki, being so obedient to Nakahara's instruction, still takes the fight carefully.

Two clean blows, he steps out again. Step in, landing another two clean blows, ducks under a hook, one punch to the guts, and gets out again.

And the crowd erupts once more. The jeers aren't angry this time. They're just tired, completely bored.

"Come on, Aramaki. Put him away."

"This isn't even competitive."

"I know you want to respect your opponent. But you are too much for this clown"

"Send him home already!"

Aramaki shuts the noise out, refusing to let it creep into his head. This is the real test now, how well he can stay professional when the crowd starts demanding blood.

But Hanazawa can't ignore it.

When Aramaki steps in with a measured jab, Hanazawa doesn't even try to block. He surges forward instead, head down, driving his forehead straight into the line of the punch.

Thuck!

It's crude. It's reckless. But it frees his hands.

Hanazawa shoots his left out, not to strike, just to smother Aramaki's right and blind the angle. In the same breath, he drives his own right through the opening.

Dhuack!

The cross lands clean, snapping Aramaki's head back. Hanazawa is already inside, crowding him, pressing his forehead into Aramaki's chest.

Thuck!

Another headbutt, buried in the clinch, subtle, just enough to steal Aramaki's breath without drawing the referee's eye.

Then the body work comes. Two short hooks, tight and ugly.

Thud. Thud.

"Oh," a commentator perks up, surprised, "we finally get to see Hanazawa fighting back."

And before Aramaki can fight back, Hanazawa immediately clinch, resting while using his own weight to exhaust him.

Aramaki tries to sneak in a punch, but his arms are held. Referee steps in, patting Hanazawa's arms.

"Break. Break."

But Hanazawa stubbornly holds in.

The ref warns him. Only then Hanazawa releases the clinch.

"Aramaki!" Nakahara calls out. "Don't let him get near you. Start moving your legs. Back and forth."

Aramaki looks irritated. But he listens.

He settles into a subtle pendulum rhythm.

With legs like his, no one would expect smooth footwork. His calves and thighs are too thick for that.

But the sway is there regardless. Forward. Back. Small, patient.

His shoulders loosen, arms hanging and drifting with the motion, moving just enough to blur intent.

Hanazawa catches it and curls his lip. "Don't act so cocky, kid. Cut the fancy stuff."

He works his way in again, trying to bait the spearing jab and that cobra shot, betting on the counter.

But Aramaki gives him a half-hearted jab while sliding back, his right glove drifting out of sync, bait and misdirection layered together.

Hanazawa tries to step in on the forward sway, timing the left.

Yet the rhythm breaks. Aramaki snaps the left, chains it into two straight crosses…

Dug. Dug.

…then slides out again, denying Hanazawa the chance to get dirty.

The sway returns. Shoulders loose. Arms drifting, like flyers tugged by the wind. Light. Lulling.

Just as Hanazawa hesitates, eyes locked on the rhythm, Aramaki breaks it again, sliding in with jab-jab-cross.

Dug-dug. Dug!

He checks himself halfway back and snaps a lead hook into the armpit.

Thud!

Then forward again. Jab, jab, cross.

Dug-dug. Dug!

Hanazawa tries to crowd him, but this time Aramaki slides back a full step, clean and calm.

"Hold on," one commentator squints, his head unconsciously bobbing with the motion. "Have we seen him do this before?"

"I think once, against Hiroyuki," the other says. "That pendulum rhythm… Nakahara's system. But I've never seen Aramaki use it this boldly."

Hanazawa is confused now, really confused. He's never seen Aramaki fighting like in his videos. He isn't prepared for this.

It looks somewhat beautiful, nice. And he doesn't accept someone like Aramaki even doing something so fancy. To him, Aramaki belongs to the same mould, fighting wild and ugly.

Stubbornly, he bulldozes his way in, trying to break the rhythm by force.

"I said enough."

Aramaki keeps the cadence anyway, but this time, after a half-hearted jab and a single cross…

Dug.

…he doesn't slide back.

He breaks the rhythm by stepping his rear foot outside, cutting the angle.

From there, the cross comes from somewhere else entirely…

Dhuack!

…slipping around the guard and cracking into the side of Hanazawa's head.

"That's it, Aramaki," Nakahara murmurs with restrained excitement. "You can control this fight without depending too much on that spear."

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