The crowd in the spectator stands begins to stir, voices rising with each swing Tōjō throws. Then, like a wave breaking, the chant starts, scattered first, and then unified.
"Tō-jō! Tō-jō! Tō-jō!"
The chant grows louder, a roar of bloodthirsty encouragement urging him to press harder. Every missed and blocked punch only fuels the crowd’s hunger, as if they believe the next one will land and end it all.
In the blue corner, the mood is far from celebratory. Coach Nakahara slams both hands against the canvas, the sharp thud cutting through the noise around him. His face is tight, a storm of worry, frustration, and disbelief.
"Don’t just stand there!" he shouts, voice raw from strain. "Throw the damn hook and pivot out! Move, Ryoma! Move!"
Coach Nakahara can’t see exactly what’s happening, only Tōjō’s back blocking the view, and the troubling fact that Ryoma hasn’t thrown a single punch since being forced into the corner.
But then, through a brief gap in the action, he catches a glimpse of Ryoma’s face, and he freezes.
A faint smirk curls at the edge of Ryoma’s lips, subtle, almost mocking.
Nakahara’s expression drains to pale confusion. He is stunned, unsure if what he saw was real.
Then frustration surges back, and he slams both hands against the canvas, again and again, impatience boiling over.
"What the hell are you doing down there?! Stop playing around and get out!"
But Ryoma doesn’t flinch. None of Nakahara’s shouting gets through, because none of it reaches him. He is already too deep in the zone, too focused, too amused, too high on the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins.
He doesn’t hear the coach, doesn’t hear the crowd. In his world, there’s only Tōjō in front of him, the rhythm of his breathing, and the crisp slicing sound of his punches tearing through the air.
Then, with just eight seconds left in the first round, Tōjō suddenly halts mid-swing. As if frozen in time, he stands there, motionless. The energy in the arena flickers and fades, the noise dims, the crowd quiets.
Three seconds pass, and Tōjō just drops to his knees like a marionette with its strings severed. His eyes are wide open, but vacant, blank, as if the lights are on but no one’s home.
Ryoma remains in the corner, arms tucked near his chin, eyes locked on his opponent. His stance hasn’t changed.
No one saw what happened. No one understands why Tōjō suddenly crumbled, except maybe the referee, who’s already begun to count.
Coach Nakahara looks stunned, speechless.
But in the red corner, Tōjō’s second has erupted into panic, pounding the canvas with both fists.
"Tōjō! Snap out of it! Just stand up and get back here!"
But the referee doesn’t finish the count. When Tōjō remains on his knees, unmoving, the official simply crosses his arms in signal.
The bell rings, and a wave of confusion sweeps through the arena.
The two commentators stammer through a mix of disbelief and euphoria, their voices overlapping with the roar of the crowd.
Commentator 1: "That might be the most surreal finish I’ve ever seen. No knockout blow, no clear shot, and yet Tōjō just... collapsed."
Commentator 2: "Whether it was timing, precision, or something else entirely, Ryoma just made a statement. That wasn’t luck. That was control."
When Ryoma only takes four steps toward his corner, only then does Tōjō flinch. He blinks once, and snaps back to awareness.
His eyes dart around in bewilderment, realizing he’s still kneeling on the canvas. As if waking from a dream, he jolts upright in shock and turns.
There he sees the blue corner erupting in celebration, Ryoma standing calmly among cheers and claps. The sight disorients him further. His mind races.
He spins to face the referee, desperate for an answer. But the official just shakes his head, eyes closed, hands crossing in front of his chest.
Tōjō’s face twists with disbelief. And then anger erupts.
"Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m still fine! I can fight! I was down, yeah! But where’s the count?! Start the damn count at least!"
The referee walks away, saying nothing. Tōjō chases after him, voice rising, but his Second steps in, grabbing his shoulder.
"He did count," the Second says.
"What count? I didn’t hear a damn thing!"
The Second falls silent, looking at his fighter more closely. Then he sighs, finally understanding. Whatever Ryoma did, it must have knocked Tōjō out on his feet, so completely that he hadn’t even registered the fall.
"You were out cold," he says, turning back to his corner.
Tōjō’s eyes widen with a flicker of shaken pride.
"Train harder. Come back stronger."
Tōjō just stands frozen, his expression locked in bitter dissatisfaction. His eyes then drift toward Ryoma, who’s already walking away through a crowd of cheering supporters.
His fists clench so tightly that the tension shows through the padding of his gloves. His jaw tightens, his face twisted in a mix of rage and humiliation.
But the fight is over. With a final glance at the ring, he turns and steps through the ropes, forced to make way for the main event. The champion’s match is up next, and that champion just happens to be from his own gym.
He was always hailed as the future champion, following the path paved by his two seniors in two different weight classes. There’s no way he can accept this kind of humiliation.
"I’ll ask for a rematch, and make sure he pays."
Backstage, just beyond the edge of the ring, Ryoma doesn’t expect to see Kaede Hayama, his ex-fiancée. Or at least, that’s who she was in his previous life. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel{f}ire.net
But at this moment, she is still the girlfriend he has dated since high school. Her voice cuts through the crowd noise before her face even comes into view.
She moves like someone chasing a memory she wasn’t sure was real. Her smile is polite, proud, and somehow not as close as it used to be. She has her hair tied up in a loose bun, blazer neat, ID tag bouncing on a lanyard.
"You were amazing!" Kaede holds out a bottled tea. "I can’t believe it ended so fast. You really are serious about this."
In his previous life, Kaede never showed up. He hadn’t even known she was watching. But it makes sense. He lost that fight, so that might make her reluctant to see him.
Ryoma takes the bottle slowly, unsure how he should react to this sudden surprise.
"Thanks," he says, offering an awkward smile like she’s just an ex, not yet ready to accept that, in this timeline, they’re still together. "I remember you said you’d come."
"The office let us leave early," she says. "Some of the guys had tickets. Kind of became a group thing."
Three of her coworkers are behind her. And one of them Ryoma doesn’t need to look at for more than a second.
It’s Kotake Shiba, the coworker who stole Kaede from him in his previous life.
His eyes sharpen at the sight of that guy, and his Vision Grid system flares to life.
[ VISION GRID SYSTEM – SCAN REPORT ]
Focus: Visual engagement with Subject A1 (Kaede)
Scan Type: Micro-expression and gaze pattern analysis
Gaze lingered longer than baseline average
Noted pattern: brief eye contact → subtle glance toward lips and neckline → return to eyes
Minor facial cue: half-smile, left brow raised (suggests casual interest)
No verbal engagement, but attention consistent over multiple intervals
→ Possible flirtatious intent detected
→ Social boundary awareness present, but not strongly held
→ No response from Subject A1; interest appears one-sided
No action required—monitor only if pattern repeats.
Ryoma’s expression tightens for a split second before he masks it. Kaede is still his girlfriend, for now, and he knows that this guy eventually became her husband in his previous life.
But knowing that he’s already eyeing her while they’re still together?
That sits wrong in every possible way.