Chapter 405: Up Your Game

Nakahara doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t deny it either. He’s considering.

He’s already seen the danger. Chasing a knockout means letting exchanges happen instead of dissolving them. It means giving up the safety he’s spent years building into Ryohei’s boxing.

One mistimed counter, one bad read, and a promising career could be shortened in a single round.

That’s always been Nakahara’s fear. But he knows that way has limits.

Ryohei isn’t a prospect anymore. He’s climbed high enough that caution alone will start to look like avoidance, cowardice. At this level, there are moments you can’t dance around forever.

Nakahara’s eyes drift past the corner, not to the crowd, but higher, toward the darkened seating beyond the lights.

Someone important could be watching. The Super Lightweight champion himself could be here assessing his next opponent.

This fight isn’t just about surviving anymore. It’s about being taken seriously.

Nakahara exhales, then meets Ryohei’s eyes. Finally he gives a small nod.

“All right,” he says quietly. “Take the risk.”

Then he raises a finger, firm. “But don’t rush it. You’ve got time. Make him give it to you.”

Ryohei’s lips curve into a smile, not reckless, but resolved. He nods once, fully aware of the danger now in front of him. And eager to step into it.

***

Just like Nakahara speculated, the Super Lightweight champion is present.

Umemoto Kimitada sits several rows back from ringside, far enough to avoid attention, close enough to see everything that matters.

He looks more like a street fighter than a polished titleholder; skin a shade darker than most under the lights, hair cropped short, jaw thick and stubborn, chin built to take punishment.

His shoulders are broad, heavy with muscle, but there’s nothing stiff about him. Even seated, he looks ready to move.

Twenty-five. The same age as Ryohei. But he’s known as a fighter having the kind of body that can sprint or brawl without changing gears.

Beside him sits another man from Osaka, a friend from the same gym, leaning back with his arms crossed.

“So? That blue corner kid. What d’you think?”

Umemoto doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on Uchida, before taking his time to take a look on Ryohei.

“…He’s got nice legs,” Umemoto finally says, voice rough, words bent thick with Osaka dialect. It comes out blunt, almost lazy. “His movements are clean, sharp. Knows how not to get hit.”

His friend smirks. “Sounds like praise.”

Umemoto clicks his tongue. “At this level?” He shakes his head slightly. “That kinda boxing’s halfway to runnin’. But the damn ring ain’t that big. You can’t keep runnin’ forever. It’s a cage, whether you like it or not.”

He leans forward then, elbows on his knees. “I ain’t excited fightin’ a guy like that.”

His gaze shifts away from Ryohei, toward the red corner. “But that one…” Umemoto murmurs, watching Uchida. “He looks more like me.”

There’s a pause. Then a crooked grin tugs at his mouth.

“Course,” he adds, low and casual, “put me in there, and I’d be the one makin’ him stop movin’.”

***

Most people can see that Ryohei has won all six rounds. But the last three rounds were too close, close enough that judges could easily give them to Uchida.

Ryohei knows that risk. As he waits for the bell, he’s no longer thinking about racking up points. He’s hunting a knockdown.

The bell rings.

Ding!

“Round seven underway,” a commentator says, slipping back into formality.

“This one’s getting interesting now. You can feel it tightening.”

Ryohei steps out first, not rushed, just steady steps. He claims the center with quiet confidence, feet placing themselves where they always have.

Uchida meets him there, set in a compact disciplined stance; elbows tucked, guard high and patient. It’s a posture built to absorb, to react, and to turn any close or mid-range exchange into a slugfest on his terms.

And Ryohei starts to sway. The pendulum returns; hips loose, shoulders relaxed, weight drifting just enough to keep the distance elastic.

But Ryohei isn’t dancing for judges anymore. He’s looking a chance to knock his opponent down.

The pendulum keeps moving, steady and familiar, hips swaying just enough to stretch the space. His left hand flicks out in that Soviet rhythm; slapping, snapping, never heavy.

Dug. Dsh!

Dug. Dug. Dsh!

But Uchida doesn’t react to the pattern. He reacts to distance.

Whenever Ryohei drifts just a little too close, something comes back. A jab, then a short right. Not timed, but thrown because the range feels right.

Dug. Dug.

He never reads the pattern, never times the sway. He only reacts when Ryohei enters his range. It isn’t cleverness; it’s just the way he fights.

And that instinct makes the pull-off counter hard to build.

Still, Ryohei tries, letting the pendulum carry him forward, then halts, breaking the rhythm on purpose.

Uchida steps in at the same time, throwing on instinct, a short punch that falls just shy of its mark.

Ryohei snaps his left, but too soon. The jab scrapes glove instead of face, light and useless. And Uchida doesn’t hesitate. Now that Ryohei is within punching range, he follows it up; body first, head next.

Thud! Dug.

A hook bumps into Ryohei’s ribs, not clean, but heavy enough to stop his sway. But the punch upstairs only thumps into Ryohei’s forearm.

Uchida crowds him anyway, forcing the fight tight.

Dug. Dug.

Thud! Dug. Dug.

“This is where things get messy,” a commentator says. “Ryohei’s staying close too long, and that’s dangerous against a pressure fighter.”

Ryohei clinches, shoves off, slides away. But his pendulum comes back crooked, the rhythm no longer smooth.

He tries again, forcing the same idea; sliding back, and then halt before sliding forward.

Uchida’s punch misses, but he’s already stepping again, eating the space with his shoulders.

And comes two hooks to the body.

Thud! Thud!

Ryohei absorbs both before he can escape. His form frays, the sway turns stiff, and his exits get shorter.

Now Uchida is throwing more freely, not because he’s figured anything out, but because Ryohei keeps giving him chances.

The round slips into ugliness. Ryohei still landing jabs, still moving, but each exchange costs more than the last.

By the bell, his breath is heavier than it should be. And the counter he’s chasing still hasn’t taken shape at all.

“Uchida finally dragged this into his kind of fight,” a commentator says. “It’s messy, but it’s working.”

“Yeah,” the other adds, voice edged with concern. “Ryohei’s still landing jabs, but he’s paying for every second he stays in range now. He’s staying longer than before, and against a guy like Uchida, that’s dangerous.”

***

Ryohei sinks onto the stool the moment it’s set beneath him. His face is still clean, no cuts, no swelling. But his shoulders sag, chest rising and falling too fast, too deep.

The damage isn’t visible. It’s buried in his ribs, the dull ache spreading under the skin from body shots taken without answer.

He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “This style…” he gasps. “It’s easy to steal points with it.” Another breath, heavier. “But dragging someone into the rhythm… trying to pull a counter out of it…” He shakes his head. “That’s a whole different fight.”

Sera keeps wiping sweat from his back and shoulders, saying nothing, letting him speak it out.

“I gave him that round,” Ryohei mutters finally. “I can feel it.”

Nakahara’s voice comes in calm and steady. “Breathe first. Slow it down. Don’t chase anything while your lungs are still racing.”

Behind them, Ryoma watches Ryohei for a long second. The exhaustion bothers him more than the scorecards ever did.

Then his eyes drift to the red corner. They’re too animated, smiling and energized.

For a brief moment, Ryoma’s gaze flicks at Logan Rhodes. The man meets his eyes, amused, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth before he looks away.

Then Ryoma turns back to Ryohei.

Rigged or not, real or imagined, the suspicion itself has already twisted the fight. It’s pulled Ryohei away from who he is, and made everything harder than it ever needed to be.

But even so, Ryohei’s situation isn’t dire. He isn’t beaten, just lost inside the idea of what he’s trying to do.

<< Why don’t you teach him how it’s done. >>

Ryoma exhales, and finally speaks. “You didn’t do it wrong. You just got the wrong kind of opponent for this setup.”

Ryohei lifts his head, clinging to the thought that Ryoma might clear the fog.

Ryoma crouches beside the stool. “That style works best against fighters who read rhythm. Guys who wait, measure, and counter off patterns.”

“You mean… counter punchers?” Ryohei asks.

“Yes. Someone like me,” Ryoma says. “Like Liam Kuroda. Aramaki pulled it off once against Hiroyuki. But this guy isn’t that.”

Ryohei exhales, processing. “So I have to do it the normal way? Give him an opening, read ahead, slip, step in…”

“No,” Nakahara cuts in sharply. “That’s too dangerous.”

“You can still do it with the pendulum,” Ryoma says calmly. “Just not the way you tried.”

Ryohei looks up. “How?”

“Give him what he wants,” Ryoma replies. “Keep the pendulum, but narrow it. Don’t slide out so far. Stay close enough that he feels he can touch you. Let him believe it.”

Sera murmurs as it clicks. “A psychological pull.”

Ryoma nods. “Exactly. Same thing I used against Masuda Kokushi. Against Paulo Ramos.”

Ryohei swallows. “That rhythm… there’s no way I can do that.”

Ryoma meets his eyes. “I think it’s time you up your game.”

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