Chapter 468: The Price For Ecstasy

Shimamura’s approaches, somehow, also surprise the champion. Instead of dipping and feinting wildly, Shimamura stays tall, shoulders square, jabbing to Yanagimoto’s chest, not his head.

The punches aren’t heavy, but they’re precise, placed to disrupt rhythm rather than score damage.

“Oh?” one commentator murmurs. “Shimamura starting orthodox tonight.”

Yanagimoto probes with a straight left, but Shimamura slides just outside the line, answers with a short right to the body. Nothing flashy. Nothing reckless.

The first real exchange comes midway through the round.

Yanagimoto steps in behind a right jab and left cross combination. Shimamura reads it, slips left, fires a compact counter right that snaps Yanagimoto’s head just enough to draw a reaction from the crowd.

Not loud. But attentive.

“Clean counter by the challenger,” the commentator notes. “He’s not giving Yanagimoto the chaos he’s used to.”

Shimamura takes the round narrowly, not by volume, but by timing. He touches first, exits cleanly, and never gives Yanagimoto a stationary target.

As the bell sends them back, Yanagimoto walks to his corner without breaking eye contact. His gaze stays on Shimamura a second longer than necessary, curious, like he’s reassessing a shape he thought he already understood.

In the red corner, Yanagimoto sits and pulls in a slow breath. “…He’s not fighting like the tape,” he says, voice calm but alert.

Coach Daisuke Yoshizawa nods. “I see it. He’s staying orthodox, keeping his balance. That’s different.”

Yanagimoto wipes sweat from his brow, thinking. “This feels like a sparring partner who changed faces.”

“It is a problem,” Yoshizawa admits, matter-of-fact. “Because you’re not warmed up for this version.” He leans in, voice steady, reassuring. “But it’s not a big one. Take the next round. Feel him out. Get used to the timing.”

Yanagimoto nods once, eyes lifting back toward the ring. Curiosity still lingers in his stare, but now, it’s sharpening into focus.

***

Round two opens with Yanagimoto adjusting his stance slightly, angling his lead foot wider. He’s looking to line up the straight left more cleanly.

Shimamura continues with discipline; jab to the chest, jab to the shoulder, occasional right hand to the ribs when Yanagimoto leans too long.

It’s good boxing. Too good.

Yanagimoto begins to test him, doubling the left, stepping in closer, forcing Shimamura to hold ground longer than before.

But Shimamura keeps answering correctly; tightened guard, short counters, minimal wasted motion.

And then, a brief flurry near the ropes sparks the crowd.

Yanagimoto throws a three-punch combination; jab, left, right hook. Shimamura blocks the first two, rolls under the hook, and returns a straight right to the body. And the exchange ends cleanly.

“Textbook defense,” the second commentator says. “Shimamura’s showing fundamentals we haven’t seen from him in years.”

Yanagimoto takes more risks late in the round, stepping in aggressively, but Shimamura keeps him honest with counters.

The champion lands more cleanly this time, his timing sharper, his counters no longer half a beat late. Still, the challenger’s precision keeps the edge. Another narrow round for Shimamura, but the balance has shifted. Yanagimoto is starting to read him.

Aki exhales softly, eyes never leaving the ring. “He’s… better than I expected,” she admits. “I knew he deserved a title shot, but fighting like this? I didn’t think he had this in him.”

Tanaka flicks a glance sideways, toward Nakahara, then back to the ring. A faint smile tugs at his lips.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re talking like you forgot something.”

Aki blinks. “What?”

“Who taught him to fight like that in the first place,” Tanaka replies. “You didn’t see the old Shimamura. Before the circus act? That version was scarier.”

Nakahara doesn’t speak. But seeing Shimamura stay disciplined, even if only for two rounds, stirs quiet pride in his chest.

***

Round three is where Yanagimoto takes control back.

He begins to vary tempo, stepping in without punching, then firing suddenly when Shimamura resets. The southpaw left starts landing more often, brushing Shimamura’s guard, snapping his head back just enough to mark territory.

Shimamura answers, but the exchanges cost him more now.

Yanagimoto pins him briefly near the ropes, digging short hooks into the body. Shimamura clinches, absorbs it, and then breaks cleanly. But the message lands.

“He’s starting to touch the body now,” the first commentator notes.

“Yeah,” the other agrees. “That’s Yanagimoto settling in. He’s reading the timing, slowing the challenger down.”

“This is the champion finding his rhythm,” the first adds. “And once he does, it gets dangerous.”

Mid-round, Yanagimoto throws a sharp left that catches Shimamura clean on the cheek.

Dsh!

The sound is dull, heavy, unmistakable. Shimamura’s head jerks just enough to draw a murmur from the crowd.

Yanagimoto doesn’t smile, but something settles behind his eyes.

So that’s it… You cleaned it up. Threw away the mess.

He steps in again, measured and confident.

You really think skimming the textbook this late gets you through the exam?

Another jab skims the guard.

Dsh!

Shimamura blinks once, steadies himself, and fires back, but the pace has shifted.

Yanagimoto can feel it now; the timing, the weight shift, the limits of this version of the challenger.

This is where you run out of answers.

He presses harder, forcing longer exchanges, making Shimamura move laterally rather than in clean lines.

Nakahara’s gaze tightens, his eyes narrowing as he watches the exchanges. For the first time tonight, he sees the cracks in Shimamura’s form.

Tanaka clicks his tongue softly. “He’s still clean… but it’s not the same distance anymore.”

Sato nods, eyes never leaving the ring. “Yanagimoto’s landing first now. That jab’s starting to tell.”

“Yeah,” Tanaka says. “Shimamura’s boxing well, but the edge is gone.”

Back in the ring, the bell cuts through the tension, ending the third round.

Yanagimoto lifts his glove, not to the crowd but to himself, a small confident gesture. He walks to his corner with steady strides, shoulders loose, eyes clear, like a man who’s just confirmed what he needed to know.

“Champion’s round,” one commentator says. “You can see it in his body language.”

Meanwhile, Shimamura turns without a word, no glance at the crowd, no roll of the shoulders. He moves back to his corner in a straight line, breathing controlled, face composed.

“Something feels different,” the other commentator adds. “He’s still sharp, still disciplined… but he’s quiet. Too quiet.”

“For a guy who usually feeds on confidence and chaos,” the first voice continues, “this is uncharted territory.”

In the corner, Coach Tadayuki leans in, voice calm but firm, cutting through the noise.

“You haven’t shown anything yet,” he says. “Not even close. There’s still a lot in you.”

From the stands, a few voices rise, rough and impatient.

“Oi! Drunken Boxer!”

“Where’s the dance, Shimamura!”

“Show us the sloppy stuff!”

Laughter follows, uneven but loud enough. Almost immediately, Yanagimoto’s supporters answer back.

“Stop begging!”

“That trash style won’t work here!”

“This isn’t a bar fight!”

The blue corner hears the jeers, but ignores them.

“Tch!” Shoyo clicks his tongue. “Forget the textbook stuff, Shimamura. That’s not you.”

“Yeah,” Hisaki adds quickly. “They call it ugly, drunk, whatever… but that style? You’re better with it. Way better.”

Shimamura says nothing. His jaw tightens, teeth pressing together, clearly no pleased with the idea.

Tadayuki raises a hand, silencing the corner. “It’s okay. Keep the pace. It’s still early. I believe in you.” He softens, just slightly. “Maybe… enjoy it a bit more.”

Shimamura nods once. But inside, he knows exactly what they’re asking for, and also the price it demands. He needs the ecstasy to dance. And ecstasy always comes with a price.

***

Round four begins with Shimamura trying to reassert control, still with the discipline, the orthodox approaches.

He steps in behind a firmer jab, follows with a right hand to the body, and then pivots out. The movements are correct, practiced.

But the sharpness is fading. It’s not that he’s bad with it. It’s just the limit of taking the discipline back a bit too late. Three weeks of serious preparation can’t fully carry a body that hasn’t lived this way in years.

Yanagimoto senses it, so he doesn’t rush.

He waits for Shimamura showing the opening himself. He blocks the first two jab, parried the third, and then steps in with a straight left to the head.

Bug.

Shimamura blocks, but the impact drives him back a step.

Yanagimoto follows it up; jab, left, short hook to the body.

Dug. Dug. Thud!

Shimamura answers with a counter right…

Dsh!

….but it lands lighter than before.

“Shimamura’s still in this,” the commentator says, “but you can see the effort starting to creep in.”

Late in the round, Yanagimoto traps him near the corner. Shimamura ducks under a left, slips along the ropes, and escapes. But his breathing is heavier now, shoulders rising faster.

The bell cuts clean through the tension.

Ding!

This time, Shimamura walks back to his corner slower, breath heavier, the first real signs of exhaustion creeping into his frame.

Aki exhales first, eyes still on the ring. “He’s losing this. Not badly, but… the momentum’s slipping.”

Tanaka hums in agreement. “If this keeps up, Yanagimoto will just settle in. Maybe Shimamura should switch back. His usual style, I mean. That unpredictability… at least it could throw the champion’s rhythm off.”

Sato shrugs. “Even if it doesn’t work, it’d give the crowd what they’re asking for.”

Nakahara answers without looking away from the ring. “That style,” he says, low and measured. “Whatever you want to call it… it’s not that he doesn’t want to use it.”

The three journalists turn toward him at once.

“…He can’t,” Nakahara finishes.

Their confusion hangs for a beat.

“There’s a price to enter that zone,” Nakahara continues. “And that price is the same reason he abandoned discipline in the first place.”

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