Chapter 568: Built Under Pressure

After that meeting, the production team moves quickly. Instead of cueing Aramaki’s ring walk immediately, the giant screen above the ring flashes back to Okabe’s knockout in slow motion.

One angle, then another, then a third, then the step-back counter is replayed frame by frame. The subtle pull of the lead foot, the tightening of his shoulder, the moment Wakabayashi’s jaw snaps upward.

“Let’s look at this again,” the first commentator says smoothly, buying time without making it obvious. “Watch the distance here. That half-step back… that’s where the fight turns.”

In the control booth, producers gesture for extended replay. Sponsor graphics linger a few seconds longer than scheduled. The broadcast stretches, carefully, professionally.

Most of the crowd doesn’t notice. They are still riding the high of the upset, cheering whenever Okabe’s punch lands again on the replay.

But not everyone is simply watching. In one of the VIP sections, two regional promoters lean toward each other.

“That’s the third replay already,” one mutters.

“And they’re breaking it down like it’s the main event,” the other replies dryly.

A few seats away, another promoter folds his arms, glancing toward the production booth.

“Something’s off,” he says. “They’re padding.”

“Don’t tell me the next fight isn’t ready,” someone scoffs.

A short laugh follows. “If that’s the case, that’s bad management.”

“They spent big money advertising this undercard,” another adds. “If a fighter isn’t in the building yet…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. But they all understand the implication.

Across the arena, the commentary continues as if nothing is wrong.

“Look again at the foot positioning,” the analyst says.

But among those who run events for a living, speculation has already begun to spread quietly beneath the noise.

***

Near the ring, a staff member approaches Okabe just as he steps into the corridor leading to the fighters’ locker rooms.

“Excuse me, Shuji-san,” she says politely but briskly, already guiding him by the elbow. “Could we have you for a quick live corner interview?”

Okabe blinks. “Huh?”

Before he can process it, a microphone is already in front of his face. The camera light turns red.

“You just scored the biggest win of your career,” the reporter says brightly. “How does it feel?”

Okabe looks directly into the lens like a deer caught in headlights.

“Ah… I… I really won, right?” he says honestly.

A few people laugh behind the camera.

“Yes, you won,” the reporter replies, smiling. “And with a counter, something we haven’t really seen from you before.”

Okabe scratches the back of his head, embarrassed. “Yeah… I’ve been told to use that for a while. I guess I finally listened.”

“So was that planned? The step-back counter?”

“I mean… I tried to plan it,” he says awkwardly. “But it kind of just… happened.”

He glances sideways as if looking for permission to escape.

“I felt something click,” he adds quickly. “Like… the timing made sense for once.”

The reporter leans in. “And that posture you used, leaning forward, almost like a praying mantis, was that intentional?”

Okabe stiffens slightly. “Uh… I just thought it looked cool.”

There are more laughter now. And Okabe shifts uncomfortably.

“Can I go now?”

The staff chuckles, but before he can slip away, another hand gently stops Sera.

“Coach Sera, we’d like your analysis live.”

Sera sighs faintly but nods. He steps into frame as Okabe exhales in relief.

“Give them a good analysis for me,” Okabe mutters to Sera under his breath.

Sera smirks. “Try not to embarrass the gym while I’m talking.”

Okabe grins, then walks off with Hiroshi and Murakami, still unaware of the tension building behind the scenes.

On camera, the interviewer turns to Sera. “That posture he used tonight, it looked different. Almost… hunched. Unorthodox. And some speculated it must part of the plan.”

Sera folds his arms calmly. “It’s part of the plan,” he says. “That forward-leaning stance disrupts the opponent’s ideal form. Wakabayashi relies on distance and clean lines. By lowering his center and angling his shoulders like that, Okabe forces him to punch downward and off-rhythm.”

“So it wasn’t reckless?”

“No,” Sera replies evenly. “It’s a way of denying the opponent their preferred structure. If they cannot stand the way they want, they cannot fight the way they want.”

The commentators nod, impressed.

“And that counter?”

Sera’s lips curl slightly. “That’s the result of repetition. He’s been trying to apply it for months. Tonight, it finally appeared.”

Behind the calm explanation, the clock continues to run. And Arman’s camp is still nowhere to be seen.

***

Back in the locker room, Okabe pushes open the door with wide grin, still buzzing.

“Did you guys see that?” he blurts immediately. “The counter! I finally did it!”

He expects laughter, cheers, noise. Instead, he is met with silence.

Aramaki, already half-wrapped, offers a casual smile. “Nice shot,” he says. “Took you long enough.”

He follows it with a chuckle, but the room remains heavy. And Okabe’s smile falters, disappointed at the silence treatment.

Coach Muramaki frowns slightly, sensing something off.

He looks toward Nakahara. “What’s going on?”

Nakahara doesn’t hesitate. “Arman Sargsyan hasn’t arrived.”

Okabe blinks. “What?”

“He missed call time. Medical too,” Kurogane adds.

Hiroshi steps forward. “Have you tried calling them?”

“Yes,” Nakahara replies curtly. “No answer. We’re stretching the broadcast right now and hoping they show up before Aramaki’s fight ends.”

Suddenly, the pieces connect in Okabe’s mind. The extended replay, the live interview, and Sera being held back for analysis.

They weren’t celebrating for his victory. They aren’t spotlighting him because he delivered the knockout of the night. They are stretching the moment, carefully, using his victory as padding in a schedule that is starting to tear at the seams.

And as that understanding settles in, the heat in Okabe’s chest dims. The pride is still there, but it cools, edged now with a weight he hadn’t felt a minute ago.

***

Across the hall, in Narisawa’s locker room, the mood is colder.

Wakabayashi sits on a bench, ice pressed against his jaw as the doctor checks his pupils. His face is pale but composed.

On the flat screen, Sera’s analysis continues.

“That posture denies structure,” Sera repeats calmly. “It forces emotional reactions.”

Narisawa watches intently, his jaw clenched with mounting irritation. After Sera’s interview ends, he turns sharply to Wakabayashi.

“Now do you understand why you lost?” he scolds.

But Wakabayashi says nothing, his silence heavier than any excuse he could offer.

“You lost control,” Narisawa continues. “He ruined your form, yes. But you were still superior. Six rounds you punished him. You dictated everything. And then you threw it away because you couldn’t stay calm when he refused to fight on your terms.”

There’s still no response from Wakabayashi. But inside, his ego still insists he is the better fighter, that the gap in skill remains wide.

Still, now he must accept the truth that he lost because he lost his composure. And that realization burns hot in his chest.

“At least take it a lesson,” Hamakawa speaks up quietly. You can’t underestimate anyone. You have to keep evolving. Next time, they’ll come prepared to disrupt you again.”

Narisawa exhales sharply, still irritated.

“Remember that yourself,” he says to Hamakawa. “Your opponent isn’t a joke either. People call Ryohei Yamada’s win over Umemoto luck. Don’t be stupid enough to believe that.”

His gaze drifts back to the screen, where Sera’s calm face fills the frame.

“I’ll admit this,” Narisawa mutters bitterly. “Fighters from that gym… they change quickly. Four months is enough for them to become someone else entirely.”

He watches Sera with open hostility. “In that ring, you never really know who you’re facing anymore.”

***

In another locker room down the hall, the atmosphere is colder and more contained. Seated on the bench with his gloves already laced, Rikiya Miyamoto watches without blinking.

Across from him, his trainer, Araki Okada, stands with arms folded, studying not just the screen, but his fighter.

“We’ve studied Aramaki’s entire fights,” he says. “And he improves every single time. Footwork, punch selection, composure. There’s always something new.”

Rikiya rolls his shoulders once, loosening tension. “We’ve prepared for him in detail,” he replies evenly.

“But preparation isn’t the same as certainty,” Okada reprimands. “You must be ready for something unexpected.”

“Did you forget who you’re talking to?” Rikiya asks, not angrily, but with a quiet edge. “You think one surprise is going to make me panic?”

“I’m not worried about panic,” Okada says calmly. “I’m worried about a single lapse. Don’t repeat what happened against Serrano.”

Rikiya’s jaw tightens slightly at the name, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Okada continues, voice steady. “You can be ahead on every card. You can control tempo for six, seven rounds. But if you underestimate the possibility of something unconventional, you leave a door open.”

On the screen, Sera shifts to a question about their gym’s culture and development philosophy. Okada listens closely, treating every sentence as usable intelligence; no detail too minor, no comment too casual to ignore.

“That gym,” he says quietly, “has a young trainer who thinks differently, Loughborough University graduate, sports science background. He builds fighters with data, not just instinct.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “And then there’s that prodigy, Ryoma Takeda. With minds like his, they’re never approaching a fight the traditional way. Coming from a small gym, they’ve been built under constant pressure. And they survive.”

He looks directly at Rikiya now. “You can assume Aramaki will step into that ring with something we haven’t seen. Something outside our projections.”

For a long moment, Rikiya says nothing. Then, slowly, he looks back at the screen. And for once, he lets a trace of ego lower, not really gone, but restrained.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Then I’ll be ready for the worst version of surprise. Whatever they bring, I’ll meet it head-on.”

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