Chapter 570: An Awkward Beginning

For nearly a full minute of the opening round, the fight takes on an oddly uncertain shape. From a distance, it would be difficult to guess that these were the third- and fifth-ranked contenders in the division.

They circle without commitment, extend jabs that stop well short of their target, and withdraw as if unsure whether the exchange had ever truly begun.

At ringside, the first commentator clears his throat. “This is… unusually tentative.”

“Both men are measuring,” the analyst replies carefully. “But Aramaki especially. He looks like he’s searching for something.”

The awkwardness, however, belongs mostly to Aramaki. Miyamoto waits with composure, but Aramaki moves as though he is testing a language he has never spoken aloud.

He flicks a jab from long range, sliding his lead foot forward with extra care. The punch travels straight, technically clean, yet it falls short by a narrow but undeniable margin.

“Again… it falls short.”

The problem is not mechanical. The problem lies in how Aramaki reads distance.

All his career, he has judged range through footing. He studies the alignment of lead shoes, the spacing between hips, the angle of the opponent’s stance. From there, he senses when to enter.

That instinct belongs to an in-fighter. Even at mid-range, he measures distance by how quickly he can step into the chest and compress the exchange.

At long range, however, the opponent’s feet no longer signal immediate entry, and the space between them becomes an abstract corridor rather than a doorway.

He throws another jab, then follows with one more, both stopping just shy of the mark, timed a touch too early.

“Damn… this is harder than it looks.”

“Hey, Ryoma… how do you lock in the range after only two exchanges?”

The former champion watches without urgency, shifting laterally in small, measured steps. His weight remains centered, his eyes attentive not to the glove but to the shift in Aramaki’s hips that precedes it.

Irritated, Aramaki decides to cut the distance instead of guessing it. He pushes off his rear foot and steps in with clearer intent.

But Miyamoto reads the adjustment first, and…

Dsh!

“Clean shot from Miyamoto!” the first commentator exclaims, his voice rising a notch higher than the punch requires. “He caught that step the instant it formed!”

The jab lands and clips Aramaki’s cheek, sharp and exact, turning his head just enough to confirm the difference in timing.

“That’s the kind of timing that turns a quiet round into a dangerous one,” the analyst adds quickly. “If he’s already reading entries this early, this could get intense very fast.”

Aramaki withdraws at once, taking a single step back to reset his stance, steadies his breathing, recalibrating his read.

It’s really not that simple.

Too far. My punches fall short.

When I step in, he beats me to it.

Of course he reads the distance better.

He’s a former champion.

Aramaki resumes the pendulum step, letting his weight shift rhythmically in hopes of disguising the next entry.

Yet the same motion that aims to obscure Miyamoto’s reading begins to cloud his own, leaving Aramaki uncertain of the precise moment his jab should leave his shoulder.

***

While Aramaki struggles with a distance that refuses to settle, Miyamoto experiences a different kind of unease.

From the outside, he appears composed, moving with the same measured calm that carried him through championship rounds. Yet the stillness is deliberate, not effortless.

He had studied Aramaki thoroughly before this bout. Tape after tape showed a compact pressure fighter who thrived at mid-range, who stepped inside behind tight guards and forced exchanges on his own terms.

Each fight revealed some incremental growth; an adjustment in timing, a sharper counter, a new entry layered over old habits. Underestimating that pattern would be careless.

He doesn’t abandon his strengths without a reason.

So what is he building toward this time?

The exaggerated distance unsettles him precisely because it feels incomplete. Aramaki’s pendulum step stretches wider than before, the jab reaching from outside a range he rarely occupied in previous fights.

It looks awkward, but Miyamoto does not assume incompetence. A fighter known for evolution does not suddenly regress without motive.

“Is he testing something… or setting a trap?”

Rikiya continues to move laterally in short, economical steps, shoulders relaxed, and eyes attentive. The Cuban philosophy he absorbed years ago emphasizes patience before punishment.

Information first. Angles before commitment. Let the opponent reveal the pattern.

Aramaki’s jabs keep falling short, as if the distance is being guessed rather than known. Yet Miyamoto hesitates to capitalize too early. A reckless entry against a man who thrives in compression would be an invitation.

“If this is a trap… it’s meant to draw me forward.”

He tests the air with subtle weight shifts, measuring how Aramaki reacts to feints that barely exist. Nothing explosive follows, no sudden rush, no concealed counter, only the same uncertain extension.

And the anomaly persists.

Gradually, Miyamoto decides that caution alone will not solve it. So he stops circling. The lateral drift ceases, and he allows himself to settle directly in front of Aramaki.

“Alright… why don’t I test him first?”

His gloves lower slightly; right hand resting just beneath his chin, left hand looser, extended but relaxed.

It is not negligence; it is invitation. He tilts his head a fraction to the left, then returns to center, as though offering a line.

His lead foot slides forward in increments so small they would be invisible to anyone not watching for them. Half an inch, then another.

The opening is intentional. And Aramaki responds as expected.

A jab leaves his shoulder, extended toward the target Miyamoto has framed.

Miyamoto does not flinch. He simply watches the glove travel and notes, almost clinically, that it will stop just before contact.

In the instant before Aramaki can withdraw it, Miyamoto releases his own left from the lower position, and…

Dsh!

“Oh! He fires back immediately!” the first commentator blurts, caught off guard. “That counter came from nowhere!”

The jab lands flush against Aramaki’s face, snapping it back more decisively than the earlier touch. The timing is clean, arriving before Aramaki’s arm has completed its retraction.

“That’s veteran awareness,” the analyst says quickly. “He waited for the confirmation. And punishes it.”

Aramaki steps back at once, recalibrating, but his expression remains composed. There is no visible frustration, no rush to retaliate.

For a brief moment, Miyamoto considers pressing forward. Yet the calm in Aramaki’s eyes tempers him. There is no panic to exploit. Aramaki’s still balanced, and composed.

“No… not yet.”

Miyamoto restrains himself and resumes a guarded stance, allowing the distance to reestablish itself.

The careful rhythm returns, both men probing without overcommitment until the seconds drain away.

And the bell cuts through the tension.

Ding!

“Well, that was a fascinating first round,” the first commentator begins. “Aramaki didn’t look like his usual pressure-heavy self.”

“And even Miyamoto,” the analyst adds, “was unusually cautious. You can see the respect there. Both men are trying to solve something.”

“Whatever that something is,” the first replies, “it’s setting up a very intriguing fight.”

***

Beyond the ropes, the reaction is less analytical.

In the upper tiers, several spectators shift in their seats, unsure what to make of the careful opening.

A few conversations resume mid-row, voices low but audible over the lull between exchanges. Someone near the aisle yawns without bothering to hide it.

“That’s it? I thought this was supposed to be intense.”

“They’re just staring at each other. Feels like sparring.”

Closer to the red corner, however, Miyamoto’s supporters refuse to let the mood dip. A cluster of them rise again, clapping in unison.

“That’s it, Rikiya!”

“Beautiful timing!”

“Push him next round!”

Their applause carries a sharper rhythm than before, encouraged by the clean counter at the end of the round. They interpret restraint as control, the quiet as dominance waiting to unfold.

On the opposite side of the arena, local fans who have followed Aramaki’s ascent exchange uncertain glances.

“He’s not pressing at all.”

“He always walks people down. Why’s he staying out there?”

“Maybe Miyamoto’s presence is getting to him. Former champion… that kind of experience can freeze you.”

The idea lingers, half-formed and unconvincing, but it offers them something to explain the unfamiliar shape of the round.

In the front row, two seats apart, sit men who watch without the impatience of casual fans.

“What a weird first round,” Elliot mutters. “Too tentative for guys ranked that high.”

His manager, seated beside him, nods. “National eliminator and they’re fencing at range. Feels restrained.”

Elliot tilts his head slightly and glances past the empty seat between them toward Miguel Cabello. “Mate… that former champion, he fights a bit like you.”

“The hell that supposed to mean?” Cabello says, frowning. “Are you mocking me?”

Elliot raises an eyebrow. “I meant the patience. The distance.”

Cabello’s lips curve faintly. “Well, I see the foundation. The balance, the discipline. Someone taught him well.”

He pauses, watching a replay flicker briefly across the overhead screen.

“But there’s no sugar in his boxing.”

“Sugar?”

“Cuban boxing isn’t just about patience,” Cabello continues. “It’s about rhythm that tastes sweet before it turns bitter. You make him miss in a way that embarrasses him. You let him feel safe before you change the tempo.”

He gestures lightly toward the ring. “That man is correct. Efficient. But he’s dry. And Bland”

“Mate… what the hell are you talking about now?” Elliot asks, his face looks ridiculed.

Cabello shrugs, folding his arms. “Just enjoy the fight.”

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