Chapter 683: The Illusion of Slow

Della Cruz doesn’t understand it at first. His body is on the canvas, knees down, but his mind is still standing where he was just seconds ago, still inside that relentless pressure he had been pouring in without pause.

For more than half a minute, he had been driving Kenta back, trapping him, breaking at the guard piece by piece. He felt it, believed it was only a matter of time. And then, in less than two seconds, Kenta finally did something, and everything flipped.

“How…?”

“What did he just do…?”

His mind tries to follow the sequence backward, to make sense of it, but it doesn’t line up.

There was the exchange he expected, the opening he thought he created, the punch he was sure would land. And then something cut through it, like the moment had been taken away from him before it even fully formed. And now he’s on his knees.

Kenta is already walking to the neutral corner, and the referee is continuing the count. But the first thing that steals Della Cruz’s attention isn’t the referee’s voice. It’s the mouthpiece.

It sits there near the corner post, just a short distance away, unmoving, as if it had been placed there instead of thrown out of his mouth moments ago.

Della Cruz stares at it, his brows tightening slightly as the noise around him fades into something distant again. He remembers the impact, remembers the way it flew free, and for a moment, he’s certain it should have been gone, lost somewhere in the crowd. But it isn’t.

“…How…?”

The question lingers without an answer, and the referee’s count begins to seep in around it.

“…four… five…”

Della Cruz hears it, but it doesn’t register the way it should. His focus stays on that small, misplaced object, his mind trying to make sense of it.

“Am I dreaming…?”

“Is this real…?”

Then Hermosa’s voice cuts through the haze from the adjacent corner, sharp and urgent, pulling him back.

“Arvin! Can you hear me?”

Della Cruz turns his head, catching the panic in his coach’s eyes, and something in that expression grounds him more than the count ever could.

“…the hell are you doing there, Arvin? You are stronger than this! No way that a mere one punch could stop you! Snap out of it and raise!”

Della Cruz’s hand quickly reaches for the mouthpiece and then the top rope, fingers curling around it as he pulls himself up, forcing his body to follow the command this time.

Once he’s on his feet, he releases the rope, pushes the mouthpiece back into place, and turns to face the referee as the count reaches seven, and then stops at eight.

“Are you okay?” the referee asks, gripping his gloves, giving them a light shake.

“Yes… I’m okay,”

Della Cruz answers, breath steady enough. “I can still fight.”

The referee studies him for a moment, watching closely. And in that brief pause, Della Cruz’s gaze flicks past him, landing on Kenta standing in the neutral corner.

The look in Kenta’s face is different now. The sharpness from before is gone, replaced again by that same detachment, the blank expression that holds no urgency, no satisfaction, nothing that acknowledges what just happened.

And it stings more than the punch itself, because to Della Cruz, that emptiness feels like indifference. Like dropping him wasn’t something worth reacting to.

“Like a title fight against me… means nothing?”

“Is that it… Moriyama?”

***

The referee finally gives a short nod before stepping back, his arm sweeping between them.

“Fight!”

Della Cruz moves immediately. The anger is there, sharp and rising, pushing him forward as he tries to close the distance again, intent on paying it back, on forcing Kenta into the same kind of exchange and taking something in return.

“He’s trying to answer right away!” the lead commentator calls out. “He’s not backing down after that knockdown!”

But the moment he steps in, something feels off. His first step lands heavier than he expects, the weight not transferring cleanly through his body.

“…But look at that step,” the second cuts in quickly, catching the detail. “That didn’t look right.”

“He’s still hurt,” the first adds, more certain now. “The legs aren’t fully there yet.”

The second step follows, less stable. By the third, the rhythm breaks completely, and Della Cruz stops where he is, planting his feet instead of continuing forward.

“Don’t rush it!” Hermosa’s voice cuts in sharply from the corner. “Guard up first… protect yourself! Reset!”

Della Cruz’s guard comes up tighter than before, both gloves raised high as if to secure something that suddenly feels uncertain.

Behind them, his thoughts begin to catch up.

“My hands feel good enough, but my legs…?”

“What is this…?”

“Just one punch… and he turns my legs into jelly already?”

On the other side, Kenta doesn’t rush in to finish it. There’s a restraint in him now, something held back beneath the surface as he steadies himself, as if he’s pulling against something inside rather than pushing forward.

The intensity is still there, but it’s contained, controlled, kept from spilling over into something that might take more than he intends to give.

He steps forward, reclaiming the center first. His body settles back into that familiar, lazy pendulum rhythm, swaying from left foot to right foot, loose and unhurried. Then, little by little, he begins to close the distance again.

“And look at this…” the lead commentator says, his tone shifting again, confusion creeping into the excitement. “He’s not jumping on him. Most fighters would be all over a hurt champion right now.”

“That’s what’s strange,” the second follows, leaning forward as he studies Kenta’s movement more closely. “He just dropped him clean, had the momentum completely in his hands… and now he’s slowing it down?”

The punches come next, but they don’t carry the same urgency. Light lead hooks, a casual cross, all thrown in that swaying rhythm, almost dismissive in the way they touch and pull away, more like taps than strikes.

It’s the same Soviet-style cadence, but stripped of weight and intent, like he’s testing the space rather than trying to break through it.

Della Cruz feels it immediately. And behind his tight guard, his lips curl slightly, irritation rising again as those light touches land against his gloves and arms, each one feeding into the same thought.

“What’s with these light taps?”

“Is he toying with me…?”

Kenta steps in again, sending another pair of lazy lead hooks, the rhythm unchanged, the motion slow enough to read.

And finally, Della Cruz snaps. “Stop this mockery already…”

He knocks the incoming glove aside, his lead foot sliding forward at the same time as he commits to a heavy left hook, confident in the opening he sees, certain that this one will land clean against that predictable movement.

And it does. His glove meets Kenta’s cheek.

Dsh!

But in that same instant, everything bursts. Kenta explodes with a flurry.

Dsh! Dsh! Thud! Dsh! Dsh!

Five compact punches fire in rapid succession, tight, efficient, each one snapping into Della Cruz’s face and chest before his mind can even register the first connection.

“The champion landed first, but look at that answer!” the lead commentator shouts, voice rising in shock. “That counter just comes out of nowhere!”

The rhythm is completely different from before, compressed into a single second of sharp, controlled violence.

Della Cruz’s eyes widen, face sharpening with pain. His guard tightens instinctively, arms snapping inward to protect himself.

“What the hell is that?”

But then, nothing follows. When he peeks through the guard, Kenta is already gone back to swaying in place with that same lazy rhythm. His movement looks heavy, like the flurry never happened, like he’s too exhausted to throw just a single punch.

Kenta then shifts, beginning to pivot to the side, the motion slow and readable. Della Cruz adjusts his stance, tracking the movement, not rushing, letting a few seconds pass as he tests the ground beneath him, shifting his weight from left to right.

“Alright… my legs are ready to go.”

“It’s payback time.”

Then he moves. Guard still tight, both gloves raised high, he steps in aggressively, closing the distance with intent this time.

Kenta meets him with a light jab, then a lazy lead hook.

Both are read, and both are blocked.

Dug. Dug.

A cross comes next, and Della Cruz knocks it down with his left, stepping in immediately as he fires a compact right cross, while the same left already set to follow, choosing speed over power to rebuild his rhythm.

The first punch lands against Kenta’s chest.

Thud!

The lead commentator explodes. “Finally, the champion is back!!!”

But Kenta explodes too, and a flurry of short, rapid punches pours out; left hook, tight body blow, another body blow, right cross, left hook, right hook, each one threading through the openings…

Dsh!

Thud-thud! Bugh!

Dsh! Dsh!

Della Cruz can’t even complete his follow-up. His left hand lingers mid-motion, frozen between intention and execution as Kenta’s strikes land across his head, ribs, and midsection.

“What is that speed?!” the second commentator shouts, his voice breaking with disbelief. “He answers everything instantly!”

Della Cruz’s mind can’t even keep up with it. He feels the pain and the damage, one after another, sharp and fast, not heavy enough to drop him, but too clean to ignore, too precise to dismiss.

He’s still standing, but he doesn’t stay there. His body moves on its own, stepping back twice, guard tightening as his posture shrinks without him deciding to do so, driven by instinct and something closer to confusion than strategy.

“What the hell is that…?”

“I couldn’t even count how many punches he landed on me…”

On the other side, Kenta is already back in motion, settling once more into that slow, heavy sway. His shoulders dip lazily from side to side, feet dragging just enough to make each step look weighted, almost reluctant.

“…Look at him,” the lead commentator says. “He looks exhausted. Like he’s running on fumes out there.”

“Yeah, his movement is so slow right now,” the second adds. “Heavy… almost like he can barely keep himself going. But don’t let that fool you. We’ve seen it twice already. He can go from that pace… to exploding in a second.”

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