Chapter 684: Stolen Ending

On Della Cruz’s side of the arena, the mood tightens into something uneasy. The noise shifts, breaking into scattered murmurs as they watch his frame looking smaller than it ever has.

“…Why’s he looking like that?”

“Is he scared?”

“…No, that’s not him. He’s not a coward.”

“He’s just being careful… yeah, that’s it.”

Kenta also sees clearly the shift in Della Cruz, the way his posture tightens. And for the first time since he settled inside the zone, something else slips into his mind.

It’s not instinct, not reaction, but an idea.

End it now.

He blinks once, and the narrow tunnel widens just slightly. The sharpness dulls at the edges as something else begins to form, an image of the belt resting in his hands.

To make it worse, Okabe shouts out from the blue corner.

“End it, Kenta! This is your best chance!”

The call pulls Kenta out of the zone. And now he steps in with clear intent, no longer just driven by instincts and feelings.

The jab comes first, stiff and direct, followed immediately by a cross that drives into the guard. A lead hook crashes into the upper arm, then another heavy cross follows, each punch carrying weight and urgency.

Dug. Dug. Dugh. DUGH.

He then shifts his footing, trying to change the angle, looking to break through from a different line. But Della Cruz tracks it, adjusts, his guard staying tight, refusing to open.

Another sequence follows, heavier; hooks and straights, high to low, each one thrown with purpose.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

Dug. Thud! Thud! Dugh. DUGH.

Two body shots slip through, landing clean enough to register, but the head never appears. The guard doesn’t break.

“And now he’s pressing for the finish!” the lead commentator bursts out, the shift in tone immediate. “Those punches have real weight behind them now!”

“Yeah, this is different,” the second follows, sharper, more focused. “He’s not just reading anymore, he’s trying to break him open.”

To Della Cruz, something changes with it. The punches are heavier now, more dangerous, but clearer. The chaos has gone. Each punch carries intent he can read, direction he can anticipate.

“He’s trying to finish this.”

“Endure it…”

Another punch crashes in.

Bugh!

“Stay here…”

Another one to the ribs.

Thud!

“A chance will come…”

Finally, Kenta slides his lead foot forward, planting it deeper into the space between them, closing the distance with clear intent.

It’s a movement Della Cruz tracks instantly from behind his tight guard, eyes angled downward, reading the lower body instead of the hands. He sees the subtle twist of the ankle, the way the toes dig in and send force upward through the leg.

“It’s coming… the finisher.”

Kenta’s hips follow, rotating sharply, and his left arm swings wide, committing fully to a heavy hook. And Della Cruz doesn’t need to see it. The timing is already there, written in the mechanics. So he mirrors it, ankle, hip, and shoulder.

Both hooks come at nearly the same moment. Kenta’s flies first, wider, heavier. Della Cruz’s follows a fraction later, but cleaner and shorter.

BAM!!!

The impact lands on both sides at once, snapping their heads violently. Pain surges through them, sharp and immediate, electricity running straight into the brain.

“Woohooo!!!”

“That’s disaster!!!”

Both men freeze for a split second, the impact lingering in their bodies. For a moment, even the commentators are silent, caught off guard by the collision before the words finally come back.

“They both landed at the same time!”

“Yeah… but that’s a dangerous exchange for both of them… neither one pulled back!”

Della Cruz is the first to recover, his feet resetting under him. Meanwhile, Kenta’s expression has changed completely; face hardens, eyes widening.

Something raw has broken through the surface. The beast has finally come out. There’s no restraint now, no space for thought, only savage.

Ignoring the shift in the challenger, the champion strikes first, firing three compact punches in sequence. A left digs into the body, a right uppercut snaps Kenta’s head upward, and a left hook follows immediately toward the temple.

Thud! Dhuck!

DSH!!!

“Sharp combination from the champion!” the lead commentator calls out.

“And that last hook… right on the cut!” the second adds quickly.

The punch lands flush on the reopened wound. The skin splits again, and a thin spray of blood lifts into the air.

“Oh, that’s bad… he opened it up again!”

But Kenta doesn’t react like a man who feels it. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t tighten, doesn’t even blink.

“…Moriyama’s not reacting at all!”

“He just walked through that!”

He simply answers it with something else entirely.

DSH! DSH!

Two savage punches crash into Della Cruz’s face, raw and violent, stripped of refinement, driven purely by instinct and something darker underneath it.

“Oh! Big counters!”

“Those are not clean boxing shots anymore. That’s pure aggression!”

Della Cruz’s vision shakes. His thoughts fracture.

“Monster…”

“I’m fighting a monster…”

His guard loosens without command, hands drifting apart, no longer returning to position. The will to respond, to build anything back, slips away under the pressure.

His body begins to give, but Kenta doesn’t stop.

“Moriyama’s not finished yet!

“This doesn’t look good for the champion!”

A heavy left hook slams into the ribs, snapping Della Cruz’s posture back upright instead of letting him fall.

As his body turns, Kenta’s right glove crashes into his upper arm, forcing the structure back into place, keeping him there.

Then a straight drives into his chest. The impact sends him backward into the ropes, his body caught there, upright but empty, no resistance left behind the frame.

The referee moves immediately, stepping in, reading it for what it is, ready to stop the fight.

However…

Ding! Ding!

“Oh, no…!!!” the lead commentator groans.

“Saved by the bell!” the second follows quickly, disbelief in his voice. “That was seconds away from being stopped!”

The bell cuts through everything. Della Cruz’s hand shoots out, grabbing the ropes. His face tightens again, something stubborn returning to his eyes.

“No… not like this.”

“If he’s going to beat me… he has to put me down.”

“I don’t need the referee stepping in for me.”

“I’m not taking another insult like that.”

The referee steps toward him, reaching out to check, but Della Cruz pushes him away, already turning, forcing himself back toward the corner.

“Hey, Della Cruz…”

The referee calls for him, but stops mid-call, because Kenta is still coming forward.

“Oh, no… what’s he doing now?” the lead commentator says.

Kenta’s eyes are still locked, wide and sharp, the blood running from his temple tracing down his face, giving him a look that feels less human than before. There’s no recognition of the bell, no pause, only madness and cruelty.

The referee reacts instantly, stepping across his path. “Wait, Moriyama! It’s the bell!”

For a split second, Kenta’s focus shifts, not to Della Cruz anymore, but to the figure in front of him.

The target changes to the official now. His shoulders tense, as if the next strike is already coming.

But then two arms lock around him from behind.

“Kenta! Calm down, son…”

Nakahara’s voice cuts through, firm but controlled as he pulls him back. Kurogane is already there as well, gripping his arm tightly, anchoring him in place.

“That’s the official,” Kurogane adds, steady, close to his ear. “You can’t punch him.”

Kenta struggles for a brief moment, breath coming heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly. His muscles stay tense, coiled, as if the fight hasn’t ended inside him yet.

“…what is he doing?” the lead commentator says, half-laughing in disbelief.

“He almost went after the referee!” the second adds, a mix of surprise and uneasy amusement in his voice.

“That’s… that’s not something you see every day.”

“Yeah, I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned right now.”

Kenta’s eyes then flicker, still sharp, still searching. But the voices begin to settle in. The pressure starts to drain.

Slowly, the tension in his shoulders loosens. The weight shifts back off his front foot. His breathing steadies, just slightly.

The tension leaves him in fragments, and he allows himself to be guided this time toward the corner where Hiroshi and Okabe are already waiting, whose faces are mixed of worry and anticipation for victory.

“Kenta, sit,” Nakahara says as they reach the stool. “We need to work on you.”

But Kenta doesn’t comply. He turns instead, staying on his feet, eyes still locked across the ring. He stands there, breathing steady, hovering right at the edge of that state he just reached, unwilling to let it go.

Nakahara watches him for a second, then he gives a small nod.

“…Alright,” he mutters, lifting a hand. “Give him space.”

The team pulls back slightly, adjusting around him without forcing it.

“And again… look at this,” the lead commentator says. “They’re not treating him.”

“That’s the second time,” the other adds. “He’s got a cut, he just went through a war, and they’re just… letting him stand there?”

At ringside, Hugo Ramirez’s expression tightens. His eyes flick briefly toward the ring doctor.

The message lands, and Zhou makes his move immediately. He steps away from his position and heads straight for Kenta’s corner, urgency clear in his stride.

Kurogane reacts immediately, stepping forward to intercept. “Don’t,” he says sharply.

“Your fighter is injured,” Zhou fires back without slowing. “I need to check him.”

“It’s not serious,” Nakahara argues, talking in Japanese. “Same cut, above the brow. It’s not affecting his vision. It’s manageable.”

Zhou doesn’t stop. “You’re putting him at risk,” he snaps, brushing past.

The exchange draws the referee’s attention, and he steps in quickly.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I need to examine him,” Zhou says firmly. “That cut needs to be checked again.”

The referee nods. “Alright. Quick.”

Nakahara can’t block it this time. But he still argues with words neither of them can understand.

“…It’s not serious, damn it. It’s not affecting anything.”

Zhou ignores him completely, steps in close, as Kenta’s gaze never leaves Della Cruz across the ring.

And the doctor barely gives the cut any inspection, as if the outcome was already settled before he even stepped through the ropes.

“I’m stopping the fight.”

Nakahara freezes for a split second. Then his face twists, disbelief snapping into anger almost immediately.

“What…?” he blurts in Japanese, his hand shooting out to grab the doctor by the collar. “You’re stopping it for that?”

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