Chapter 694: When Both Hands Hold Back

Still, when Villanueva makes the first move, there’s no sign of it in his execution. He steps in cleanly, sending a probing jab fired straight down the line, followed by a heavy cross aimed for the head. They are direct, honest, neglecting Ryoma’s right shoulder condition.

“Straight down the middle from Villanueva. No tricks, just clean fundamentals!”

Ryoma’s right side tenses for a moment, the expectation of a targeted attack lingering from that earlier glance. But he adjusts quickly, raising his guard just enough to catch the jab on his palm before sliding his lead foot back to take himself out of range of the cross.

The punch cuts through the space where he stood a second ago. But Villanueva retracts fast, already stepping in again, lowering his level as he closes distance, his lead shoulder dipping forward.

“He’s not letting him reset. Look at the pressure!”

A long, spearing jab shoots toward the midsection from farther out than expected. Ryoma sees it forming early, the line already drawn in his mind.

But the range and timing make a counter impractical. Villanueva’s too quick on the follow-up, too committed to the sequence.

So he stays disciplined, his right hand drops just enough to catch the jab on the palm again, absorbing the impact before it can settle.

Dp.

“Perfect read again! Ryoma’s seeing everything!”

But Villanueva is already rotating over his front foot. And the right comes over the top in a tight arc.

The angle is awkward, the rhythm compressed, arriving from above while Ryoma’s focus is still low from the body shot.

He still reads it, but there’s no room for anything more than defense. His guard snaps up, tightening just in time to absorb the blow.

DUGH!

“That one had weight behind it!”

The impact lands solid on the forearms, driving him back half a step.

Villanueva plants his feet, ready to stay there, to turn it into a close-range exchange where he can press his advantage.

A tight sequence follows, compressed into a single rhythm; two hooks, a right uppercut, then a lead hook.

“He’s committing now. This is a full sequence!”

Ryoma reads it cleanly. His guard shifts with each motion, forearms braced as the first two hooks thud against them, then his palm rises just in time to catch the uppercut before it can come through.

Dug. Dug.

Dp!

“But nothing’s getting through!”

“Ryoma’s defense is holding up under pressure!”

But the final hook comes differently. The timing is slightly off, the commitment not fully there.

It angles toward his right upper arm, yet something in the motion hesitates, like the punch is pulled even before it lands.

Ryoma dips low beneath it, slipping outside the line. And for a brief opening, the counter is there. His left shoulder turns, ready to drive a left hook into the midsection.

But he doesn’t throw it. Instead, he pulls the punch midway and steps out immediately, creating distance again.

“…Wait! Did he just pull that?”

The arena is still buzzing from the high-level exchange, the energy carrying through the crowd. But to trained eyes, something feels off.

There’s a hesitation in Villanueva’s last punch, subtle but unmistakable. And Ryoma pulling his counter is just as glaring.

In both corners, Mendosa and Nakahara are watching closely, their expressions tightening with the same quiet confusion. Villanueva catches it too, the moment Ryoma holds back.

And while everyone is trying to make sense of Ryoma’s restraint, Ryoma himself is just as puzzled by Villanueva’s hesitation.

“What’s going on here…?”

“Is he… hesitating to go after my right shoulder?”

***

Villanueva doesn’t let the confusion settle. He steps in again, this time leaning fully into his natural advantage, stretching the distance with his reach and dictating the range with sharp, disciplined entries.

“He’s taking control of the geography now. This is Villanueva’s range!”

The jab comes long and stiff, not just to touch, but to occupy space. It forces Ryoma to react, to give ground, to stay just outside a comfortable countering distance. And every time Ryoma adjusts, Villanueva is already stepping with him, maintaining that edge.

“That jab isn’t just scoring. It’s managing distance, keeping Ryoma exactly where he wants him!”

He layers it well. Jab to the head, then a slight shift of angle, another jab, this one lower, followed by a straight that stops just short but keeps Ryoma pinned in reaction. It’s not about landing clean every time. It’s about control.

Ryoma reads everything, but the problem isn’t awareness, but the opportunity itself. Every entry from Villanueva is structured, measured in a way that denies clean counters.

The range is just outside Ryoma’s preferred window, and the exits are just quick enough to avoid being punished. Even when Ryoma sees the opening forming, it disappears before he can fully commit.

“That’s high-level control from Villanueva!”

“He’s using that reach perfectly. Ryoma can’t find his timing to fight back!”

Villanueva doesn’t stay at range forever. He steps in again, this time committing deeper, closing the distance with clear intent to trade.

“I’m not some one-sided fighter.”

His eyes sharpen as he shifts his weight forward.

“I’m a champion too.”

A jab snaps out, followed by a slight dip of his lead shoulder as he shifts to the side, tightening the angle. From there, the lead hook comes in short and compact.

“That’s a beautiful angle change. He’s setting this one up!”

Ryoma reads it well, but it still slips through. It curves around Ryoma’s guard and lands clean against the side, digging into the area near the armpit.

Thud!

“Oh! That one got through!”

Ryoma’s body shifts slightly from the impact, his guard tightening instinctively.

And Villanueva is already continuing the motion. The same lead side rises again, this time carrying the hook upward toward the head.

But something about it feels off. The angle is higher than before, the arc slightly exaggerated compared to the hooks he threw in the first round.

Ryoma reads it instantly, and he doesn’t need to duck too low for this. A simple lean and shift of his upper body is enough to let the punch sail past, missing cleanly over his guard.

“He saw that all the way! That’s pure reaction!”

And just like that, the opening is there. Villanueva’s arm is extended high, his left side briefly exposed as the momentum carries upward.

Ryoma’s right shoulder starts to turn, the counter forming naturally toward the body. But again, his right hand cocks slightly, and then stops.

“Wait… there it is again!”

The right hook never fires as Ryoma pulls the motion back, choosing not to take the opening. He steps away, resetting the distance before Villanueva can recover.

To Villanueva, it looks like hesitation, like Ryoma simply doesn’t want to throw with his right at all.

But no, Ryoma doesn’t feel like to take the opening. He realizes it comes from the opponent’s hesitation because Villanueva’s worrying his right shoulder.

“He’s compensating his hook so that it won’t hit my right upper arm…”

“He doesn’t want to hurt my right shoulder.”

<< It does look like it. >>

<< Watch closely. His eyes keep drifting back to your right side. >>

<< And that expression… he’s not comfortable with it. >>

Ryoma clicks his tongue, the irritation clear this time.

At ringside, both Jackson Rhodes and Hugo Ramirez are watching closely, and neither of them looks pleased. There’s no appreciation for the restraint, no respect for the hesitation, only clear disdain written across their faces.

They were the ones who engineered this situation, stacking the conditions against Ryoma, expecting the weakness to be exploited without hesitation.

To them, this isn’t a moment for sportsmanship. It’s an opportunity. And Villanueva is wasting it.

Their expressions harden as the realization sets in, the softness in Villanueva’s approach standing out more with each exchange he chooses not to take.

For a few moments, both fighters only circle cautiously, the hesitation comes from different places; Villanueva weighing his choices, Ryoma bristling against the restraint.

And somehow, that lull doesn’t sit well with Jackson Rhodes. He leans forward from his seat, voice cutting sharply through the noise of the arena.

“The hell are you doing up there?!” he shouts. “I didn’t come all the way from America to watch a spar!”

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