Renji leaves the corner without guidance, advice, or a new strategy from his coach. He doesn't need any; the time for plans has already passed. What remains now is execution, one final push to bring this to an end.
"Come on, boy! Last round, maybe our last fight ever. Better give it everything now before you regret it."
Across the ring, Ryoma bounces lightly on his toes, testing his legs the way a soldier might check a dull blade. His plan hasn't changed: avoid lingering in the trenches of close combat, and survive the next two minutes. That's all.
He doesn't need victory, not tonight. Not with his body weakened by the weight cut, and every muscle dragging behind the rhythm of his will.
As long as I can see his punches… I'll be fine.
He sets his guard up; right fist tight against his chin, left hand extended just slightly, a barrier and a weapon, the thin line keeping Renji at bay.
