In the last thirty seconds, Ryoma shifts gears, his tempo spiking, fists pumping in a furious cascade. Each strike slices through the air with sharp intent, the sound of knuckles cutting wind almost lost under the deafening roar of the arena.
His body feels light, coiled, ready, each muscle firing in perfect synchronization as he pours on the pressure.
But Noguchi's stance, loose, irregular, awkward to the untrained eye, keeps breaking his rhythm. His arms, extended at angles that look wrong but somehow work, jam the spaces Ryoma tries to exploit.
And the moment Ryoma dares to step fully inside, Noguchi yanks those limbs back into a tight, shell-like guard, letting punches thud uselessly against his forearms.
After blocking a quick barrage…
Dug, dug, dm!
…Noguchi slips off to the side, feet gliding in a smooth arc. The crowd gasps as he pivots free, refusing to be cornered or drawn into Ryoma's storm.