Kobo's steps are small, and his guard stays high, pressed tight over his temples. His breathing is still ragged, but the rhythm has steadied.
Across from him, Ryohei glides sideways. His eyes narrow, feet whispering against the canvas as he circles, patient and predatory, like a hawk that still wants to study its prey before the dive.
The crowd murmurs restlessly. The thunder of the Cruel King's Army has dulled into a low simmer, a noise of anticipation more than excitement.
Then, a single voice pierces through the quiet:
"Come on, Ryohei! Finish him! Beat that cocky brat!"
It's enough to ignite movement.
Ryohei closes the distance and begins probing again, sharp jabs, short, stiff, snapping against Kobo's raised gloves.
Tch! Tch! Tch!
Each impact lands dull, absorbed by Kobo's guard.
Kobo answers in kind, flicking lefts and compact crosses, his form tighter than before. Every punch snaps back into guard instantly, his arms moving like springs chained to his jaw.
