The last ten seconds arrive the way they always do, with the unspoken urge to push further. But instead of exploding, both fighters grind into something tighter.
They end up nearly chest to chest, foreheads leaning in, breath loud and ragged in the narrow space between them.
A full minute of close-range exchanges has taken its toll. The slugfest fades into short sneaking punches to the body, thrown without wind-up, more reflex than intent.
Ryoma's face remains clean, no swelling, no blood. But beneath him, his legs tell a quieter story, a faint tremor running through his stance as he shifts and braces.
Jade wears his damage openly. Swelling has risen along his left temple, darkened under his left eye, pulled at the right corner of his mouth.
Blood smears his lips. His breathing is rough, dragged in through clenched teeth. And yet, his posture holds.
"Look at them," one commentator mutters, awe creeping in. "They've burned through everything and they're still right there."
