When the referee's voice cuts through the arena, ordering the corners clear, Ryoma's breathing has finally settled. Each breath comes even now, measured, no longer clawing at his chest.
The dull weight in his legs has faded. He taps the tip of his shoe lightly against the canvas, testing it, feeling for resistance. And it's there, springy and responsive, light again.
But the doubt hasn't gone with it.
He knows better than to trust how it feels. All he can do is hope the legs hold for one more round. And maybe, just maybe, that the opening he's been chasing finally shows itself.
The noise swells again as the corners clear. The crowd's still calling Ryoma's name, oblivious to his condition.
RYO-MA!
RYO-MA!
The chant rolls through the arena, loud and proud, carried by people who only see what's in front of them; the clean face, the smooth movement, the man who just ruled the last round.
And it doesn't go unanswered.
"Come on, champ!"
"Don't give him anything!"
