Rikiya beats the count at eight. His legs obey the command, but the math hits him immediately. That single knockdown has wiped away everything; the clean rounds, the discipline, the stolen points.
The belt is no longer his to protect. It is something slipping, something being taken. A cold, animal fear crawls up his spine.
The bell hasn't rung yet. There's still time, forty-five seconds, enough to kill or be killed.
"He's up at eight!" the lead commentator roars. "But look at his eyes… this fight has changed! That knockdown erased the champion's lead, and Rikiya knows it!"
Rikiya abandons the geometry, abandons the clock. He storms forward, throwing wide desperate hooks, his Cuban grace collapsing into something raw and furious.
"He's going for it!" the co-commentator shouts over the roar. "Miyamoto Rikiya is throwing everything he has left! This has turned into a street fight!"
