After throwing a few flicker jabs, Ryoma shifts again, drawing his rear foot forward out of the flicker stance, letting the motion carry him neatly back into orthodox.
The switch trims the distance between them almost effortlessly, as if he's gliding rather than stepping.
His pendulum rhythm starts up the moment his feet settle, an easy sway forward and back, shoulders loose, left hand peppering Masuda with those light, slapping touches that keep the older fighter guessing.
Pak, pak… pak.
Pak… pak, pak.
"Here we go again!" one of the commentators exclaims. "Ryoma's replaying the entire opening round. Same rhythm, same pressure, and Masuda still can't get out of it!"
Masuda reads the pattern, but reading it does nothing to stop it. He's trapped in the same routine: block, flinch, try to retaliate and miss, and then give ground.
Ryoma tracks him step for step, never overreaching, never disrupting his own pendulum tempo. He bounces forward twice, and then slides his lead foot in.
