The sparring shifts so naturally into instruction that none of them can pinpoint the exact moment the fight becomes a lesson. Now Ryoma is gesturing with his gloves, explaining angles with the same intensity most boxers reserve for a real match.
"Your problem," he says, tapping Aramaki's glove lightly, "isn't the jab itself. It's the fact you only have one version of it. Anyone with a brain will read it after the second try."
Aramaki puffs out a breath. "Yeah, yeah. So what do I do? Jab with my soul instead?"
Ryoma ignores that and goes quiet again, mentally walking through the mechanics. His gaze drifts to Aramaki's shoulders, then to his hips, then back to his stance. Two approaches form in his mind; one for baiting reactions, one for punishing them.
"Okay," he finally says. "Try this first variation."
