The bell rings for the fifth round, and Satoru steps forward with the same lazy pendulum rhythm, his sway deceptively calm. Four rounds in, he has controlled the tempo completely, forcing Uesaka to follow rather than lead.
But now, spurred by his corner, Uesaka pushes back, forcing himself into aggression again, trying to revert to the offensive style his trainer demands.
From the blue corner, Uesaka's coach shouts with urgent energy, clapping and screaming,
"Come on, Uesaka! Push!"
"Break his rhythm! Don't let him breathe!"
The crowd catches the surge, rising to their feet, the clamor swelling around the ring.
But Satoru remains composed, every movement measured, his eyes cool. Body hooks hit his ribs, glancing shots from the flurry, but he keeps the pendulum swaying steady, letting none of the power reach his head.
After more than a minute Satoru endures Uesaka's assault, Ryoma leans forward in the red corner, eyes sharp.
"Half, Satoru. Half!"
