Even then, not many in the crowd truly grasp what just happened. Yanagimoto is already walking toward the neutral corner, arms half-raised, while most of the audience can only process one thing, the veteran fell.

It's an upset, a single shocking punch that flipped everything in an instant.

To them, it looks like a lucky punch. But the commentators know better, or at least, they won't dare call it lucky.

"What a devastating counter!"

"Jurobei overextended! Missed his timing… and Yanagimoto made him pay."

"Can he get up from that?"

"Wait… ref's stopping the count!"

The referee kneels beside Jurobei, who's still face down on the canvas. Then, seeing the blood seeping beneath the veteran's cheek, he waves it off.

The bell rings again, this time not to resume the round, but to end the fight. Jurobei's corner rushes in, and a stretcher is called.

A strange hush spreads through the hall. The same crowd that roared seconds ago now watches with unease, craning their necks.

It was only one punch, yet the image of Jurobei's motionless body makes even victory feel heavy.

Moments later, the veteran stirs, slowly lifted onto the stretcher. A towel covers his face, but Ryoma's sharp eyes catch the dark smear of blood beneath his mouth.

"That counter might've broken his jaw," Ryoma mutters quietly.

Beside him, Aramaki swallows hard. Okabe and Ryohei stay silent for a while before trying to break the tension.

"So… who was it that said Jurobei would win?" Ryohei smirks weakly.

"Yeah," Okabe adds. "Guess that boxing IQ didn't predict the ending, huh?"

Ryoma doesn't reply. His gaze stays fixed on the ring, on the blue corner where Yanagimoto now stands tall, belt gleaming over his shoulder.

The crowd chants Yanagimoto's name, the name of the man they're already calling the face of a new generation.

For a moment, Ryoma wonders what it must feel like to be in that ring, to taste victory at that level.

But curiosity quickly overtakes admiration. His mind replays the last sequence, the faint shift in stance, the flicker that changed the fight.

At first, it seemed desperate, Yanagimoto using his left hand, his power hand, like a jab to push Jurobei away. A survival move.

But now Ryoma knows better. That stance switch wasn't panic. It was intent.

Yanagimoto risked everything by doing it, giving up his natural southpaw form, potentially putting himself at disadvantage.

But that risk opened the window he needed. When Jurobei failed to recognize the change, Yanagimoto struck. Perfect timing, perfect distance, perfect nerve.

It wasn't a dirty trick. It wasn't a lucky punch.

It was calculation, courage, and resolve, the kind that comes from refusing to break even when the fight is slipping away.

And as Ryoma watches the new champion raise his belt high, thoughts linger in his mind:

If he were in Jurobei's place… would he have seen it coming?

Would he have sensed that faint change before the punch landed?

Or would he, too, have fallen to that single, perfect counter?

***

News of Yanagimoto's victory spreads fast, faster than the footage of the knockout itself. Within a day, every boxing forum, podcast, and sports headline is dissecting the fight.

Was it brilliance, or just luck?

Clips of the finishing blow loop endlessly online. Analysts freeze the frame, circle foot placements, debate balance, and timing.

Some call it a textbook counter born from instinct; others dismiss it as a fluke, a punch that just happened to land right.

Yanagimoto, for his part, keeps quiet. He refuses to give a detailed comment about the counter or the stance switch.

"Let the fight speak for itself," is all he says when asked by reporters outside his gym.

And his silence only fuels more speculation.

For some, it's proof he doesn't understand what really happened, that even he was surprised by the outcome. For others, it's a clever smokescreen, a champion refusing to expose his strategy.

But what silences the debates briefly is his next statement at a press conference three days later.

"Anyone who thinks I don't deserve this belt," he says, resting his hand on the gold plate, "can come and take it from me. I'm open to any challenger. If Jurobei recovers, I'll fight him again."

Jurobei, however, is still in the hospital. The doctors confirm the damage, a fractured mandible, multiple stitches, and a long road to recovery.

Even if he heals, no one is sure whether he'll ever return to the ring.

The controversy lingers for a week. But soon, like everything in boxing, attention shifts. Because the posters are already out.

Renji Kuroiwa vs. Elliot Graves, the next international match at Saitama Super Arena.

Promos flood TV. Sports channels replay Kuroiwa's highlights, podcasts debate the matchup, and journalists move on, chasing the next headline.

***

April 19th, Tokyo's Haneda Airport.

The arrival gate slides open, and Elliot Graves steps into view.

He's not towering, but solid, about five foot eight (175 cm), lean and balanced, built like precision carved from wire and willpower.

His blond hair falls just a little wild, and behind dark sunglasses, the calm set of his jaw gives off a quiet, movie-star magnetism.

There's something of Brad Pitt in the way he carries himself, easy charm layered over something colder. Every movement is precise, unhurried, like a man who has already fought this moment a thousand times in his head.

Beside him walks his trainer, Sergei Volkov, a thick-set Russian in his late forties with a weathered face and a trimmed beard peppered with gray.

His steps are heavy, measured, and his presence alone keeps the more eager journalists from crowding too close.

Cameras flash immediately.

"Elliot! Elliot, how was the flight?"

"Are you planning to do some sightseeing before the fight?"

"What do you think about fighting in Japan for the first time?"

Elliot offers a faint grin, answering with easy charm but minimal words.

"Long flight, but we're good. Tokyo's different. Feels alive."

Then one reporter pushes closer with a mic. "Any thoughts on Renji Kuroiwa as an opponent?"

Elliot just glances toward his trainer.

Sergei Volkov steps forward, unhurried, smooth, but with a heaviness that seems to bend the air around him.

His coat shifts as he moves, the thick fabric brushing against the microphone stands like a warning.

"We respect Kuroiwa," he says, voice deep and deliberate, carrying that cold Moscow edge. "He's earned his position. Elliot has trained to match that. We didn't fly here for vacation…"

He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the reporters, not sharp, not angry, but absolute.

"…We came to fight."

The tone leaves no room for follow-up.

A few reporters still call out more questions, but Sergei's stare alone quiets most of them. He gives a curt nod, not rude, just final, and then gestures for Elliot to move.

"Spasibo," he adds in Russian, asking for space, almost like punctuation.

Then he turns, leading the team toward the exit with that slow, unbothered stride of someone who's walked through more dangerous rooms than this one.

As the group pass the security glass, Elliot glances sideways at Sergei.

"What was that kid's name again? The one everyone was hyped about last year. That boy… had a bit of a moment online."

Sergei's eyes narrow in thought for a second.

"Ryoma Takeda?"

Elliot snaps his fingers once. "Yeah. Him. Have they called his gym?"

Sergei turns his gaze toward one of the Japanese men walking a step behind, a liaison from the promotion, already nervous under Sergei's look.

The man shakes his head quickly. "N-not yet, Mr. Graves. We thought you were only joking about that. About… fighting him."

Elliot stops walking. The group halts behind him like a chain reaction.

"Did my tone sound like I was joking?" he asks, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the air.

He doesn't look back as he keeps walking; his eyes stay forward, cold and focused.

"I heard he almost beat Kuroiwa in a spar. And he fights with both Flicker and Philly Shell. Sounds like a good sparring partner to me."

The Japanese man swallows hard. "Y-yes, of course. I'll call his gym immediately."

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