Aramaki covers his face just in time, and blocks it with both arms. But then, a sharp hook punishes his ribs, and quickly follows with a hit on the head.
The commentators lean forward now, their voices sharpening, excitement bleeding into every word as the exchanges grow faster.
"Ryoma's mixing it up now. High, then low, then high again. Aramaki can't read the rhythm!"
"That body shot's gonna take his wind. If he keeps eating those, his guard won't matter!"
Still, Aramaki refuses to go down. He shells up, arms tight around his head, lowering his stance into a desperate turtle, absorbing the storm of Ryoma's fists.
In the blue corner, Masato Kanda slams the canvas with both palms, thunderous, his voice drowned by the crowd.
A signal: ten seconds left.
No words are needed. Aramaki understands. He bites down, digs in, and endures.
But his legs are trembling now, muscles quivering with every shot rattling through his guard. His knees finally betray him.
