And he isn't going to just wait for Aramaki to close the distance. Junpei pivots, slides forward just enough to reach, and strikes.
Wssht! Wssht! Wssht!
Three flicker jabs snap from three different angles, fast and surgical, each one grazing the edge of Aramaki's guard.
Aramaki waves, blocks, retreats again, still trying to catch the rhythm. But Junpei doesn't give him a second to breathe. He's already seized the center of the ring, pressing Aramaki backward, not with brute force, but precision and control.
Fifteen seconds into the first round, Aramaki still hasn't thrown a punch. How could he, when he can't even step into range?
Junpei, though on the offensive, never overreaches. He holds the pocket perfectly; that narrow punishing distance where he can hit, but Aramaki can't hit back.
"This is new," one of the commentators beams. "Junpei's never fought like this before."
