DING!
Round two began with Miyata's confidence completely shaken. The first round had been a revelation—this supposed beginner had displayed technique that belonged in championship fights. Now, as they squared off again, Miyata could see something different in Ippo's eyes. A predatory focus that hadn't been there before.
"Alright, kid," Miyata muttered, bouncing on his toes. "Let's see if that was just beginner's luck."
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't luck. The way Ippo had moved, the precision of his counters, the devastating power behind every punch—that was real skill.
Ippo came forward immediately, his footwork cutting off angles like a veteran pressure fighter. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He moved like someone who had been doing this for years.
"GET IN THERE, IPPO!" Takamura roared from the corner. "MAKE HIM WORK!"
Miyata threw a quick jab to establish distance, but Ippo's head wasn't there anymore. He'd slipped to the inside, his body already coiled like a spring.
PAH!
The left hook to Miyata's ribs landed with the sound of a sledgehammer hitting meat. Miyata's eyes went wide as the air rushed out of his lungs. That punch had been thrown with perfect technique—short, compact, devastating.
"Jesus Christ!" someone in the crowd gasped. "Did you hear that impact?"
Miyata tried to clinch, desperate to buy time and catch his breath, but Ippo worked inside the clinch like a master in-fighter. Short uppercuts to the solar plexus, brutal shots to the kidneys, each punch thrown with world-class precision.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
The sound of leather on flesh echoed through the gym like gunshots. Miyata had never experienced body work this vicious, this technically perfect.
"This is impossible," he thought, trying to push Ippo away. "How does he know where to hit? How does he know these angles?"
But Ippo's positioning was flawless. Every time Miyata tried to create space, Ippo was already there, cutting off his escape routes, forcing him into uncomfortable exchanges at close range.
"THAT'S IT!" Takamura was practically screaming now. "DESTROY HIM ON THE INSIDE!"
Miyata managed to break free and immediately began circling, using his superior footwork to stay at long range. But even from the outside, he could see the damage Ippo had done. His ribs were already aching, his breathing labored.
He threw a series of quick jabs, trying to keep Ippo at bay, but the shorter fighter's head movement was incredible. Slip, duck, weave—always just enough to avoid the punch while staying in position to counter.
PAH!
Another devastating hook caught Miyata on the side of the head, spinning him halfway around. The power was inhuman—if Ippo had caught him clean, the fight would have been over.
"Where the hell did that come from?" Aoki shouted from ringside.
"Look at his form!" Kimura added. "That's textbook power punching!"
But what impressed the veterans most wasn't just the power—it was the setup. Ippo had used a subtle feint with his left shoulder to draw Miyata's guard out of position, then exploded with the hook from an angle that gave maximum leverage.
That wasn't something you learned in a day. That was championship-level ring craft.
Miyata was in full retreat now, using every inch of the ring to stay away from Ippo's devastating close-range assault. But no matter where he went, Ippo was always one step ahead, herding him like a shepherd herding sheep.
"How is he reading me so well?" Miyata wondered, throwing desperate combinations to keep Ippo off balance.
But even his best shots seemed to have minimal effect. When they did land clean, Ippo's head would snap back for a moment, then he'd immediately press forward again, seemingly unaffected by the punishment.
PAH!
A straight right hand caught Miyata square in the chest, lifting him off his feet for a moment. The crowd gasped as Miyata stumbled backward, his legs suddenly unsteady.
"FINISH HIM!" Takamura bellowed. "HE'S HURT!"
DING!
"Time!"
Miyata collapsed onto his stool, his face flushed and his breathing ragged. In two rounds, he'd taken more punishment than he usually absorbed in entire sparring sessions.
"Coach," he gasped, "this kid... he's not normal. The way he moves, the power in his punches... it's like fighting a professional."
Kamogawa nodded grimly. He'd been watching every moment, analyzing every technique, and what he'd seen defied all explanation.
"His body work is at the world level," he said quietly. "The way he sets up his punches, his positioning in the clinch... that's not natural talent. That's years of experience."
Across the ring, Ippo sat in his corner, barely breathing hard despite the intense pace of the fight.
"How you feeling, kid?" Takamura asked, his voice filled with excitement and disbelief.
"Good," Ippo replied simply. "Really good."
And he meant it. For the first time in his life, everything felt right. His body moved exactly the way he wanted it to, his punches landed where he aimed them, and most importantly, he could see openings in his opponent's defense that he somehow knew how to exploit.
"You're doing incredible out there," Takamura continued. "That body work in the clinch was beautiful. Where did you learn to throw hooks from those angles?"
"I don't know," Ippo answered honestly. "It just feels natural."
The truth was, it did feel natural. More than natural—it felt like coming home. Every technique, every movement, every tactical decision flowed from instincts that seemed to have always been there, waiting to be unlocked.
DING!
Round three began with Miyata taking a completely different approach. Gone was his usual measured, technical style. Now he came forward aggressively, throwing combinations with genuine bad intentions.
If this was going to be a war, he'd make it a war.
But Ippo was ready for the change in pace. As Miyata charged forward with a powerful right cross, Ippo's head moved just slightly—not a dramatic slip, but a subtle adjustment that made the punch graze harmlessly past his ear.
And then he was inside again.
PAH! PAH!
Two lightning-fast uppercuts to Miyata's midsection doubled him over. The precision was surgical—Ippo had found the exact spot where Miyata's guard was weakest and exploited it with ruthless efficiency.
"Holy shit!" someone screamed from the crowd. "He's picking him apart!"
Miyata tried to tie up, but Ippo's work in the clinch was a thing of beauty. He used his forearms to control Miyata's arms while throwing short, brutal shots to the body. Each punch was thrown from the perfect angle to maximize damage while minimizing his own exposure.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
The sound of leather hitting flesh was constant now, a steady rhythm of punishment that had the entire gym on its feet.
"I've never seen anything like this," Kamogawa muttered, his experienced eyes trying to process what he was witnessing. "This kid is fighting like he's been doing this for a decade."
Miyata managed to push Ippo away and immediately went back to his long-range game, but something had changed. His movements were more desperate now, less controlled. The sustained body punishment was taking its toll.
He threw a beautiful straight left that should have caught Ippo clean, but somehow the shorter fighter's head wasn't there. Instead, Ippo had ducked under the punch and was already winding up for a counter.
The right hook came from below, rising like a rocket toward Miyata's chin. If it had connected, it would have ended the fight instantly.
But Miyata, drawing on every ounce of his considerable skill, managed to lean back just enough for the punch to whistle past his face.
"Too close," he panted. "Way too close."
The near miss seemed to energize Ippo even more. He pressed forward relentlessly, his footwork perfect, his punches thrown with increasing accuracy and power.
PAH!
A left hook to the liver sent Miyata crashing into the ropes, his face twisted in agony. The punch had been thrown with such precision that it found the exact spot where Miyata's protective gear offered the least protection.
"THAT'S IT!" Takamura was going insane in the corner. "BODY SHOT KING! DESTROY HIM!"
But even as he dominated the action, Ippo never showed any malice or cruelty. His face remained calm, focused, almost serene. He wasn't trying to hurt Miyata out of anger—he was simply executing techniques with the cold precision of a master craftsman.
Miyata, hurt and desperate, tried one last desperate gambit. He feinted a jab, then threw a looping overhand right with everything he had left.
But Ippo read it like a book. He slipped to the inside, letting the punch sail over his head, and found himself in perfect position for a counter.
PAH!
The uppercut caught Miyata flush under the chin, snapping his head back violently. For a moment, his eyes rolled back and his legs went completely limp.
But somehow, through sheer force of will, he managed to stay on his feet.
DING!
"Jesus Christ," Miyata gasped as he collapsed onto his stool. His corner immediately went to work, applying ice to his swollen ribs and checking his pupils for signs of concussion.
"That uppercut..." he mumbled. "I've never been hit that hard in my life."
In the opposite corner, Ippo sat calmly, his breathing only slightly elevated despite the intense pace he'd been maintaining.
"Kid," Takamura said, his voice filled with awe, "what you're doing out there... it's not human. That body work, those counters, the way you're reading his movements... it's like watching a highlight reel of the greatest in-fighters in history."
Ippo nodded, but his attention was focused on Miyata. Even through the haze of battle, he could see the other fighter was hurt. The body shots had accumulated, and that final uppercut had clearly shaken him badly.
"Is he okay?" Ippo asked, genuinely concerned.
"He's tough," Takamura replied. "But you're breaking him down systematically. The way you're working his body, targeting his weak spots... it's beautiful and terrifying at the same time."
Around the gym, the atmosphere was electric. Nobody had expected to witness anything like this—a complete unknown going toe-to-toe with one of their most skilled fighters and not just surviving, but dominating.
"This kid is special," Aoki said to Kimura. "I mean really special. The way he moves, it's like he's been boxing his whole life."
"Look at his corner work," Kimura replied, nodding toward Ippo. "He's not even winded. Meanwhile, Miyata looks like he's been hit by a truck."
Kamogawa watched both fighters carefully, his mind racing. In forty years of training boxers, he'd developed an eye for talent that was rarely wrong. But what he was seeing now challenged everything he thought he knew about the sport.
"This Makunouchi kid," he thought, "he's not just talented. He's something else entirely."
DING!
As the bell rang for round four, both fighters rose from their stools. But while Miyata moved gingerly, favoring his bruised ribs, Ippo looked fresh and ready for war.
The crowd held its breath, knowing they were witnessing something truly extraordinary unfold in the ring.