The roar of the crowd at Kōrakuen Hall was deafening as Ippo and Oda made their way to the ring. The bright lights overhead cast everything in sharp relief, and Ippo could feel his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged animal.
In the opposite corner, Yūsuke Oda looked like a completely different person from the cocky fighter people knew him to be. His body was leaner than it had ever been, every muscle fiber visible under the harsh arena lights. The weight cut had been brutal, but it had carved away every ounce of excess fat, leaving behind a predator's physique. His face carried a ferocious intensity that made even the veteran spectators take notice.
"Look at Oda," someone in the crowd whispered. "I've never seen him look so focused."
"Yeah, but check out that Makunouchi kid. Look how calm he is. That's scary confidence right there."
In the Nishikawa corner, Odas Coach studied his fighter with a mixture of hope and concern. "He's never been this lean, this focused. But will it be enough against this monster?"
"Three months ago, Reiko said something that cut deeper than any punch," Oda thought as he bounced on his toes in his corner. The memory flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt.
----
FLASHBACK
"You're not the same person I fell in love with," Reiko had said, her voice cold as ice. "The Oda I knew had fire in his eyes, had passion. Now you're just... a clown."
"A clown?" Oda had repeated, the word hitting him like a physical blow.
"That's what they're calling you. 'Oda the clown.' The guy who talks big but can't back it up. The guy who thinks he's a natural but won't put in the work."
Mikami had tried to intervene. "Reiko, that's enough—"
"No, it's not enough!" she had snapped. "I'm tired of watching the man I care about embarrass himself. Either become the fighter you claim to be, or find someone else who's willing to watch you fail."
That night, Oda had looked at himself in the mirror and seen what everyone else saw—a man living on borrowed confidence, coasting on talent that was slowly being exposed as insufficient.
"Never again," he had whispered to his reflection. "I'll show them all what I'm really made of."
Back in the present, Oda's eyes burned with determination as he stared across the ring at Ippo.
"This kid thinks he can embarrass me? I've been boxing for three years. I've got experience, technique, and now I've got the hunger. Time to show everyone that Yūsuke Oda is nobody's clown."
The referee called both fighters to the center of the ring for final instructions. As they stood face to face, the contrast was striking—Ippo's quiet confidence versus Oda's barely contained fury.
"I want a clean fight," the referee said. "Protect yourselves at all times and obey my commands. Touch gloves and come out fighting."
The two fighters bumped gloves, and Ippo could feel the intensity radiating from his opponent like heat from a furnace.
"You ready for this, rookie?" Oda asked, his voice low and threatening.
"I've been ready," Ippo replied simply.
They returned to their corners as the announcer's voice boomed throughout the arena.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a four-round featherweight bout! In the red corner, making his professional debut with a record of 0-0, weighing in at 124 pounds, from Tokyo... IPPO MAKUNOUCHI!"
The crowd erupted in cheers for the local favorite. In the Kamogawa corner, Takamura, Aoki, and Kimura were on their feet, screaming encouragement.
"DESTROY HIM, IPPO!" Takamura bellowed.
"KNOCK EM DEAD IPPO!" Aoki added.
"And in the blue corner," the announcer continued, "with a record of 3 wins, 2 losses, weighing in at 126 pounds, also from Tokyo... YŪSUKE ODA!"
The response was noticeably more subdued, but Oda didn't care. He had something to prove tonight.
Kamogawa leaned close to Ippo as the final preparations were made. "Remember what we've worked on. Stay calm, pressure him, and when you see your opening, take it."
"Yes, Coach."
"And Ippo," Kamogawa added, his voice serious, "don't let his anger make you emotional. Use his aggression against him."
Across the ring, Odas coach was giving his own final instructions. "He's going to try to pressure you early. Use your reach, box from the outside, and don't get drawn into a brawl."
DING!
The opening bell rang, and immediately Oda charged forward like a man possessed, his lean frame moving with desperate urgency as he completely disregarded his coach's words.
"I'll end this fast!" he thought, throwing himself into a vicious combination.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
But to his absolute shock, every single shot hit nothing but air.
Ippo's head movement was sublime—each punch missing by mere millimeters as he slipped and weaved with what spoke of countless hours of training. His movements were subtle, almost lazy in their perfection.
A slight lean to the left, and Oda's right cross sailed harmlessly past his ear.
A barely perceptible duck, and the follow-up left hook whistled over his head.
A smooth roll to his right, and Oda's uppercut found only empty space.
"What the hell?" Oda thought, his eyes widening in disbelief. "His defensive technique... it's like fighting a ghost!"
From the crowd, gasps of appreciation could be heard.
"Did you see that head movement?" boxing journalist Fujii whispered to his colleague. "That's not amateur-level defense!"
"Look at his stance," another observer noted. "He's naturally falling into a peek-a-boo style. Where did this kid learn to move like that?"
In the Kamogawa corner, the coach's experienced eyes caught every detail. "Huh? I planned to teach the kid that later but it seems he picked it up naturally.."
Takamura was screaming with excitement. "BEAUTIFUL! MAKE HIM LOOK STUPID, IPPO!"
But across the audience, Mikami was growing worried. "Cmon Oda please."
Ippo continued to slip Oda's punches with an almost supernatural ease. Through Yuto's template, the defensive moves felt as natural as breathing. His body moved without conscious thought, reading Oda's telegraphed attacks like an open book.
"His timing is all wrong," Ippo thought, analyzing his opponent's rhythm. "And he's throwing too hard, too early. He's going to gas himself out."
But more than that, Ippo was using his footwork to perfection. Every step had purpose—cutting off angles, herding Oda toward the ropes, controlling the real estate of the ring like a chess master moving pieces.
Step by step, Oda found himself being pushed backward, his offensive rhythm completely disrupted by Ippo's subtle positioning.
"Look at that footwork!" someone in the crowd shouted. "The kid's got him completely figured out!"
Oda, growing frustrated, stepped back and reset himself.
"Come on!" he shouted across the ring, sweat already beading on his forehead. "Stop running and fight me like a man!"
But Ippo wasn't running—he was hunting. With each sequence, he was closing distance, cutting off angles, herding Oda exactly where he wanted him.
"There," Ippo thought as Oda backed against the ropes, "now he's trapped."
Ippo exploded forward with his signature pressure boxing style. Unlike his tentative approaches in sparring, this was the complete package—relentless forward movement combined with devastating precision.
His footwork was a thing of beauty—quick, choppy steps that ate up distance while maintaining perfect balance. Each movement brought him closer to his target while keeping his defensive positioning intact.
SCREECH!
The sound of Ippo's boxing shoes gripping the canvas as he planted for his attack sent a chill through everyone who heard it.
PAH!
A perfectly timed right hook caught Oda flush on the ribs. For a moment, Ippo's shadow seemed to overlap with another figure—taller, more experienced, but with the same predatory intensity. The ghostly image of Takeda Yuto flickered around Ippo like a double exposure, visible for just an instant to those with the eyes to see it.
The power behind the punch was monstrous—not just the raw strength that Ippo had always possessed, but guided now by world-class technique and timing.
Oda's legs buckled as the shock traveled through his skeleton. This kid isn't a fucking amateur.
"Impossible," he thought as he stumbled sideways, his equilibrium completely shot. "That felt like getting hit by a truck!"
The crowd erupted in shock and excitement.
"HOLY SHIT!" someone screamed from the audience. "Did you see that power?"
"That wasn't a lucky punch," veteran trainer Shinoda observed from ringside. "That was perfect technique. Look at how he set it up with the footwork!"
In the Nishikawa corner, Odas coach felt his stomach drop. "That punch... that's the kind of power that ends careers. What have we gotten ourselves into?"
Oda managed to stay on his feet, but his confidence was completely shattered. The punch had rattled him more than he wanted to admit, and worse—it had shown him the gulf in class between them.
"This kid is the real deal," he realized with growing dread. "But I can't back down now. Not after everything I've said, everything I've promised."
Drawing on his desperation, Oda pointed to the center of the ring with his glove.
"You want to see who's stronger?" he called out, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd noise. "Let's settle this like men! No more dancing around—let's trade punches and see who's left standing!"
The arena fell silent for a moment as the challenge hung in the air. This was exactly the kind of dramatic moment that boxing fans lived for.
In his corner, Kamogawa shouted. "Don't do it, Ippo. That's exactly what he wants—to turn this into a brawl where anything can happen."
But Ippo was already walking toward the center of the ring, his eyes locked on Oda's. Through Yuto's memories, he could feel the echo of countless similar challenges—desperate opponents trying to drag superior fighters down to their level.
"He's afraid," Ippo realized. "This is the move of someone who knows he can't win without luck but....."
"You want to trade punches?" Ippo asked quietly as they met in the center of the ring. "Alright. Let's do it."
The crowd roared its approval as both fighters squared off at close range.
Oda threw first—a vicious right hand aimed at Ippo's jaw with everything he had behind it. Three years of professional experience, all his technique, all his anger went into that punch.
PAH!
But as the punch traveled toward its target, Ippo did something that stunned everyone watching. Instead of blocking or trying to counter, he simply turned his neck slightly to the left—a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
The punch grazed harmlessly past his cheek, the power completely dissipated by the minimal movement. It was the same technique that had made Yuto a champ—making opponents reach while staying just out of range.
"What?!" Oda's mind reeled. "How did he—"
Before he could finish the thought, Ippo's counter was already in motion. A devastating left hook to the solar plexus that carried the full weight of his body behind it.
THUD!
The sound of the body shot landing was like a sledgehammer hitting meat. Oda's eyes bulged as the air rushed out of his lungs in a whoosh of agony.
"Can't... breathe..." he gasped internally, his body automatically doubling over from the impact.
"BODY SHOT!" Takamura screamed from the corner. "THAT'S HOW YOU BREAK A MAN DOWN!"
In the crowd, the reactions were electric.
"Did you see that head movement?" Fujii was scribbling frantically in his notepad. "He made that punch miss by millimeters!"
"The timing on that counter was perfect," added another journalist. "This kid's got crazy IQ!"
But Ippo wasn't finished. As Oda's guard dropped from the body punch, Ippo stepped in with another crushing blow—this time a second right hook to the ribs that made an audible crack as it connected.
PAH!
Oda's legs nearly gave out completely. The precision of the punches was killer—each one targeted at exactly the right spot to cause maximum damage.
"This is insane," the ringside doctor thought, watching the destruction. "This kid is picking him apart like a master surgeon."
From the crowd, the reactions were a mixture of awe and horror.
"He's destroying him!" someone shouted.
"Look at that technique! Every punch is packing a bazooka!"
"Is this really a debut fighter?"
Oda tried to respond with a wild swing, but his movement was sluggish now, his breathing labored from the body shots. Ippo saw the punch coming from a mile away and simply stepped inside it, his footwork positioning him perfectly for another devastating counter.
THUD!
Another body shot, this one to the liver, sent shockwaves of pain through Oda's entire nervous system.
"Stop... please..." Oda wheezed, though the words were too quiet for the referee to hear.
In the Kamogawa corner, the atmosphere was electric.
"Look at that footwork!" Aoki was screaming. "He's in perfect position for every counter!"
"And those body shots!" Kimura added. "He's going to break him down completely!"
But Kamogawa remained focused, his experienced eyes tracking every movement. "Good. He's fighting smart, not emotional. This is what real boxing looks like."
Across the ring, Odas coach was watching his fighter get systematically destroyed. "I have to do something. But what? The kid's too good—he's reading every move we make."
Oda, desperate and hurt, threw everything he had into one last wild combination. But Ippo's defensive mastery made it look like a sparring session between a professional and an amateur.
Slip left, duck right, roll under—every movement was perfect, every counter opportunity recognized and exploited.
PAH! THUD! PAH!
Three more devastating body shots landed in quick succession, each one perfectly timed, perfectly placed.
"He's breaking down already," Ippo observed with clinical detachment. "His legs are going, his breathing is shot. A few more body shots and this will be over."
The crowd was in complete awe now, watching what was supposed to be a competitive debut turn into a masterclass in technical boxing.
"This isn't a fight," someone in the audience whispered. "This is an execution."
Oda's legs were wobbling badly now, his guard dropping lower with each passing second. The accumulation of body shots had sapped his strength, his will, his ability to fight back effectively.
In desperation, he threw one more wild haymaker—a looping right hand thrown with the last of his energy.
Ippo saw it coming from a mile away. He simply leaned back slightly, letting the punch whistle harmlessly past his nose, then stepped forward with perfect timing.
The uppercut that followed was a thing of beauty—rising from his legs, through his hips, into his shoulders, and exploding upward into Oda's chin with the force of a cannon.
CRACK!
The sound of the impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot. Oda's eyes rolled back, his mouthguard flew from his lips with a sharp tchkk sound, and his legs gave out completely.
He crashed to the canvas like a felled tree, his body hitting the mat with a dull thud that silenced the entire arena.
"One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!"
DING! DING! DING!
But the knockdown had come with only seconds left in the round. As the bell rang, Oda somehow managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, his head clearing just enough to beat the count.
The referee helped him to his feet, checking his eyes for signs of serious damage.
"Can you continue?" the official asked.
Oda nodded weakly, though his legs were still unsteady.
DING!
As both fighters returned to their corners, the atmosphere in the arena was electric. What they'd just witnessed was far beyond what anyone had expected from a debut fight.
In the Kamogawa corner, Ippo sat down heavily, his adrenaline still pumping.
"How do you feel?" Kamogawa asked, examining his face for any signs of damage.
"Good, Coach. Really good."
"You hurt him badly with that uppercut. One more clean shot like that and this fight is over."
Across the ring, Odas Coach was desperately trying to revive his fighter's spirits, but the damage was clear. Oda was breathing heavily, his ribs were already showing signs of swelling, and his confidence was completely shattered.
"One round," Odas Coach thought desperately. "I just need him to survive one more round."
But as he looked across at Ippo, calmly receiving instructions from Kamogawa, he had the sinking feeling that one more round might be all the young monster needed to finish what he'd started.
The bell for round two was only sixty seconds away.
And Ippo Makunouchi was just getting started.