The stadium trembled with the roar of the crowd.
Blinding lights swept across the arena, bouncing off the taut ropes of the ring. The echo of chants rose like an unstoppable wave, crashing against every corner of the stands.
Meanwhile, in the preparation area, just behind the tunnel leading to the ring, Souta Hoshizora waited.
Twenty-four years old.
Five foot nine.
A body carved through discipline—broad shoulders, defined muscles, nothing excessive: pure efficiency.
Black hair, cropped short on the sides and messy on top, with rebellious strands falling across his face. Dark eyes full of life. A confident—almost provocative—smile on his lips.
Souta didn't just train his body. He trained his spirit.
Every day was a fight against his own limits.
"He's ready for battle," his manager said in a deep voice.
But Souta wasn't tense. He sat on the bench, arms behind his head, as if the title fight ahead was nothing but a pastime.
His calm, his light laugh—that was his essence: optimistic, carefree, impossible to ignore.
Then the announcer's voice thundered through the speakers, shaking the stadium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, from Tokyo, with a record of 20 wins and 0 losses… the Knockout Artist, the King of the Smile… Souta Hoshizora!"
The crowd erupted. Some shouted his name, others booed, but everyone was waiting for him.
Souta rose with ease. He walked toward the tunnel, and as the curtain opened, the stadium lights engulfed him.
Every step toward the ring was a prelude.
Every glance, a spark.
With a casual motion, he hopped over the ropes with his hands in his pockets. His grin widened.
"Time to win," he said, as if daring fate itself.
In the red corner stood Ryoyin Takeshi, his best friend and rival.
Flaming red hair, six feet tall, with a fiery gaze.
More serious, more sober than Souta, he was a disciplined warrior who never underestimated a fight.
The announcer roared again:
"With an undefeated record of 19 wins and 1 loss… the Iron Wall, the Man with the Perfect Guard… Ryoyin Takeshi!"
The spotlights locked onto him. No smile, no wave. Only a raised fist—and the stadium roared like a beast awakened.
Two friends. Two paths intertwined. And that night, their destinies would be tested.
The bell rang like a gunshot.
The entire ring tensed.
Souta stepped forward in a southpaw stance, shoulder leading, a mischievous smile on his face.
Ryoyin, orthodox, glared like a hawk.
"Ready to lose in front of everyone again?" Souta laughed.
"Ready to stop acting like a clown?" Ryoyin shot back, cold.
The first clash shook the canvas.
Ryoyin's low kick. Souta's perfect check.
The crowd roared.
Fast one-two, tight guard.
Body hook, clean slip.
Tension crackled with every blow, every breath.
The commentator shouted from the booth:
"This is a clash of titans! Neither one is backing down!"
"This isn't a playground!" Ryoyin growled, throwing a right hand that grazed Souta's cheek.
Souta slipped elegantly and grinned.
"Feels like a playground with too much noise to me!"
The crowd vibrated, no one dared to blink.
Souta lowered his guard, taunting.
"Hands up, idiot!" his manager yelled from the corner.
Ryoyin took the bait: jab, body hook.
Souta ate it, then countered with an uppercut that grazed his friend's chin.
"That one almost landed," Ryoyin chuckled, eyes sharp.
"Don't worry, the next one's for the highlight reel," Souta winked.
Both men were breathing hard.
Sweat already streaming down their faces.
The audience sat on the edge of their seats.
Ryoyin unleashed a brutal combo: jab, cross, hook.
Souta retreated, blocking just enough, until his back hit the ropes.
The crowd roared even louder.
"Come on, Ryoyin!" some shouted.
"Hang in there, Souta!" others answered.
Back to center ring, Souta pressed forward again.
"Admit I'm better looking and I'll surrender right now!"
Ryoyin snorted.
"You're unbearable."
The exchange raged on:
Elbows skimming the guard. Knees pounding the body. Low kicks cracking like whips.
The canvas quaked beneath their feet.
Then Souta leapt back, raised his guard, and grinned wide.
"Ryoyin! If I lose today… you're buying me ramen."
"If you lose today, you won't even want ramen," his rival shot back, throwing a crushing right hand.
The punch barely missed.
The air whistled.
The crowd screamed.
Souta answered with an explosive jab.
The glove cut through the air like a bullet…
And then, the world vanished.
The lights, the ropes, the crowd—
all dissolved in a blinding flash.
Souta felt himself dragged into the void.
The air ripped from his lungs.
The roar of the stadium collapsed into absolute silence.
When he opened his eyes…
he was no longer in the ring.