Toki made a considerable effort and grasped the rope. His fingers trembled, veins rising under the strain, and a hiss of pain escaped between his teeth. The crowd murmured—no one expected him to stand again, let alone climb into the ring. Yet step by step, through sheer defiance, he pulled himself up, each movement tearing through muscle and bone as if the pain itself were fuel.
"Toki…" Bernard started, half-rising from his seat, but Smith lifted a hand and stopped him.
"Let him," Smith said quietly, . "This is his student's fight—but his moment too."
Toki stepped between the ropes and stood before Kandaki. The younger fighter was hunched on his stool, his breath ragged, eyes unfocused. Sweat streamed down his temples, cutting thin rivers through the bruises darkening his face. He looked like a man trapped between surrender and survival.
Toki said nothing. He didn't need to. His presence alone carried the weight of everything he had endured—the exhaustion, the sacrifice, the belief he placed in each of them. His gaze, steady and golden under the dim lights, met Kandaki's trembling eyes.
Then the ropes rustled again.
Tora climbed into the ring beside them.
Her steps were light, but her expression was hard with determination. She knelt beside Kandaki, took his hand, and without a word began wrapping the ribbon around his knuckles. Her fingers moved quickly but carefully, each loop and knot precise, deliberate.
When she finished, she held his hand for a moment longer, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Kandaki," she said, eyes locking with his. "Don't quit. I told you we'd win together."
He blinked at her, speechless. Her tone—half teasing, half tender—cut through the noise of the crowd and the pounding in his chest. For a heartbeat, the entire world shrank to her face. The warmth in her voice. The faint curve of her lips.
For a second, Kandaki thought, I could die with this image in my mind, and it would be enough.
But then another sound cut through the haze—the uneven rhythm of footsteps.
Toki turned, and in his arms, trembling and small, was Hana—Kandaki's little sister.
She looked up at her brother with wide, wet eyes. "Kandaki…" she whispered, her voice breaking. She had always been like this—quiet, afraid, yet never letting go of his hand no matter how dark the nights were. For years, it had been just the two of them against the world.For so long he held his fists up just to give her one more day, she was the only family he had left, the only reason not to let himself be eaten by the dogs on the street.
Toki knelt, the strain in his body evident, and handed Hana gently into Utsuki's waiting arms outside the ropes. Then he turned back to Kandaki, his expression unreadable—somewhere between pride and sorrow.
He leaned close, his words quiet but firm, meant for Kandaki alone.
"Kandaki," he murmured, "have you found your reason to fight yet? Can you feel that love—the one that heals every wound?"
Kandaki's breath caught in his throat.
"Then listen to me," Toki continued. "Don't fight for victory alone. Fight like you. Roland has been fair—an honorable opponent. He deserves to see who you truly are. Don't fight just for us, or for your sister, or the girl you love. Fight for him too. Free him from the monotony of his perfect rhythm. Give me a fight worth watching."
The words sank deep—like an anchor dropping into turbulent waters. Kandaki's heartbeat slowed. His vision sharpened. The fear, the hesitation, the pain—they were all still there, but now they pulsed with meaning.
He rose slowly, the crowd gasping as he straightened his back. The fatigue that had bent him moments ago now looked like another weight he had chosen to carry.
Roland stood across the ring, watching the exchange in silence. For the first time, his perfectly measured breathing faltered. He couldn't name the feeling tightening his chest—envy, admiration, confusion—but he felt it burning all the same.
Toki exhaled, his voice low. "Now go. Show him what kind of man you are."
He stepped back, letting the ropes catch his weight. Utsuki reached up, trying to help him down, but he waved her off with a faint smile.
"I'm fine," he lied, though his knees nearly buckled.
Smith's eyes softened as he saw Toki's resolve.
The bell rang.
Round Three.
Roland raised his guard immediately, his movements crisp and economical as always. But Kandaki—he didn't move the same anymore. His stance lowered. His shoulders loosened. His breathing was no longer desperate—it was steady, patient.
The moment they stepped forward, Roland launched a jab to test the distance. Kandaki didn't block. He slipped under it, brushing so close he could feel the wind off Roland's glove. His counter came like lightning—a hook to the ribs that made Roland grunt and tighten his guard.
The crowd roared.
Roland retaliated with a straight right. Kandaki absorbed it on his forearm, then pivoted left, using the rebound to slam a cross into Roland's shoulder. The sound was heavy—a thud that made the spectators flinch.
"His rhythm changed," Harold muttered from Roland's corner. "He's flowing now."
Toki's lips curved faintly.
Good. You finally started being yourself .
Roland adjusted quickly, trying to reestablish his control. He began circling, jabbing low, then high, using his superior technique to dictate the pace. But Kandaki wasn't biting anymore. He had found something deeper—a state between instinct and intention, where each strike was born from conviction rather than calculation.
He remembered Tora's touch, Hana's eyes, Toki's words.
And he moved.
A right hook slipped through Roland's guard, grazing his cheek. Blood sprayed in a faint arc. Roland's expression hardened. He dug his heels in and countered—left jab, right straight, body shot, hook—his combinations landing with mechanical precision. Kandaki absorbed two, dodged one, and parried the fourth.
Then he smiled.
For the first time, he smiled mid-fight.
Roland blinked, startled.
"Come on!" Kandaki shouted, voice rough and hoarse. "Show me more than that! You're the wall, right? Then hold me back!"
Roland's jaw clenched. "You're still talking?"
He lunged, unleashing a barrage that forced Kandaki onto the ropes. But this time, Kandaki didn't crumble. He used the bounce of the ropes to launch himself forward, driving a brutal uppercut into Roland's guard. The impact rattled Roland's arms, forcing him to step back.
The two men met at center ring, their gloves colliding like hammers. Each exchange grew heavier, faster, more desperate. The bell was a distant sound now, drowned by the roar of flesh and will. Sweat and blood mixed in the air, a metallic storm that clung to every breath.
They hit each other with everything they had left. No one guarded anymore. No fancy footwork, no measured rhythm. The fight had shed its formality — it wasn't about strength, or skill, or who had trained longer.
It was about who would stay standing when the other could not.
Each impact sent shockwaves through the ring. Kandaki's body trembled under Roland's blows, and Roland staggered under Kandaki's furious counters. The crowd was silent now — drawn into that terrifying space between brutality and beauty, where two men sacrificed everything just to prove they still existed.
Keep moving, Kandaki thought. Even if your body breaks, don't let your spirit fall first.
Roland's breathing was ragged, but his eyes burned bright — disciplined, unwavering.
He wasn't fighting out of anger anymore. He was fighting for respect. For acknowledgment. For the thrill of meeting someone who could finally push him past his limit.
"You're strong," Roland grunted between blows. "But strength alone… isn't enough!"
He threw a brutal overhand right — pure, refined technique backed by the weight of his whole body. It connected squarely with Kandaki's face. The younger fighter's vision exploded in white. His legs buckled. The world spun.
He hit the ground hard, the mat cracking under his shoulder.
A murmur swept through the crowd.
"Get up, Kandaki!" someone screamed.
But he couldn't. Not yet. His limbs felt like stone.
For a moment, all he could see was the ceiling — the faint glimmer of lights above, blurring like distant stars.
And then, from somewhere deep inside the haze, came a voice. Calm. Familiar.
Toki's voice.
"Kandaki. When you fall to the ground… make that place the one you rise from."
He blinked, his vision stabilizing. The pain didn't fade — but it focused him. His blood was screaming for surrender, but his heart — his heart remembered why he'd stepped into that ring in the first place.
For Toki.
For his sister.
For Tora.
For the home he had been given.
For Roland.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
He dug his fingers into the mat, grounding himself. His entire weight shifted forward onto his knuckles. Muscles locked, and the cords in his neck strained as he lifted his head.
The memory of Toki's training ran through his veins like fire.
Tighten your stance. Feel the earth through your fingers. Don't punch with your arm — punch with your feet.
He touched his fist to the floor — the mark of his resolve — and slid his right leg back, positioning it behind Roland's leading foot.
Then, with a breath that tore through his lungs, Kandaki launched himself upward with explosive force.
Smith's jaw dropped from the sideline.
"That— that's Toki's Smash!" he shouted, pointing wildly.
The spectators gasped. Even Utsuki, who hadn t seen that devastating strike before, froze. Her breath hitched as she caught the silhouette of Toki in Kandaki's movement — the same stance, the same rhythm, but younger, purer, burning brighter.
A small smile crept across Toki's face. His voice was low, nearly a whisper. "He's not copying me. He's becoming himself."
Kandaki twisted his body, every fiber of muscle snapping into alignment. His eyes locked onto Roland's chest — not with hatred, but with understanding.
"Maybe you're stronger," he growled through gritted teeth. "Maybe you're more disciplined…"
His fist blazed forward, the air splitting around it.
"…but I have more reasons to win!"
The impact was thunder.
A single, perfect connection.
Roland's ribs cracked audibly under the blow. His breath left him in a rush, his knees folding beneath him. The sound — half gasp, half silence — filled the arena.
He fell forward, but before he hit the mat, Kandaki caught him.
Both men stood there — barely conscious, trembling — their foreheads nearly touching.
"Thank you, Roland," Kandaki whispered, voice shaking. "You made me fight like I never have before."
Roland coughed, a faint smile forming through the pain. "No… thank you," he said softly. "You reminded me what fighting is supposed to feel like."
Their gloves brushed — a silent handshake between equals.
Harold was the first to move. The knight climbed into the ring, his coat flaring as he knelt beside Roland, supporting his student's weight. "Easy, boy," he murmured. "You did good. You did damn good."
The referee raised Kandaki's hand, declaring the result. "Winner — Kandaki !"
The arena erupted.
The crowd's roar broke like a wave — deafening, joyous, wild.
Toki climbed into the ring, his steps slow and heavy but his eyes alight with pride. Kandaki could barely stand, his body swaying from exhaustion. Without hesitation, Toki lifted him onto his shoulder. The audience screamed his name as the young fighter raised a trembling hand to the sky.
From the corner of the ring, Utsuki's voice wavered between laughter and tears. "He did it…" she whispered.
Smith chuckled, folding his arms, his grin wide and toothy. "He didn't just win," he said. "He grew up."
Roland sat at the opposite end of the ring, his arm draped over Harold's shoulder. Melissa knelt beside him, wiping blood from his brow with a handkerchief. His breath came in shallow bursts, but his expression was calm.
"I'm sorry," Roland said suddenly. His voice was quiet, fragile. "I let you down, Master."
Harold gave a rough laugh. "Don't be a fool." He rested a hand on Roland's shoulder, squeezing hard. "That was a fight worthy of a knight. You didn't lose — you earned respect."
Roland's eyes flickered. "You… you're proud of me?"
Harold smiled, deep lines creasing his face. "Always have been, boy. But today, the world got to see why."
Melissa's gaze softened. "You both fought with everything you had," she said gently. "That's the kind of fight people remember — not because of victory, but because of heart."
Kandaki approached them, limping slightly, his right glove dangling from his wrist. He stopped in front of Roland and extended his hand. "That was a good fight," he said, voice steady.
Roland hesitated, then smiled and took it. "It was," he admitted. "I haven't felt alive like that in years."
The two shared a look of mutual understanding — the kind that needed no more words.
Toki joined them, nodding toward Harold. "You've trained him well," he said. "He fights with honor."
Harold returned the nod. "And you've trained yours even better," he replied. Then he extended his hand. "You're a man of your word, Toki. A man of principle. And your apprentice — he's proof of that. Let's work together to bring justice back into this world."
Toki gripped his hand firmly. "Then let's start with ourselves," he said. "And make sure justice never forgets mercy."
Melissa approached Utsuki at the edge of the ring, smiling warmly. "That was an extraordinary match," she said. "Congratulations. I think those two," she gestured toward Kandaki and Roland, "will understand each other very well."
Utsuki let out a shaky breath, finally lowering her hands from her mouth. "They already do," she said softly. "They just needed to say it with their fists first."
From the back, a booming voice shattered the quiet aftermath.
"ENOUGH SENTIMENT!" Smith bellowed, throwing his arms up dramatically. "It's celebration time! We've got a stage waiting, food ready, and an audience that needs heroes! MOVE!"
Everyone turned toward him, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
As they began to exit the ring, Kandaki turned toward Roland one last time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I didn't just fight against you. I fought because of you."
Roland nodded. "Then next time, let's see who hits the ground first."
Kandaki grinned faintly. "Next time, I won't need to fall."
Toki steadied his student as they stepped down from the ropes. "You did well," he said quietly.
Kandaki looked up, his voice barely audible. "I just did what you taught me."
Toki smiled, faint but proud. "No. You did what you believed in. That's the difference."
The crowd continued to cheer behind them, voices blending into a single pulse of warmth and noise. Utsuki came up beside them, her hand resting lightly on Toki's arm. "You saw it too, didn't you?" she asked.
"Saw what?"
"In his movement," she said. "For a second, Kandaki looked just like you."
Toki's eyes softened. "Maybe," he said. "But I hope he becomes someone far better."
As they moved down the hall toward the celebration stage, the sound of laughter and applause followed them. Smith led the way, booming like a parade drum. "Come on! If we're late, I'll drink all the wine myself!"
Toki glanced back once — at the empty ring behind them. The lights shimmered faintly over the canvas, still marked with sweat and blood, the silent testament of what had just been given there.
He exhaled slowly.
"When you fall to the ground," he murmured, "make that place the one you rise from."
Then he turned toward the light, his students beside him, the echo of the crowd fading into the promise of what was yet to come.
"Now is the time for me to grow up"