While Ryoma is on the other side of the city breaking down Serrano’s habits, Kirizu is doing the opposite, forcing Serrano back into the strict fundantals of orthodox boxing.
In Kirizu’s mind, Serrano’s natural brilliance is not sothing to erase; it is the very foundation that brought him this far. But that sa freedom, if left unchecked, carries a risk he can no longer ignore.
Pragmatically, he wants Serrano to tighten his ga, to control exchanges, and to stop exposing himself with unnecessary freedom in every sequence.
"How many tis do I have to tell you," Kirizu shouts from outside the ring. "Use your left properly. You have the reach advantage. Use it to dictate the fight."
Serrano adjusts, resetting into a cleaner orthodox stance with a longer guard. When his sparring partner steps in, he keeps him at range with a steady stream of jabs, controlling distance in a way that looks disciplined at first glance.
Physically, Serrano is built for this kind of output, his explosive musculature allowing him to throw fast, repeated jabs that still carry enough weight to keep opponents honest.
But as the rounds progress, the discipline starts to erode. The more he commits to the jab, the more his posture begins to break down.
His upper body leans forward, his rear foot occasionally lifts off the canvas as he overreaches for control, and his right hand drifts away from his chin, flaring outward as a counterbalance rather than a guard.
From outside the ring, the deterioration is subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. And it only sharpens the irritation building in Kirizu’s chest.
Eventually, he steps through the ropes without hesitation and throws the white towel straight at Serrano’s face.
"Stop fighting like that!" he snaps.
The sparring cos to an abrupt halt for the fourth ti in a single session. Serrano straightens up, visibly frustrated, breathing hard but still defiant.
"What’s wrong?" he complains. "I’m controlling the fight. He can’t even touch ."
"He can’t touch you because he’s just an amateur," Kirizu replies sharply.
Serrano’s face tightens with disappointnt. "Then get soone better. Or maybe finding a worthy sparring partner has already beco too expensive for you nowadays."
Kirizu’s irritation tightens imdiately at the response. Not just at the complaint itself, but at the audacity, as if his authority has beco sothing Serrano can now negotiate with rather than accept.
Since Serrano’s first title defense, that shift has beco impossible to ignore. The fighter who once corrected himself the mont Kirizu spoke now pushes back, questions, and argues as if the hierarchy between them has started to blur.
Years ago, when Renji was still present, Serrano was completely different. He carried himself like a tiger inside the ring, but the mont Kirizu stepped in, that sa presence would collapse into obedience.
Now there is none of that; no instinctive submission, no fear of consequence. There’s only confidence in his own interpretation of things, even when it contradicts instruction.
And Kirizu, despite his irritation, cannot afford to escalate it the way he used to. The gym is already under pressure, and Serrano is too valuable to break through confrontation alone.
"I’m not talking about finding sparring partners for your entertainnt," Kirizu says. "I placed you with him on purpose, to fix your fundantals. It’s been more than two years, and you still fight like no one ever taught you how to box the proper way."
Serrano clicks his tongue in irritation. "Two years without losing a fight. So what exactly is the problem?"
Kirizu steps forward. The temperature in the ring seems to drop as he closes the distance, his presence tightening around Serrano’s space like a constraint.
"Then maybe I should show you that fight again..." he says quietly, "the one where Ryoma Takeda taught you a fundantal lesson in the middle of the ring."
That line lands harder than the scolding itself. Serrano’s expression tightens almost instantly, the mory flashing back with uncomfortable clarity.
It is not just a loss he rembers, but the feeling of being exposed in real ti, corrected inside the fight itself, and forced to recognize a gap in his boxing that he could not argue his way out of.
For all his talent and confidence, it remains one of the few monts that still humbles him without effort.
Serrano’s resistance finally drops. "I’m trying," he says, taking the towel from the canvas and tossing it back toward Kirizu. "Now get out. Let continue."
Kirizu’s jaw tightens at the disrespect, but he does not escalate it. He simply turns and steps out of the ring. He is still far from satisfied, but for now, he accepts the outco.
A few paces away, Liam Kuroda watches the exchange in silence. There is clear surprise in his eyes, though he keeps it restrained.
From what he has heard, Kirizu is a man whose authority in the boxing world is absolute, soone whose words alone could end a career, and whose influence could make sure that even if a fighter escaped his gym, they would not easily find stability elsewhere.
But what he sees in front of him no longer matches that image. Liam can only speculate whether Kirizu has changed after losing Renji Kuroiwa, or whether the authority people once associated with him is simply no longer as absolute as it used to be.
That impression is not limited to Liam alone. Several long-ti fighters still remaining in the gym have begun to notice the sa shift, though their reactions are far less restrained, carried openly in their expressions and quiet exchanges between rounds. Even Coach Shigemori has not missed it.
Shigemori eventually steps away from the edge of the gym and approaches Kirizu, lowering his voice so it does not carry across the room.
"Boss... this is starting to feel like a loss of honor for you," he says carefully. "Stepping in personally like this against Serrano... it doesn’t look good. The others are watching. If this keeps going, it might set a precedent inside the gym."
Before this, Shigemori was the one responsible for Serrano’s supervision, acting as his direct coach and maintaining his discipline day to day.
But once Kirizu made Serrano’s fight with Aramaki a personal, he decides to take over that role himself.
"I know," Kirizu says. "And this will be my last bet on him. If he loses against Aramaki, that’s the end. I won’t let him drag this gym further than this. If he can’t set an example to be the leader of this gym, then I’ll make sure he stops being one."
The suddenly, a new voice cuts in.
"Hold on, Kirizu-san."
It’s Yoshie Noritada, a new trainer Kirizu hired last year to support Serrano’s developnt through a Cuban-system frawork.
"You’re serious about that?" Noritada asks. "Ending him after this fight?"
Kirizu turns to him, but does not respond imdiately.
"You’re treating him like a problem to be solved," Noritada continues. "But you’re ignoring what he already has."
He exhales through his nose, as if choosing his words carefully. "You can teach fundantals to anyone. That part is replaceable. But the sugar..."
Kirizu responds flatly without turning away from the ring. "Too much sugar is never good in anything."
"Well, isn’t that why you hired ?" Noritada replies calmly. "To make sure the sugar blends properly. To turn it into sothing balanced. Sothing better."
Kirizu exhales through his nose, then finally looks at him. His gaze is cold, asured, carrying a quiet pressure that cuts the air between them.
"Yes, that’s exactly why I brought you in," he says. "But understand this. If Serrano cannot keep that belt... you can take that sugar and leave this gym with it."
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