But just as Enji's fist descended, Haruto shifted his weight just in time, narrowly dodging Enji's incoming punch.
The force of the blow missed him by a hair, but the air it displaced was enough to feel like a warning.
Haruto knew that if he took another hit like that, it could be the end. His body was screaming with pain, bruises throbbing with every movement, but he couldn't afford to back down.
Not now.
'This... he is different when he is in the ring'
Enji recovered from the missed punch with surprising speed, his grin never faltering.
"You're slippery, I'll give you that," he sneered, circling Haruto like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike again.
"But let's see how long you can keep that up."
Haruto's breath was ragged, his body heavy with fatigue, but his mind was focused. He could feel every bruise Enji had targeted—the ribs, the thigh, his knuckles—all burning like open wounds.
It wasn't a dirty move in the underground fight, but a strategy to win.
But with each hit, he was learning. Enji had a rhythm, a method to his madness. Haruto could see it now, the slight dip in Enji's shoulder just before he threw a punch, the tightening of his muscles before a kick.
He was powerful, yes, but predictable.
When Enji moved again, aiming a hook at Haruto's already battered ribs, Haruto was ready.
He sidestepped and countered with a sharp jab to Enji's jaw, snapping his head to the side. Enji grunted, surprised by the quick retaliation.
Haruto followed up with a series of punches to Enji's midsection, his fists flying with newfound energy. He knew he couldn't match Enji's raw power, but he could outthink him—outlast him.
'I can't lose, not when sparring with Daiki is near.'
For a brief moment, it looked like the tide was turning. Haruto danced around Enji, avoiding the heavy blows and landing quick hits.
The sound of knuckles meeting flesh echoed in the empty warehouse, and Haruto felt a flicker of hope.
"You put up a good fight," Enji said, but this time, a subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're ready for Daiki."
Haruto's body felt like it had been through a meat grinder, every muscle screaming in protest as he lay on the cold floor, gasping for breath.
His vision was blurred, his head throbbing from the blows, but even through the pain, he managed to smirk.
He'd given everything he had, and though he had lost, he had proven something—not just to Enji, but to himself. He was ready for Daiki.
"Get up," Enji said, offering a hand.
Haruto hesitated for a moment, his pride stinging, but eventually, he took it.
His legs wobbled like a newborn deer as he tried to stand, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. Enji held him up, steadying him with a firm grip.
Meanwhile, Kikuchi, Nakamura, and Arataki stood by the gate of the black box, watching the scene unfold.
Kikuchi had a grin plastered on his face, like a man who had just hit the jackpot, as he reached for a thick stack of money from Nakamura's hand.
"I told you he would lose," Kikuchi said smugly, his fingers flipping through the cash with satisfaction.
Nakamura sighed, his eyes lingering on Haruto as he struggled to stand on his own. "I had high hopes for that kid," he said, exhaling a puff of smoke from his cigarette.
"But it looks like he's not quite there yet. Daiki's going to eat him alive."
Arataki, leaning against the gate, shook his head slightly. "Don't count him out just yet. He's good. He's only been sparring with Enji for three weeks, and look at how far he's come."
"Good isn't enough," Kikuchi replied, pocketing his winnings.
"He needs to be smarter, and craftier if he wants any chance against Daiki."
Their conversation quieted as they watched Enji guide Haruto toward the infirmary room, the weight of defeat hanging heavy on the young fighter's shoulders.
But there was something in Haruto's eyes—something determined, unbroken.
"Well," Nakamura muttered, watching the two men disappear into the shadows.
"Let's hope his fledgling wings are strong enough when the time comes. The Red Claws don't give second chances."