Ryoma understands it now with absolute clarity. This is no longer about scouting his conditioning. This man is trying to injure him before the fight.
A right hand grazes his forearm.
Dugh.
Another clips his upper arm.
Dugh
The pain sinks deeper than it should, heavy and unnatural, sending a dull shock through the muscle.
Ryoma's eyes sharpen. "Damn it…"
Each time that right hand touches him, the sensation lingers, wrong in a way his body immediately recognizes.
As Archie keeps pressing, Ryoma's defensive instincts sharpen in response, his movements becoming more precise, more deliberate as he begins to avoid that right hand at all costs.
He slips left, steps back, pivots out, his awareness narrowing entirely around that single threat.
And gradually, he slips into the zone.
The space around him slows. Punches stretch into clearer lines, trajectories easier to read, timing easier to intercept.
