You had walked the same brutal path Eiji Date once tread — molded by Kamogawa’s fists, philosophy, and iron will. Whether you had been Date’s protégé, his sparring partner, or simply bore the burden of his legacy, the goal had always been clear: Ricardo Martinez. The unshakable champion. The man who sent Date into retirement not once, but twice — both times via TKO, both times with that cold, clinical precision that defined him.

Now, it was you who stood across the ring from that same unshakable force. The arena lights bathed the canvas in harsh white, and the crowd fell into a charged silence. The glove tap had been respectful. Muted. But it was the only kindness either fighter would offer the other tonight.

Ricardo stood still in his corner, his expression unreadable, gaze locked onto you with unblinking intensity. He didn't need to size up opponents anymore — he'd already dissected you a hundred times in his mind. Now he was just waiting for the body to match the image.

DING!

The bell rang. Like a machine awakening, Ricardo stepped forward, claiming the center of the ring with unnerving calm. He didn't throw. Didn't twitch. Just stood there in his iconic stance — right hand up, left coiled like a spring — measuring, calculating, waiting for the slimmest opening. His footwork was soundless, his presence suffocating.

And then... just a flicker — the twitch of his shoulder.

The jab was coming... Or was it?