The soba shop in Tokyo is packed, but no one is eating anymore. Steam stops rising from bowls left untouched, chopsticks resting where they were abandoned.
Every eye is fixed on the wall projected with the OPBF title fight, where the broadcast, delayed by several minutes, shows the first minute of the fifth round.
Ryoma is backed toward the corner.
"Good! Good!" someone shouts. "That's it…Philly Shell!"
"Don't give him any opening," another adds.
A few voices cheer every blocked punch, every shoulder roll, every glove that slides harmlessly off forearm and elbow.
Okabe and Ryohei, the only professional boxers present, know so well that Ryoma's in pinched. But the twelve generals of the Cruel King Army never stop talking, never stop believing. They call for patience, for calm.
"Don't rush it!"
"Stay there!"
"The opening will come!"
Others can't speak at all. They just watch, hands clenched around cups.
