Unfortunately, things inside Korakueh Hall are far from the confident picture Kenta had painted.
Sure, they still have Sera, a man who studied sport science in England, who can talk biomechanics in three languages, who knows more about fighting angles and weight transfer than Nakahara ever pretended to.
He can dissect a brawl with a single glance. He can sketch out a plan so clean and simple that even a mid-tier fighter like Okabe should, in theory, be able to execute it.
But knowledge means nothing when the fighter on the stool won't absorb the words thrown at him.
They're past round three now, and Okabe still hasn't shifted the momentum. He's getting dragged around by someone he should, on paper, dismantle.
"Haven't I told you," Sera begins, his voice tight but still controlled, "there's always a gap when he throws that three-jab sequence. Every time. He pulls his left back slower on the last one. That's your window. Step in on that timing."
