The sixth round drifts forward in the same sleepy rhythm as the last three. Kenta still circles, still jabs lightly, still breaks Park's aggression with that strangely disinterested calm.
But by a minute in, something changes.
His punches slow, not by choice, not by strategy. It's by fatigue.
It's not exhaustion, not accumulated damage either. He just feels the dull sinking heaviness that spreads through every muscle when the body has been worked beyond its limit long before stepping into the ring.
His shoulders hitch. His guard droops by a hair. And that gentle pendulum rhythm in his legs, the one that controlled the fight since round two, starts to drag.
Another thirty seconds pass, then it dies entirely. Kenta stops bouncing, stops angling.
"I need to end it now…"
He just plants both feet as if the floor itself has seized him.
Park advances immediately, seeing his chance. And for the first time tonight, Kenta doesn't slide away, doesn't clinch, doesn't orbit into safety.
