Novel Full Chapter 566: Forged in a Different Hell
Chapter 566: Forged in a Different Hell
Okabe feels the shock travel through his own skull, his legs trembling from the exchange. But the sight of Wakabayashi dropping steadies him.
He grits his teeth, forcing his body to hold, refusing to give in to the wobble in his limbs as he stands over him.
For a brief second, he stares down at Wakabayashi. His thighs still shake from the impact, but his eyes burn sharp and focused, clearer than at any moment earlier tonight. There is no wildness in his expression, only conviction.
The referee dives between them, one arm extended toward Okabe while the other gestures downward.
“Down! Neutral corner. Now.”
Okabe exhales once. “Your rank might be far above mine,” he says.
He then pivots away and walks toward the neutral corner.
“But you have no idea what kind of monster I have to face every single week back at the gym.”
He says it without looking back, voice low but steady. Wakabayashi hears every word, and the anger gnaws at him more than the pain.
Okabe rests his gloves on the top rope and finally allows himself one deep breath as the referee begins the count.
Around them, the roar spreads in waves from the lower stands to the upper tiers, rolling through the rafters as if the building itself trembles.
Spectators who had been seated moments ago surge to their feet. Drinks spill, programs fall forgotten onto the floor. That violent exchange in the corner still vibrates in their chests, replaying again and again behind their eyes.
Only minutes ago, Okabe had looked like the obedient target, absorbing jabs and straight rights, forced to chase shadows across the ring. He had been the underdog in posture and in scorecards.
Yet now he stands upright in the neutral corner while Wakabayashi remains on one knee, blinking against the blurry canvas.
“Damn it… how did it end to this?”
“What did I do wrong?”
The shift feels almost surreal. Somewhere in that chaos of hooks and reckless courage, something primal stirred.
The audience recognizes it instinctively. They may admire elegance, but they are now moved by defiance. And Okabe’s refusal to yield, his willingness to endure punishment just to drag the fight into his world, has ignited something raw inside them.
Even spectators who had arrived waiting only for the main event find themselves shouting his name.
OKA-BE! OKA-BE! OKA-BE!
In the commentary booth, both commentators struggle to regain composure.
“I… I cannot believe what we just witnessed,” the first says, voice still elevated. “Wakabayashi was controlling that round. He was dictating range, landing clean combinations. And then suddenly…”
“He gets trapped,” the second finishes, still staring at the replay monitor. “He gets caught in the corner, and the entire dynamic flips in seconds.”
They watch the exchange again on the screen: the misjudged hook, the dip, the counter smashing into the ear.
“That’s the moment,” the first says, pointing. “He overcommits, and Okabe reads it perfectly. But even then, the dual exchange… both of them landed.”
“And yet Wakabayashi is the one who drops,” the second replies slowly. “It’s astonishing. For five rounds he has been the superior technician. Cleaner, sharper, more composed. But inside that corner, none of that mattered.”
He pauses, then adds quietly, “He got trapped in the one place he could not afford to be.”
***
Down in the ring, the referee continues the count over Wakabayashi, whose glove presses against the canvas as he tries to steady his breathing.
The elegant technician who had commanded distance now finds himself measured not by rhythm or form, but by whether he can rise before ten.
In the red corner, Narisawa leans halfway through the ropes, panic breaking through his composure for the first time tonight.
“Get up, Wakabayashi! Get up!” he shouts, voice cracking. “Use the ropes! Breathe and stand!”
Wakabayashi blinks hard, forcing the ringing in his ear into the background. He grabs the middle rope in the corner and pulls himself upward, legs unsteady beneath him.
His knees tremble as he pushes off the canvas.
“Six!”
He plants one foot, then the other.
“Seven!”
Using the ropes for leverage, he rises fully to his feet. His back brushes the turnbuckle as he steadies himself, shoulders heaving.
“Eight!”
Wakabayashi lifts both gloves chest-high, nodding toward the referee. “I’m fine,” he says, forcing firmness into his voice despite the dull roar inside his skull.
The referee steps closer, eyes sharp. “Come forward.”
Wakabayashi takes a small step out of the corner. The referee grabs his gloves, checking his responsiveness, searching his eyes for hesitation.
After a tense second, the referee steps back and sweeps his hand between them.
“Box!”
The arena surges again, the sound no longer just excitement but disbelief. In the commentary booth, both commentators lean forward.
“This is uncharted territory for Wakabayashi,” the first says urgently. “We have never seen him dropped like that in a professional ring.”
“There’s still time left in this round,” the second adds. “Can Okabe finish it? Or can Wakabayashi survive these final seconds and recover?”
“Wakabayashi needs to survive,” the first insists. “If he makes it to the bell, he might reset. But right now, his legs do not look steady at all.”
Wakabayashi moves away from the corner, trying to reestablish distance. Yet every step feels heavy, as if his calves are filled with sand. The ache from the body blows and the ringing in his ear merge into a single disorienting haze.
From the red corner, Narisawa sees it immediately. The balance is not there. The sharpness is gone. His frustration spikes, followed closely by dread.
“Damn it… how did this turn into this,” he mutters, fists clenching against the apron.
Across from him, Okabe also feels the lingering shock from that last dual exchange. His jaw throbs, and his ribs protest with each breath. But he buries the sensation beneath stubborn resolve.
“This is nothing,” he tells himself. “I’ve experienced much worse back at the gym.”
Wakabayashi lifts his guard and tries to rebuild his wall with discipline.
Jab. Jab. Jab.
He attempts to deny entry the way he always has. Yet not only his legs feel numb; his arms feel heavy, too. The snap in his punches is dulled.
Okabe reads it instantly, and read the punches much clearer now.
He slips outside the jab. He blocks the next. He ducks under the third and steps in with…
BUGH!
A lead hook sinks cleanly into the midsection.
“That body shot landed flush!
“This is turning dangerous, very dangerous for Wakabayashi!”
Wakabayashi winces, air escaping his lungs in a sharp gasp. His legs buckle slightly.
Another punch shoots toward his face, and Wakabayashi brings both arms up to block. But the impact shoves him backward until his shoulders brush against the ropes.
Okabe does not rush. He stalks forward calmly.
“Oh no… this is not good,” the first commentator says, his voice lowering as the arena noise swells behind him. “Wakabayashi is on the ropes again.”
“Look at Okabe,” the second adds, almost whispering despite the roar around them. “He’s not charging in wildly. He’s measuring him. That’s the scary part.”
“There’s a storm coming,” the first murmurs. “And Wakabayashi might not be ready for it.”
Wakabayashi braces for a reckless finishing assault, preparing a desperate counter. But Okabe remains disciplined. He keeps his punches compact and deliberate, targeting the guard, pinning both of Wakabayashi’s gloves high.
He tests. Then tests again.
Dug. Dug.
Dug. Dug. Dug.
Gradually, something unfamiliar begins to take shape. His lead foot slides back and forth with subtle rhythm as he mixes short combinations high and low. The motion is controlled, economical, almost methodical.
Wakabayashi stays behind his guard, but punches keep slipping through to his ribs and midsection.
Okabe leans to the side with a lead hook, pulls back half a step, then slides his lead foot forward again to spear a left into the gut. He then slides back out, shifts angle, and fires a rear hook into the ribs.
In the booth, the commentators fall briefly silent before one of them blurts out in disbelief.
“Wait a minute… look at his feet!”
“That’s not the same Okabe we’ve watched for five rounds,” the other replies quickly. “He’s adjusting his rhythm between combinations. That pendulum step… he’s building pressure without smothering himself!”
“He’s not brawling anymore. He’s constructing something.”
Even Sera’s eyes widen slightly in the blue corner. He recognizes the foundation immediately. The Soviet-style footwork drills every fighter in their gym practices; weight transfer, pendulum motion, angle shifts.
All this time, Okabe has always struggled to apply it in real fights. Yet tonight, for fleeting seconds, the structure appears, even just a glimpse of it.
Punch after punch continues to land in small openings. Wakabayashi, no longer able to absorb endlessly, forces himself to throw a counter.
“He has to answer back! He cannot just stay there and take this!”
Wakabayashi commits, trying to reclaim authority with a sharp counter meant to halt the advance.
But Okabe’s pendulum step disrupts the timing completely. The distance shifts by inches at the last moment.
“Wait… look at the footwork!”
“He pulled him out of range!”
And for the first time in his professional career…
Dhuack!
Okabe executes a clean step-back counter.
The punch lands flush at the base of Wakabayashi’s jaw, snapping his head upward before his body collapses downward.
“What are we witnessing right now?!”
“Did he really just do that?!”
The bell is only eight seconds away. But Wakabayashi crashes again onto the canvas.
The arena explodes into chaos as the referee dives in again to begin the count, but Okabe does not celebrate. He stands still, chest rising and falling, a strange sensation spreading through him.
His heart pounds violently, yet everything feels distant.
“What was that…?”
He whispers to himself, unsure whether he is questioning the punch, the rhythm, or the reality unfolding before him.