Novel Full Chapter 574: Promoters and Promises
Chapter 574: Promoters and Promises
Back in the arena, the event staff move with deliberate restraint, quietly following protocol to stretch the schedule for as long as possible.
The ring announcer does not enter the ropes yet. In the red corner, the ringside physician continues examining Rikiya, shining a small penlight into unfocused eyes.
Up in the booth, the first commentator exhales slowly. “We’re still waiting for the official confirmation, but this appears to be over. What a shocking turn.”
The analyst nods, fingers steepled near his lips. “Aramaki was controlled for most of the fight. Outmaneuvered. Outread. And yet one explosive decision changed everything.”
A pocket of local fans rises again, clapping in steady rhythm. They chant Aramaki’s name, their voices proud, almost protective.
In the VIP section, several international guests exchange glances. A few promoters lean toward one another, murmuring beneath the polite applause.
“They’re dragging this out. Too much dead air.”
“What do you expect? It’s a small promoter trying his luck.”
“This isn’t some backyard show. The event’s organized by NSN. They know what they’re doing.”
The current JCB Super Featherweight Champion, Leonardo Serrano, sits composed while hiding his discomfort. Beside him is his young manager, Takayuki, the same sharp-eyed man who once handled his rise as a content creator years ago.
“He beat him in four rounds,” Takayuki whispers, leaning to him. “With one punch, man… One punch.”
Serrano does not answer immediately. But Takayuki’s words linger heavier than they should as he remembers his own fight with Rikiya.
It was twelve grueling rounds, ended with a narrow scorecard that could have gone either way. Yet now he sees Aramaki beat Rikiya with just one punch in round four.
But he still hates to admit it.
“He got lucky,” Serrano speaks quietly. “I’m sure Rikiya reacted to the wrong angle because he’s still haunted by the one I landed months ago. A telegraphed leap like that shouldn’t fool a veteran.”
Takayuki tilts his head, faint smile forming. “Does that mean you were lucky too? That Rikiya misread yours?”
Serrano’s gaze sharpens. Then he leans back in his seat, eyes returning to the ring.
Before he can reply, the ring announcer finally climbs through the ropes, microphone at hand. “Ladies and gentlemen… the referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty-two seconds of round four! The winner by technical knockout… Tatsuki Aramaki!”
The arena responds with renewed applause. Some stand, while others simply nod, still stunned.
Across the ring, Rikiya rises slowly with assistance. His head remains bowed as he and his team exit beneath respectful clapping. There are no excuses offered, only silence from the fallen former champion.
Unexpectedly, a ring girl approaches Aramaki with a handheld microphone. Though this was only an undercard bout, the upset demands attention.
“Aramaki-san. You won with a single clean punch against former champion Rikiya Miyamoto. It seems like an early night for you.”
Aramaki shifts awkwardly. “Honestly, I couldn’t do much tonight. He controlled most of the fight. That last punch… I still believe it landed because of luck.”
He bows his head slightly. “Miyamoto-san is a great boxer. I still can’t believe I won.”
The crowd applauds louder. Some of his loyal supporters shout back.
“Don’t be so modest, Aramaki!”
“You deserve it!”
“Believe in yourself!”
Aramaki smiles shyly and bows again in gratitude.
Only after the brief interview ends does he gather with his cornermen. As they step toward the ropes to leave, the cheers continue behind them.
Yet the celebration feels incomplete. Once their feet touch the arena floor, the anxiety returns.
***
When Aramaki and his team finally reach the locker room, the atmosphere feels heavier than the arena noise.
Nakahara is pacing in tight circles across the floor, hands clasped behind his back, muttering under his breath.
No one rushes forward to congratulate the winner. But Aramaki understands enough the situation, and actually apologizes for the win.
“Sorry, guys…” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “I ended it too soon. I had tried to prolong it, but…”
Okabe bursts out laughing as he walks over and smacks Aramaki hard between the shoulders. “So that’s why the first round looked so awkward? You were trying to stretch the fight? Against a former champion? You’ve got some nerve.”
Aramaki exhales sheepishly. “Yeah… but you see, I was up against Rikiya Miyamoto. I guess I overdid it with that gazelle punch.”
Before the mood can soften further, Nakahara snaps. “You’re not the one who should apologize!”
His voice cuts through the room like a blade. His eyes burn, chest still heaving with restrained fury directed elsewhere.
Aramaki falls silent. But before Nakahara can unleash more of his anger, the locker room door opens again. Tetsu steps in quickly, slightly out of breath.
“They’re here… Arman Sargsyan and his team just arrived.”
Instead of relief, Nakahara’s expression darkens further. He storms past everyone without another word.
“Sir, wait!” Tetsu calls, hurrying after him.
***
Halfway down the hall, Nakahara comes face to face with the young man he recognizes from the weigh-in room the day before. It’s Wahyu, holding an empty ice box, walking beside a venue staffer.
“Omae!” Nakahara barks in Japanese. “You’re one of Sargsyan’s camp, right?”
Wahyu blinks, clearly not understanding the words, but the anger in the old man’s face needs no translation.
“Where’s that bastard Sugiarto?” Nakahara demands.
Wahyu glances helplessly at the staffer. The staffer quickly translates into English. Wahyu’s confusion deepens as he opens his mouth to respond.
But Tetsu reaches Nakahara first. “Sir, wait… Arman Sargsyan is undergoing medical checkup right now. You shouldn’t interfere. If people see this, they might accuse you of pressuring the opponent’s camp before the fight.”
Nakahara’s jaw tightens. For a moment, it seems like he might ignore the warning entirely.
Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to step back. But he cannot leave without saying something.
He turns toward Wahyu again, pointing a rigid finger inches from the young man’s face.
“You were the ones who forced me to pay that thirty thousand dollars upfront. Remember that. You’d better make sure Arman Sargsyan steps into that ring in his best condition.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Wahyu remains frozen, still holding the empty box. Then he looks at the staffer, expecting for an explanation.
The staffer hesitates for a moment before answers in English. But the number alone hits harder than the translation. Wahyu’s eyes widen, color draining from his face.
“Thirty… thousand?” he repeats.
The staffer shrugs, already turning away. “Come on. We don’t have time to stand around. Let’s get the ice.”
Wahyu swallows and follows, his grip tightening on the empty box as the weight of something far bigger than he realized begins to settle on his shoulders.
***
When Wahyu returns, the locker room feels just as suffocating as when he left it. Arman has finished his medical check. The ringside doctor is gone. Now he sits on the bench, shoulders tense, while Dedi carefully wraps tape around his hands.
“It’s because of you!” Arman snaps, not looking at anyone in particular. “Why did you choose a place that far from the arena?”
Sugiarto stands near the lockers, arms folded defensively. “How was I supposed to know traffic would be that bad? It’s not like I can control the roads.”
“And you call yourself a great manager?” Arman scolds him. “Even without traffic, that place is still too far. I had to sit in a taxi for hours before stepping into the ring. Hours. If we had arrived any later, my career could’ve been ruined tonight.”
Dedi keeps taping silently, pretending not to hear. Near the door, Wahyu stands with the ice box still in his hands. He hasn’t moved since entering. His mind is racing.
He knows Arman deserves to know what Nakahara said. But the atmosphere is already volatile. Arman is still furious. If he drops that bomb now, the room might explode.
That’s why Wahyu hesitates. However, Sugiarto’s loud voice cracks through his thoughts.
“Why the hell are you still standing there like an idiot? Where’s the ice?”
Wahyu flinches slightly, pulled from his dilemma. His eyes widen, but not from fear this time. There is no respect left. There’s only anger, contempt, disdain.
Sugiarto clicks his tongue in annoyance and strides over, grabbing the lid of the ice box and flipping it open. Cold vapor spills out. The ice is there, solid and full.
Still, Sugiarto smacks the back of Wahyu’s head sharply. “Put it over there,” he barks. “Just getting ice takes you that long. Fucking useless.”
And that is the breaking point, the trigger. Wahyu’s fingers loosen, and the ice box slips from his hands. It lands heavily on the floor with a dull thud. Cubes shift and clatter inside. And everyone looks up.
“I just met Kenji Nakahara outside,” Wahyu says, voice shaking but loud enough to cut through the room. “And he said this bastard forced him to pay thirty thousand dollars upfront to secure the fight with Arman.”
Sugiarto’s face turns red instantly. “What did you just call me?” he growls, stepping forward and grabbing Wahyu by the collar. “You dare calling me bastard?”
Wahyu doesn’t retreat. He drives his palm hard into Sugiarto’s chest and shoves him back.
“F*ck you!” Wahyu spits. “Why don’t you explain about the thirty thousand dollars first?”
The words hang in the air like smoke. Slowly, Sugiarto turns his head toward Yohannes, and then toward Arman.
Both men stare back at him, eyes wide, expressions darkening into something far more dangerous than anger.
Arman rises from the bench, half-wrapped hands dangling at his sides.
“Thirty thousand?” he repeats quietly.
The room feels smaller. The fight outside the ring seems trivial compared to the one about to begin inside this locker room.