Novel Full Chapter 578: Champion Under Question
Chapter 578: Champion Under Question
Moments later, the arena lights dim without warning. For a split second, the restless noise still lingers, the residue of frustration from the canceled semifinal.
Then the first note of Hamakawa’s entrance theme cuts through the speakers. And the reaction is immediate.
The complaints die. Sections that had been muttering only moments ago fall quiet, heads turning toward the tunnel in unison. A wave of anticipation rolls across Yoyogi like a held breath.
A spotlight locks onto the entrance. From there, Shoji Hamakawa steps out, no exaggerated gestures, no theatrics. He just walks with measured steps beneath the lights, hood down, eyes forward.
And the arena rises for him. Applause spreads from the lower bowl upward, steady and genuine. It isn’t chaotic cheering. It’s recognition, and genuine respect.
Some fans lift towels with his name. Others clap rhythmically, as if welcoming back something familiar, something stable.
“There he is,” the commentator says, voice lifting naturally. “Former Super Lightweight JBC champion. Held the belt from 2014 to 2016. Two full years at the top. And the people here have every reason to adore him.”
The analyst nods beside him. “And many believed he never truly lost his place. When he was defeated by Umemoto, it shocked the division. But by the end of that same year, Hamakawa fought his way back to the number one ranking.”
On screen, highlights flash: Hamakawa’s jab snapping opponents’ heads back, his disciplined footwork, his calm stare as belts were fastened around his waist years ago.
“He was supposed to get the rematch,” the analyst continues. “That was the expectation, people waiting for him to reclaim the throne. But then a no name fighter, coming out of nowhere… changed the script by winning the Class-A tournament, and snatched the belt.”
Hamakawa walks down the aisle slowly, touching gloves with outstretched hands. The applause swells again.
“He earned this shot the hard way,” the commentator says. “Tonight, in Tokyo. In Yoyogi. A chance to reclaim what he once ruled.”
By the time Hamakawa reaches the ring steps, the earlier chaos feels distant. The crowd isn’t thinking about the walkout anymore. They are thinking about restoration.
And as he steps between the ropes, the ovation rises one more time. Not for a challenger, but for a former king returning to his throne.
***
The lights dim once more. This time, the anticipation feels different. Ryohei’s entrance music hits, and the reaction is noticeably thinner. There is applause, but it’s scattered.
Pockets of cheers rise from one section where the Cruel King’s Army stands in formation, more than two thousand strong, chanting in disciplined unison.
They wave black towels and pound thunder sticks together, determined to fill the gaps in the arena’s enthusiasm.
But the rest of Yoyogi watches, measured, and reserved.
“Here comes the champion,” the commentator says carefully. “Ryohei Yamahada. Twenty-six years old. Winner of the Class-A tournament as a heavy underdog.”
The analyst exhales softly. “And a man many still question.”
On the screen above, highlights replay that counter, the subtle step-back, the short right hand that clipped the base of the jaw. His opponent’s legs gave way as if the strings were cut.
“Some called it a lucky punch,” the commentator continues. “He repeated that same sequence against Umemoto. Again as the underdog. Again as the man no one expected to win.”
“And yet,” the analyst adds, “twice is a pattern.”
Ryohei steps out from the tunnel with the JBC belt fastened around his waist, the gold plate catching the light as the spotlight settles over him.
He doesn’t raise his arms or shout. He simply adjusts the strap once, as if making sure it sits properly, and starts down the aisle at an unhurried pace.
The reaction is uneven. The Cruel King’s Army erupts from their section, flags raised and voices unified, but elsewhere the applause feels restrained. Murmurs travel through the lower rows.
“Lucky punch champion!”
“Give it back to Hamakawa!”
Ryohei keeps walking, gaze forward, expression relaxed. Then a voice cuts sharply from near the barricade.
“Lucky boy! You don’t deserve that belt!”
That one makes him stop. Ryohei turns his head slowly toward the sound, eyes landing on the man who shouted it.
Instead of bristling, Ryohei smiles faintly and places both gloves at the ends of the belt, spreading his arms just enough to present it clearly. The gold plate gleams between his hands.
He nods once toward the man, tilting his head, asking a simple question.
“Jealous, aren’t you?”
A few people around the heckler laugh. Others boo louder, irritated that he isn’t shrinking under the pressure and judgment.
Ryohei even gives the belt a light pat, almost affectionate, then resumes walking as though the interruption barely registered.
The commentator lets out a short, surprised laugh. “He actually responded to that one?”
“He certainly did,” the analyst replies, amused. “And he doesn’t look too bothered by it.”
“Ryohei Yamahada has always had that side to him,” the commentator continues. “He seems to welcome the doubt. Many fans still question his legitimacy. They call him fortunate. A champion born from timing rather than dominance.”
Ryohei reaches the steps and pauses briefly, glancing across the ring at Hamakawa before climbing up. The crowd’s energy remains divided, admiration on one side, skepticism on the other.
And in the middle of it, the champion walks with the quiet confidence of a man who prefers doubt over praise.
“Many fans feel Hamakawa was meant to reclaim the belt,” the commentator says. “That Yamahada disrupted what was supposed to be a natural rematch.”
“And let’s not ignore the narrative,” the analyst says. “Nakahara’s Gym has risen fast, but the face of that rise has always been Ryoma Takeda. Yamahada has lived in that shadow. That’s what people have seen so far.”
***
Both fighters stand in their corners now, loosening their shoulders and arms. The ring announcer steps to the center, microphone in hand, voice echoing clean and sharp across Yoyogi.
“Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is scheduled for ten rounds for the JBC Super Lightweight Championship of Japan!”
The announcer then turns toward the blue corner. “Introducing first… the challenger!”
The spotlight shifts to Shoji Hamakawa. And a surge of cheers rises instantly.
“Fighting out of Tokyo, Japan! He is twenty-six years old, standing one hundred seventy-five centimeters tall, competing at the Super Lightweight limit of sixty-three point five kilograms!”
Hamakawa lifts his chin slightly, composed, gloves resting near his chest.
“With a professional record of twenty-three victories, two defeats, and twenty one wins, thirteen of those wins coming by way of knockout!”
“A former JBC Super Lightweight Champion, holding this very title from 2014 to 2016! A technician known for his precision, footwork, and ring IQ!”
The analyst’s voice overlaps softly from the broadcast table. “One of the most gifted out-boxers in the division. Controls distance beautifully. Rarely wastes a punch.”
The announcer raises his volume for the final line. “Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome Shoji Hamakawa!”
Hamakawa gives a short nod and raises one glove, not theatrically, just enough to acknowledge the crowd that has supported him for years. The applause swells in approval, steady and loyal.
The announcer pivots slowly toward the red corner. “And now… introducing the defending champion!”
The spotlight settles on Ryohei Yamahada. The belt still rests around his waist, gold reflecting sharply under the overhead lights.
“Fighting out of Tokyo, Japan! He is twenty-six years old, standing one hundred seventy-three centimeters tall, weighing in at the Super Lightweight limit of sixty-three point five kilograms!”
“He holds a professional record of sixteen bouts, ten victories, six wins by knockout, one draw, and five defeats! And he is the reigning, defending JBC Super Lightweight Champion of Japan!”
The belt is unfastened and lifted high by the referee for display.
“Ryohei Yamahada!”
Again, boos ripple through sections of the arena.
“Lucky boy!”
“No more miracles tonight!”
“Your luck’s running out!”
“Against Hamakawa, that trick won’t work!”
Ryohei rolls his neck once, loosening it, and looks across the ring at Hamakawa instead of the crowd. He stretches his arms lightly against the ropes, as though the noise is background static.
The commentator’s voice steadies over the reaction. “A record that critics point too often, five defeats on his ledger. But he’s riding the biggest wins of his career.”
“And those knockouts weren’t wild swings,” the analyst adds. “They were counters. He reads patterns well. The question is whether he can read someone as disciplined as Hamakawa.”
Another shout cuts through from the lower rows.
“Try your lucky punch now, clown!”
At press row, however, two veteran journalists lean toward each other, exchanging knowing scoffs and faint headshakes, their expressions bordering on amused disbelief rather than dismissal.
“They still think it was luck.”
“But luck doesn’t land twice in the exact same spot.”
“Well, what do you expect from commoners’ eyes? They just couldn’t see it.”
“They better hope Hamakawa sees it. Otherwise, Tokyo might end up watching its fallen king slip even further tonight.”