What are limits? That is the concept postulated by Eon Bankō, legendary ō-sensei and creator of the Juoku Tournament in the now twilight years of his life. Yet, the old wolf never have a shimmering thought on the lingering question would shine onto...
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Totally speaking, those three strikes dictate a boxer's career more than anything else.
Should a boxer have no jab, they lack consistency and spatial awareness. Unarmed of their cross, they lack any meaningful power to drop their fellow pugilist down to their consensual canvas. And finally, without their hook, how can they possibly stay unpredictable?
There is no "best punch" in boxing. You need them all, hence why pad work is rigorously undergone with coaches and their students, usually in lieu of normal practice for soon matches.
Jason mirrored his muscle memory-ingrained practice he had with his father, flickering a gloved jab past his opponent's lips with a fist and with his eyes even mimicking Rey's jubilation once laying witness to the other's split lip.
"Shit!" Joey believed himself to internally monologue, only to realize with a mouth-guarded laugh from his golden-furred featherweight adversary that it was quite the contrary.
While Jason hated his conditioning but still went through with it, Joey bathed in temporary girls.
When Jason felt so cold it almost tipped the scale right back to feeling scalding, Joey hedonistically took up only fights he knew he wouldn't have a chance in hell to see the end of with his back grounded.
Results of this were as obvious as his new scar on the inu's muzzle. Jason leaned just a tad more, reading the instinctive haymaker Joey threw right after getting his jaw rocked with a straight shot of his fist square in the bullseye of the slightly larger's face. Nothing like seeing how red you can make another man's face—the commentators knew that all too well.
"Imma be damned, losing to some damn pretty boy!" Joey encouraged to himself.
In that, he was finding needed grit to skirt his face's fur past the already flush jab from the other's orange glove, arcing his shoulder with a clockwise roll to set up a right overhand to smash past Jason's guard. His maw grit from his lost cool.
Thankfully, though, Jason was able to cool him off with a show-stopping flick of his right wrist; just a little slower than his jab, but more than proportionally stronger. Joey's exposed canines could have been confused for being bashed into one another.
CROSS COUNTE—
LIVER SHOT!!!!
Hazel blue alongside deep auburn eyes wavered. Squinting was the most de facto thing to do here—it took everything for no cries of pain to come.
Then, they widened.
Jason's gloved fist of a paw quivered as if they belonged to a new-blooded soldier. Leather smashed into that squishy, soft space just underneath the ribcage. All and every ounce of weight befell his hips and eventually one knee.
Three thick bloody beads retracted from Joey's mouth and snout. The shiba smelled leather, then his own blood, then that padded floor beneath the both of them.
Both of them hissed no differently from aggravated, tormented serpents, and neither of them heeded the ten count.
"SEVEN...!"
"EIGHT...!!"
"NINE...!!!"
"...TEN!!!!"
DOUBLE K.O.!!!
Jason worked the hardest; he fought the smartest; he prepared the farthest... and... he didn't win?
Negated by a hoodlum?
Jason didn't think this way—he was too thought-out for his age to bother with what could have happened. Hasekai blood, maybe?
"Jason!!" an older-sounding coach called out, dispersing the wafts of mental illusion from the golden-furred boy's internal imagery.
Jittering his shaggy-furred head, he stood up almost by instinct; he already had his gloves and the rest of his gear on. He had figured him out.
