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...
Actual commentary and roars of the crowd were drowned out. Buzzing in Jason's ear only became discernible upon his opponent's entry as the second fighter. Aside from experimenting with hypotheticals, there was little to base on his opponent—all he knew was that he was a street fighter without a professional background or actual coach.
Should be easy, then, but he knew better than to underestimate someone he hasn't even seen the fists of yet. Even the inexperienced can pull of some things experienced fighters aren't prepared for.
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"Ladies and gentlemen!" the upbeat announcer ushered through quieting chatter in a call to those who sat in those stands, the voice inspiring hype for what was to happen in only a few moments. "Thanks to your patience and after a few minor setbacks, we present to you all the match of the evening!"
No doubt at least a dozen or even twice that cheered in elated octaves. Maybe even thrice that.
Jason idly looked around and caught a vague figure coming closer and clarifying itself beyond some lengthy stick. Spectators may even call this comparison unfair.
"Fighting out of the blue corner, weighing in at one hundred twenty-eight pounds and standing at a height of five foot eight..."
"with an existing amateur record of four wins—three by knockout—one draw, and two losses by decision...!"
"Son of London's light heavyweight champion from the 2000s... JASON HASEKAI!!!"
One'd almost think this wasn't a rented arena if they had to guess from such an uproar. The match wasn't even professional.
"I'm more than just what my old man was..." Jason internally lamented, however refusing to let the moment emotively dictate him.
The retriever mix paused that to hear the rest of the referee's spiel in lieu of any remaining cheers, maintaining an off-handed and aloof demeanor. Popularity may be on his side.
"Not to be upstaged... returning from a two year-long hiatus... in the red corner, weighing in EIGHT WEIGHT CLASSES above his opponent at a weight of one hundred eighty three pounds and at a height of six foot four..."
"...scabbarding an amateur record of nine wins—ALL by knockout—and only two losses being at the earliest stage of his career's start...!"
"Unquestionably one of Detroit's most promising upstarts in the today's boxing... JOEY LIGHT!!!"
Public attraction was *not* on Jason's side. And wouldn't Dosijoe be the more experienced one in this? Then again, he never publicly showed his training and his fights up until now admittedly were of lower level. People came and went, and honestly? Let them, he thought. All the sweeter reactions to reap when he wins. Weighted expectations won't sto, him now!
Joey's snarl proved haughtiness lied itself underneath his tugged maw. Not one fang was left hidden away, even if they were sheathed by a mouthpiece. Gloving his boxing tank top's bottom, lifting the cloth showcased odious burns behind regrown golden fur; one nasty, faded scar mapped itself eerily close to his upper chest and lodged in his faded abs—almost like it was from the result of an untrained, wobbly-aimed gunshot.
Joey's eyes squinted inward and raised upward; his head lulled as he neared, finding it unfortunate he would need to meet in the middle with someone he had his angle his neck down to look down at. For not even a moment did his smile relinquish itself, though, it became more clear with time that it was becoming forced if his eyes easing up meant anything.
"I gotta thank you," Joey sharply avowed, his speech suppressed by his orange-hued mouthguard. "Nobody else has balls like you!"
"You're welcome." Jason acted like he was being thanked for bringing the guy only a year older than him a glass of water.
And so, the referee had both boys dap each other up with their gloves; one-sided tension boiled over and the crowd knew that more than well. How venomous!
The retriever and the shiba trodded on over back to their corners, nerve-wracking claws tearing at their chests, begging them both to run away.
"BOX!!"
SWOO—!! TAPP- TAPP— TAPP— WHOOO— BBOWWW!!!
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Joey opted to spear and bay Jason like a fisherman, but Jason rolled past the punch exactly like his father once did, taking advantage of his opponent's orthodox stance via a left overhand from his own southpaw and knocking his maw down!
