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...
Wincing, vocal reactions from the crowd instigated Joey's once-predicted wild right hand after his sharp jab misfired.
"Light definitely felt that one and he's coming right back in for revenge!"
Joey's face cocked back up, his smugness contorting into a frowning of vexation no one would need to be a psychiatrist to see. One punch dented more damaged onto his expectations than any punch—he threw his own aforementioned cross, only for the retriever mix of his substantially lesser-in-build opponent.
WHEEWW— WHHAAPP—!!!
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It wasn't like Joey caught nothing at all; he caught the air and a blunt sharpness hurtling through his abs.
Footwork was just as important as your fists.
The shiba straight outta Motown quaked his hips back from the gut check. How was this pipsqueak so strong?! He would test an inquest like that unweighted by rationale; his left glove arced a sharper, cleaner left hook, curving a his shielded maw, fully intent to get brain matter on his leather over his leather—
BBAAPP—!!
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"HASEKAI WITH A BEAUTIFUL SLIP FOLLOWED BY A LEAD UPPERCUT!!"
Joey's teeth were only saved by shattering themselves into one another from the mouthpiece—it felt like it was in his throat now, his chin snapping up by his neck raveled deeply in indescribable throbs. Just about every chair in that low-class stadium lost its cool from every punch that landed.
Every. Single. One. Looked like it'd knock out any man twice Jason's size into a blissful unconscious. The Good Lord Himself must have come down to bless even that hoodlum to take it and still stand! Even if he looked like a damn zombie trying to resurrect and defy rationale!
Hickory eyes belonging to him almost vibrated in jitters out of his sockets, forcing another knee-jerk reaction of a jab Jason wouldn't even have to dodge; it would simply fall short.
Ringing in the shiba's ears unquestionably loudened itself over any commentator or crowd. If anything, the idea of being floored publicly again was the only thought running through his mind in those maximum three seconds.
Three seconds on a clock, three hours in a fight.
"Instep Sting," Jason mentally slipped into audible words spilling from an all too satisfied, almost unbecoming leer of a smile, switching back from a southpaw stance to an orthodox one whilst simultaneously having to step back due to his lead, right foot now becoming his rear, even though his left foot stayed where it was and only faintly pivoted on its ball, going right back in and continuing a full-on fistful of an assault!
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Meanwhile...
Hoisted comfortably near a breathtakingly stunning, dusky beach, one grey-furred borzoi in particular found his young gaze trailing down attentively to a cellphone of his, silently spectating the ongoing amateur bout. Was it ever wrong to bet on the losing dog?
Unfortunately, he sighed. Then, his brown-hued pupils closed with a slight tense, rolling with pissed off-care out of his hammock before dusting off his sports apparel.
"You always gotta do shit by yourself..." he growled at the end, reopening his eyes and nudging with a thumb behind him to have the guards twice a regular person's size to follow him.
