By the third round, Elliot finally begins changing the rhythm of the fight. The violent pace from earlier rounds gradually slows as he deliberately lowers the beat of his pendulum dance.

His lead hand becomes lazier now, flicking out light jabs and soft lead hooks more as probes than true attacks while his shoulders continue swaying gently from side to side.

It is not stamina conservation. Elliot is just trying to lure Shimamura in. He begins offering something now; hesitation, openings, invitations.

"Everything has become weirdly calm! Just a few rounds ago this looked like controlled violence. Now it almost feels… tense and quiet."

"And honestly, you have to wonder here; are they already getting exhausted? Because both guys are fighting at a completely different pace now."

Elliot deliberately leaves wider gaps between movements. His guard occasionally hangs lower for a fraction too long. Sometimes he even pauses slightly after retracting punches while maintaining the pendulum rhythm, silently baiting Shimamura to finally engage first.

But Shimamura continues wandering around the ring with that same loose drunken cadence, looking almost uninterested in violence itself.

He only reacts when Elliot comes to him, nothing more. And somehow, that restraint becomes frustrating in its own way.

By the fourth round, however, the atmosphere finally starts shifting again. Little by little, Shimamura begins looking more comfortable. The confidence inside his movements grows subtly with each exchange.

His shoulders loosen further. His reactions become even more casual. And as Elliot continues offering slower rhythms and wider openings, Shimamura finally starts showing interest in stepping forward himself.

"There we go," one commentator says sharply. "Now Shimamura's starting to look like he wants to end it."

Shimamura drifts sideways with sloppy footwork before suddenly flicking out a jab and lead hook combination just as Elliot begins stepping into another pendulum sway.

Tap! Dug!

Elliot immediately plants his footing. He intentionally stops the rhythm completely. Then he takes a half-step backward exactly as Shimamura throws a right cross.

The punch cuts through empty air, and a wide opening appears.

"Finally…"

Elliot drives forward immediately with a heavy counter cross.

But still…

ZRRF!

The punch barely grazes across Shimamura's skin as he ducks while tilting his head awkwardly to the right at the final instant.

Elliot's eyes widen. "What the…?"

"HE STILL SLIPPED IT?!"

"HOW DID THAT NOT LAND CLEAN?!"

Before Elliot can fully recover balance, Shimamura's torso swings back loosely like a hanging pendulum, and…

Thud!

A short hook buries itself into Elliot's body.

Then another hook comes immediately afterward, heavier this time, arcing toward the head.

Elliot reacts just in time, pulling backward enough to avoid the impact before instantly firing a one-two combination toward the opening Shimamura leaves behind.

Jab-cross.

Even now, Shimamura still catches the jab against the back of his right glove before ducking beneath the cross.

And while leaning left with his torso nearly folded sideways, he drives another body shot into Elliot's ribs.

BUGH!

The punch forces a visible wince from Elliot.

He immediately chops a left hook downward in retaliation. But once again, Shimamura pulls his torso away at an ugly angle, the glove missing by barely a hair before he stumbles backward with loose drunken steps.

The crowd roars louder now with every exchange.

"HOW IS HE DOING THIS?!"

"Graves is creating clean counters! The openings are there! But Shimamura keeps slipping the danger by inches!"

"And every single counter from Shimamura lands cleaner than the combinations Graves is throwing!"

Elliot wants to continue pressing forward. His instincts scream at him to keep attacking. But the accumulated damage from these short exchanges has already started affecting him more than he wants to admit.

His legs feel subtly weaker now. His breathing no longer flows smoothly. And mentally, the frustration keeps building every second the fight continues refusing to obey normal logic.

He can only stare at Shimamura with growing irritation while his gloves remain raised high near his face.

"This guy is too good…"

"I seriously don't know how to deal with him anymore."

***

The same uneasy cadence continues throughout the fourth round and well into the fifth. Elliot gradually abandons the aggressive approach from earlier, slowing the tempo while layering the fight with traps, feints, and baited openings designed to lure Shimamura into punishable exchanges.

Yet despite repeatedly creating the situations he wants, he still cannot land anything truly clean. His counters continue missing by fractions of a second, often connecting only at poor angles that reduce their impact significantly.

He still accumulates points through activity and pressure, but very little of it translates into meaningful damage.

The only attacks that consistently work are the body shots. And Elliot keeps believing those shots will eventually slow him down. Because that is how Shimamura usually declines.

But tonight, there is almost no visible change in him at all. Because even from the beginning, Shimamura never fought with explosive movement to begin with. He never wastes energy on fast footwork. Never throws combinations longer than necessary.

"Graves steps in again behind the jab!"

DUG! DUG!

"And he's still staying busy here! Good body work from Elliot Graves!"

"Shimamura answers with another short counter on the inside!"

The crowd swells loudly again as both fighters circle beneath the bright arena lights.

"This fight has become fascinating technically now. Graves keeps trying to create clean exchanges, but Shimamura keeps turning them into awkward situations!"

Everything about Shimamura remains absurdly minimalistic. Even his movement still resembles a drunken man wandering casually through a park rather than a world-level boxer competing beneath arena lights.

At first glance, it almost looks like stamina conservation. But Elliot understands the truth more than anyone else.

Another opening appears, And Elliot punishes, driving a heavy counter directly into the opening.

But at the final instant, Shimamura still manages to twist his torso slightly while raising his right glove beside his head, blocking the punch completely.

DUGH!!!

The impact is heavy, yet his balance holds.

And immediately, a left counter snaps violently into Elliot's face and jerks his head backward.

DHUACK!

And there, Elliot understands something terrifying. The power is still there. After five rounds, after all the body work, after all the accumulated exchanges, Shimamura is nowhere near exhausted.

"This is… absurd."

For one brief second, Elliot's will flickers. His guard does not rise immediately.

And Shimamura punishes the hesitation instantly.

BAM!!!

A brutal right hook crashes against the side of Elliot's head hard enough to completely destroy his balance.

The entire arena erupts as Elliot's body swings sideways before collapsing onto the canvas.

"DOWN!!!"

"HE DROPPED HIM! SHIMAMURA DROPS ELLIOT GRAVES!"

"OUT OF NOWHERE AGAIN! THAT'S THE DANGER OF THIS MAN!"

The crowd explodes into deafening noise while Elliot struggles on the canvas, blinking in disbelief beneath the bright arena lights.

"Graves has been controlling so much of the tempo tonight, but Shimamura only needs moments! Just moments!"

"And every clean counter from him feels devastating because he wastes absolutely nothing!"

Elliot has always believed Soviet-style boxing is the perfect answer against counterpunchers. But tonight, Shimamura keeps landing his counters with terrifying consistency, while Elliot continues failing to connect cleanly with his own.

No matter what he does, no matter the plan and the strategy, Shimamura is too slippery as if his body had no friction whatsoever, that every punch slips his skin.

The one who used to be called as the Phantom, for the first time in his career, encounter the real phantom.

Elliot slowly turns toward his corner, showing a face filled with frustration, disbelief, and helplessness.

"Sergey… what should I do now?"

Full five rounds, he's always got the feeling of finally landing clean, every damn time. But somehow, it always misses at the very last split second.

And that helpless repetition frustrates him more than anything else.