Isekai in Hajime no Ippo with Gaolang’s Template

The gym was still buzzing with tension from analyzing Mashiba's matches. Coach Kamogawa, with his years of experience, wasted no time transitioning from theory to practice. He turned to Alex with a commanding look.

"Alex," Kamogawa said, "I need you to mimic Mashiba's style. Just like you did when you fought Iga. Use your jab like a whip, not a bullet."

Alex raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Got it, Coach. I'll slow it down a bit—don't want to kill my cousin."

Kamogawa's sharp glare cut through Alex's cheeky demeanor. "Focus."

Alex nodded, adjusting his gloves as he stepped into the ring. Ippo followed, pulling his headgear into place, his expression serious.

The two touched gloves, signaling the start of the spar. Alex immediately shifted into the hitman style, his lead hand extended, left side lowered, and his flicker jab already beginning to dance like a cobra ready to strike.

Alex snapped his flicker jab with a whipping motion, its unpredictable rhythm throwing Ippo off guard. The sound of leather cutting through the air echoed in the gym.

Ippo ducked low, weaving forward as he tried to close the distance. But the flicker jab

wasn't just fast—it was relentless. The whip-like punches grazed Ippo's headgear, shoulders, and even the sides of his gloves.

"Come on, Ippo!" Kamogawa barked from the corner. "Don't move back! Go in! Quick! Quick! If you can't do that, it's over—you'll just get beat up and lose!"

Ippo gritted his teeth, forcing himself to surge forward again despite the stinging jabs peppering him. This time, he managed to get closer. Spotting an opening, Ippo exploded with an uppercut aimed at Alex's chin.

Alex, anticipating the move, leaned back with uncanny precision, letting the punch miss by millimeters.

Not giving Alex a moment to breathe, Ippo immediately followed with a cross, throwing all his weight into the punch.

Alex twisted his body to the right, deflecting the cross with his shoulder in one fluid motion.

"Good reflexes!" Kamogawa muttered under his breath, impressed despite himself.

Ippo, undeterred, threw a hook aimed at Alex's chin. But Alex, keeping his composure, subtly raised his right glove just enough to let the hook land on his forearm, absorbing the impact without breaking his stance.

They reset, circling each other for a brief moment.

Ippo, determined not to give Alex too much room, darted inside before Alex could fully reestablish his flicker rhythm. He rushed forward, ignoring the slight sting of a jab grazing his temple.

Alex, maintaining his cool, fired a sharp straight right, catching Ippo square on the forehead. The impact forced Ippo to stumble back, momentarily halting his momentum.

Kamogawa's voice cut through the room like a whip. "Ippo! Timing! Work on your timing! If you can't close the distance with precision, you're wasting your energy!"

Ippo shook off the sting of the punch, his breathing heavy but his resolve unshaken. He nodded, his eyes locked on Alex, analyzing every movement as he prepared for the next round.

The sharp sound of the bell brought the spar to an end. Both fighters lowered their gloves, their bodies glistening with sweat.

"Not bad," Alex said, pulling out his mouthguard with a sly grin. "But you're still wide open when you come in."

Ippo shot him a quick glare but said nothing, still catching his breath.

Kamogawa approached the ring, arms crossed. "Alex, good work with the flicker jab. Ippo, you're starting to see the gaps, but your timing needs to improve. Don't just rush in blindly—Mashiba will eat you alive if you do."

Ippo nodded, his determination burning brighter despite the tough session.

 Mashiba's POV

Ryo Mashiba was at his workplace, his usual stoic demeanor making him stand out among his coworkers. He moved through his tasks with the same efficiency and sharp precision that defined him in the ring. Though he didn't show it, his mind was already elsewhere—focused on the semi-finals looming ahead.

A quiet knock at the door pulled his attention. Turning, Mashiba saw his younger sister, Kumi, standing there with a small bag in her hands. She stepped in with a gentle smile and walked over to him.

"I brought some snacks," she said, setting the bag down on the nearby table.

Mashiba nodded silently, his sharp eyes briefly softening as he looked at her. Kumi lingered for a moment, her gaze filled with a quiet concern, but she didn't say anything further. With a small wave, she left him to his thoughts.

Later at Tōhō Gym

The dull thud of heavy bags being struck and the rhythmic sounds of jump ropes filled the Tōhō Gym. Mashiba arrived after his shift, his body tired but his mind razor-sharp. Boxing was the one thing that made sense to him, the one place where his frustrations and burdens could be channeled into something productive.

His coach, Tōhō, approached him with a clipboard in hand, his expression serious. "Mashiba, the semi-finals are coming up. I've brought someone in to spar with you. I want you sharp for this next fight."

Mashiba gave a small nod, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. He didn't ask questions—it wasn't his style.

The sparring partner stepped forward, matching Mashiba's height and build. He extended a hand with a polite smile. "Hello, Mashiba-san. I'm here to help you prepare."

Mashiba didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the man. He simply turned and climbed into the ring, slipping on his gloves with methodical precision. His silence wasn't meant to be rude—it was just who he was.

The bell rang, and the sparring session commenced. Mashiba immediately assumed his signature hitman style, his long arm extended, the flicker jab snapping out with whip-like precision.

His opponent raised his guard high, trying to weather the barrage of flicker jabs. Each punch was like a viper's strike—quick, accurate, and unrelenting. The sound of gloves hitting gloves echoed in the gym as Mashiba dictated the pace.

The sparring partner, realizing he couldn't stay on the defensive, attempted to slip inside the range of the flicker jab. He moved low, aiming to close the distance.

But Mashiba anticipated the move. As his opponent slipped forward, Mashiba shifted his weight slightly and unleashed a lightning-fast cross.

CRACK!

The punch connected cleanly, catching the sparring partner square on the chin. The man's legs gave out as he fell backward, landing on the canvas with a dull thud.

Mashiba stood over him, his cold eyes staring down, as if evaluating the result. He didn't gloat, didn't smile—he simply turned to his coach.

Tōhō nodded, satisfied. "Good work. Keep that precision in the semi-finals, and no one will stand a chance."

Mashiba climbed out of the ring without a word,

To be continued…