Rising Tension 019

The moment came quickly. Ali's name was called, and the crowd erupted. Stepping into the ring, he felt the lights bearing down on him, the noise of the crowd blurring into a single hum.

His opponent, a confident fighter from a renowned gym, smirked as they touched gloves. The referee's whistle blew, and the match began.

The first round was intense. Ali's nerves nearly cost him as his opponent launched a flurry of attacks, testing his defenses. But with Coach Rahman's voice echoing in his mind—adapt, stay calm—Ali found his rhythm. By the second round, his jabs landed with precision, and his footwork kept him out of harm's way.

By the end of the third round, Ali stood victorious, his arm raised to thunderous applause.

From the sidelines, Zahra and Farid were a force of their own.

"That's my boy! Knock him out!" Farid yelled, his popcorn flying in every direction.

"Farid! Watch out—" Zahra started, but it was too late. A large handful of popcorn landed squarely on the lap of a nearby judge, who glared at them with a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

"Uh, sorry! Enjoy the popcorn?" Farid offered weakly, earning a facepalm from Zahra.

Meanwhile, Crystall sat quietly, sketchbook in hand. Her pencil moved swiftly, capturing Ali's focused expression, the sweat glistening on his brow, and the energy in his every move. Her lips curled into a smile as he landed the final blow.

During the break between matches, Ali returned to his corner, where Coach Rahman handed him a water bottle.

"Good start," the coach said, patting him on the shoulder. "But you need to tighten your defense. You're leaving your left side wide open."

Ali nodded, gulping down water. "Got it."

Coach Rahman leaned closer, his voice low but encouraging. "You're stronger than you think, Ali. Just remember, it's not about how hard you hit. It's about outlasting them. Keep your head clear."

Ali met his coach's gaze and nodded again, his resolve solidifying.

From the sidelines, Jason observed the match with an unreadable expression. His arms were crossed, his stance casual, but his eyes never left Ali.

"He's improved," Jason thought to himself, his mind racing with strategies to counter Ali's growing skill. But deep down, there was something else—a flicker of excitement. For the first time in a long while, he felt the stirrings of a challenge.

As Ali exited the ring, the crowd still buzzing from his performance, he wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around the arena. His eyes landed on Jason, who stood a distance away, his gaze locked onto Ali.

No words were exchanged, but in that brief moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken intent.

Ali turned away, clenching his fists. "This is just the beginning," he muttered to himself, determination blazing in his eyes.

---

The crowd roared, their voices reverberating through the arena as the second day of the Perak Youth Boxing Cup charged forward. Ali wiped sweat from his face, his gloves sticky and heavy after a grueling 1st round match. His opponent—a wiry boxer with deceptive speed—had landed more punches than Ali would admit, but in the end, Ali's Soviet-style combinations had carried him to victory.

Coach Rahman handed Ali a water bottle and gave him a hard look. "You're too predictable on the right," he said. "I told you to switch your stance if the pressure's on. You forgot halfway through."

Ali nodded, too tired to argue. "I'll do better."

Coach leaned in. "You don't just do better. You become better. Every match, every round, you adapt. If you fight Jason like this, he'll tear you apart."

The name lingered in the air, and Ali's stomach tightened. He knew Jason was watching, just like everyone else.

Ali's next opponent was a powerhouse, a broad-shouldered boxer known for his punishing hooks. The bell rang, and Ali danced around the ring, relying on the Soviet-style footwork he'd secretly studied online. His punches were precise, aimed at exploiting small gaps in his opponent's stance.

But the brute force of his opponent wore on him. By the third round, Ali's ribs screamed with every breath, his arms trembling with the effort of holding his guard. Still, he gritted his teeth and followed Coach Rahman's advice. Feint low, jab high. Step into the punch to steal its momentum.

The final bell rang, and the referee raised Ali's arm in victory. The crowd cheered, but Ali could barely hear them over the thudding in his chest.

Between matches, Zahra and Farid worked overtime to keep Ali's spirits up.

"Alright, listen up, champ!" Farid bellowed, striding into the locker room wearing a makeshift tracksuit and a fake mustache he'd drawn on with eyeliner. "You've gotta float like a butterfly and punch like a… uh, rhinoceros!"

Zahra rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a laugh. "Farid, I swear, you're the only person who can make a motivational speech sound like a nature documentary."

Even Ali cracked a smile despite the ache in his jaw. "Thanks, guys," he said, his voice hoarse.

Later, when the others had left, Crystall appeared, holding a small cooler. "I thought you might need these," she said, pulling out an ice pack and an energy drink.

Ali blinked, surprised. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," she interrupted softly, placing the ice pack gently against his side. "You're pushing yourself too hard, Ali. But... I know you won't stop. So, at least take care of yourself."

Her words sank in, and for a moment, the exhaustion didn't feel so heavy.

In the opposite corner of the arena, Jason stood, arms crossed, as he watched Ali's match on the large screen. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Ali's movements—slightly slower, slightly stiffer than before.

"He's injured," Jason muttered to himself. "But he's fighting through it. Typical."

Jason's own matches had been swift and efficient, his opponents overwhelmed by his power and precision. His path to the finals seemed inevitable, but Jason wasn't focused on that. His mind was locked on one thing: facing Ali.

"He'd better make it," Jason thought. "Anything less than his best, and this whole tournament will be pointless."

By late afternoon, the matchups for the semifinals were announced. The screen displayed the brackets, and Ali's name stood out like a beacon.

"Semifinal Match 1: Ali Hassan vs. Haris Jaffar."

Ali's breath caught. Haris was the reigning champion, a boxer known for his relentless aggression and unmatched stamina.

Coach Rahman studied the bracket, his expression grim. "This is it, Ali. Haris isn't just another fighter. He'll push you to your limit—and then some."

Ali clenched his fists, ignoring the dull ache that radiated from his knuckles. "I'll beat him."

"And if you do," Coach added, pointing at the screen, "you'll face him."

Jason's name gleamed on the opposite side of the bracket.

In the quiet of the locker room, Ali sat alone, his body bruised and battered, but his determination unshaken. He unwrapped the sketch Crystall had given him earlier—a picture of him mid-fight, his expression fierce and unyielding.

He traced the lines with his fingers, his lips curling into a small smile.

"One more," he whispered to himself, staring at his taped fists. "One more fight to reach him."

Outside, the crowd roared, signaling the start of the semifinals.

---

The gym was alive with energy. The semi-finals of the "Perak Youth Boxing Cup" had drawn a packed crowd, their excitement palpable. Among the audience, Zahra and Farid stood near the front row, waving a banner that read, "Ali the Underdog: Knock 'Em Out!" in garish neon colors. Crystall sat further back, her sketchbook balanced on her lap, her pencil gliding across the page as she captured the tension in Ali's stance.

In the center of the ring, Ali stared at his opponent, Haris Jaffar. Haris was an imposing figure—broad-shouldered, with a confident smirk that screamed dominance. Known for his aggressive style, Haris was the reigning champion, a boxer who overwhelmed his opponents with a relentless barrage of punches.

Ali, though nervous, stood his ground. He tightened his gloves, recalling the countless hours of training and the lessons from Coach Rahman. Stay calm. Stay sharp, he told himself.

The bell rang, and Haris came charging in like a bull. His fists flew in a series of rapid jabs and hooks, each one carrying the weight of his championship experience. Ali ducked, sidestepped, and absorbed blows on his guard, but Haris was relentless.

Ali shifted his stance subtly, his movements becoming calculated, precise—a hallmark of the Soviet boxing style he had secretly studied. Unlike flashy, risk-heavy approaches, the Soviet style was rooted in efficiency and discipline. It emphasized clean technique, controlling the center of the ring, and striking only when the opponent left an opening.

As Haris advanced, Ali used subtle pivots to stay just outside his reach. His footwork was deliberate, never wasting a step. He deflected Haris's punches with minimal effort, conserving energy while forcing his opponent to overextend. Every so often, Ali threw a sharp jab—not to hurt, but to disrupt Haris's rhythm. This was the Soviet philosophy: control the pace, control the fight.