Isekai in Hajime no Ippo with Gaolang’s Template

The backstage room was silent except for the faint creaking of the leather bench as Alex leaned forward, stretching his hamstrings. His muscles, warmed up from earlier exercises, moved fluidly as he rotated his shoulders and extended his legs in careful motions. The fight was nearing, and every movement mattered.

Coach Kamogawa stood nearby, his sharp eyes watching Alex's form. "That's enough stretching. Get up and do some shadow boxing."

Alex nodded, rising to his feet. He planted himself firmly on the gray rubber flooring and began moving. His left hand flicked out in sharp jabs,his right hand followed with clean crosses, and his body swayed instinctively, dodging imaginary counters. The sound of his feet brushing against the ground echoed in the dimly lit room.

As Alex continued his shadowboxing, Coach Shinoda walked over to his gym bag, unzipped it, and pulled out a neatly folded black kimono. The fabric was thick yet smooth, embroidered with a family crest on the back. It was a traditional Montsuki, a formal Japanese kimono once worn by samurai.

Shinoda held it up with a satisfied nod. "This will be your walkout attire."

Alex turned to glance at the garment. His gaze softened, then he smirked. "Yeah… Don't forget the Kasa."

Shinoda chuckled, already expecting the request. He reached deeper into the bag and pulled out a black bamboo hat. "It's here too."

Assistant Coach Yagi grinned as he inspected the outfit. "Damn, you're gonna look like a ronin. I can already imagine it."

Alex smirked, rolling his shoulders. "I was thinking about wearing samurai armor, but I'm saving that for my future title fight."

Coach Kamogawa clapped his hands once."Enough talking. Get to your technical footwork."

Alex shifted back into motion, focusing solely on his precise foot positioning, sharp pivots, and controlled weight transitions. Every step was measured. Every movement had a purpose. His heart rate stayed steady. His breathing was controlled.

After a few minutes, Kamogawa finally nodded. "Alright, take a break."

Alex exhaled deeply and sat down, his back resting against the wall. The tension in the room thickened. The fight was just minutes away.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted the stillness.

Coach Shinoda walked over, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Standing there was a camera operator, his bulky camera already rolling.

"Come in," Shinoda said, stepping aside.

The cameraman nodded politely before entering, his lens immediately locking onto Alex. He zoomed in as Shinoda crouched down, pulling out the hand wraps.

The room remained silent as the wrapping process began. Shinoda methodically secured Alex's knuckles, wrists, and fingers, ensuring tight yet comfortable support. The camera zoomed in, capturing every detail—no padding adjustments, no extra layers, no tampering.

They wanted the world to see—no cheating, no tricks. Just skill.

After ten minutes, Shinoda finished wrapping. He gave Alex's hands a final check before nodding in approval. Then, he grabbed Alex's black gloves,slid them on, and meticulously taped them down.

Assistant Coach Yagi stepped forward, lifting the Montsuki kimono. "Here. Time to complete the look."

Alex stood up as Yagi draped the kimono over his shoulders. The heavy black fabric settled over him, the family crest gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. Lastly, Shinoda placed the black bamboo kasa on his head, its wide brim casting a shadow over Alex's eyes.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd outside roared.

A single Koto string rang out—ting.

Then another—ting.

Then another—ting.

The haunting melody of the traditional Japanese instrument sent shivers down the spines of thousands in the MGM Grand Garden Arena. The sound was slow, eerie, and filled with tension.

Then, a single spotlight flickered on, illuminating the tunnel entrance.

Standing there, motionless, was Alex Makunouchi.

The black kimono draped over his body. The black kasa tilted slightly downward, casting a shadow over his sharp, focused eyes. He looked like a wandering warrior from a lost era.

The crowd fell into an eerie silence.

Goosebumps rippled across the audience.

Then, as the Koto melody faded, the announcer's voice boomed.

"And now, entering the ring… Fighting out of Japan… The undefeated Japanese Lightweight Champion… ALEX! MAKUNOUCHI!"

Alex walked forward, his pace slow and deliberate. With every step, the energy in the arena intensified.

Reaching the ring, Coach Kamogawa stepped behind him, gripping the edges of the Montsuki.With a single tug, he removed the kimono and kasa, revealing Alex's sculpted physique.

Now standing in just his black boxing trunks, Alex climbed into the ring.

The arena went dark again.

Then—

BOOM!

A heavy bass rumbled through the speakers.

A hip-hop beat dropped, and the song "Please Don't Hurt 'Em" blasted through the stadium. The lights strobed wildly, illuminating the tunnel.

Then, the crowd erupted.

"SHARMBA! SHARMBA! SHARMBA!"

Emerging from the tunnel was Sharmba Mitchell.

He wore loose camouflage military fatigues—a baggy green military shirt and cargo pants. His hands were wrapped, his expression serious yet confident. He bounced on his toes as he made his way to the ring, shadowboxing with small, crisp punches.

As he reached the steps, his coach peeled off his military shirt, revealing his chiseled upper body.He stepped into the ring, rolling his neck, shaking his arms loose, and staring across at Alex.

The tension was electric.

The MGM Grand was shaking.

Then, the spotlight shifted to the center of the ring.

Standing tall in the center of the ring was Michael Buffer.

The legendary ring announcer, standing at 5'11, wore a flawless tuxedo, his silver microphone gleaming under the lights.

He raised it to his lips.

The arena held its breath.

Then—

"Ladies and gentlemen…"

His voice boomed through the stadium.

"…This is the moment you've all been waiting for!"

The crowd exploded.

"For the thousands in attendance…"

The camera panned over the roaring fans.

"And the millions watching around the world…"

"Ladies and gentlemen…"

Buffer took a dramatic pause.

Then, his voice thundered—

"LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!"

The crowd erupted into chaos.

Michael Buffer stepped forward, microphone in hand, and the crowd quieted slightly in anticipation.

"Introducing first, fighting out of the red corner, with his trainer, Genji Kamogawa… wearing black tracks and an official weight of 135 pounds. His professional record is a perfect one: six fights, six victories, all by way of knockout. From Tokyo, Japan… the Japanese Lightweight Champion… ALEX 'THE GREAT' MAKUNOUCHI!"

A wave of boos erupted from the crowd, echoing through the MGM Grand Garden Arena. The camera zoomed in on Alex, his face unreadable, his posture relaxed yet exuding quiet confidence.

Michael Buffer continued, his voice booming.

"And now, his opponent… fighting out of the blue corner! With his coach, Jamal… wearing blue and white… an official weight of 135.5 pounds. His professional record: 19 wins, 14 knockouts, and zero defeats! From Washington, District of Columbia, USA… SHARMBA 'LITTLE BIG MAN' MITCHELL!"

The crowd roared in support, chanting Mitchell's name as he bounced on his feet, eyes locked onto Alex.

The referee called both fighters to the center of the ring.

"You can touch gloves if you want," he said.

Neither Alex nor Mitchell made a move. They simply stared at each other, their expressions serious, their focus razor-sharp. After a tense second, they both turned back to their corners.

The referee checked both sides, lifted his hand, and shouted—

"FIGHT!"

Mitchell rushed to the center of the ring, and Alex mirrored him. The contrast between their styles was striking—Mitchell stood in his Philly Shell stance, his left shoulder raised high to guard his chin, while Alex assumed his signature Hitman Style, his lead hand extended and his body slightly bladed.

"And here we go!" ESPN commentator John called out.

Alex flicked a feinting jab, testing Mitchell's reaction. Mitchell rolled his shoulder, expecting a real jab, but Alex didn't follow through.

"Alex is just measuring him, feeling him out,"John said.

"But he better not get too comfortable! Mitchell is no joke!" Calvin, his co-commentator, responded.

Suddenly, Alex exploded forward, firing a sharp jab followed by a cross. Mitchell smoothly rolled his shoulder, avoiding the blows, but Alex didn't let up. He stepped in and launched a powerful left hook—one that crashed into the side of Mitchell's temple.

Mitchell's legs wobbled. His balance faltered.

The crowd gasped.

Mitchell instinctively reached forward, grabbing Alex in a clinch. His coach shouted from the corner, "Hold him! Hug him tight!"

But Alex wasn't letting up. While locked in the clinch, he dug his fists into Mitchell's ribs—a brutal double body hook.

Mitchell let out a grunt of pain.

"Ohhh! Those body shots hurt! You can hear them from here!" John exclaimed.

Calvin, now standing up from his chair, shouted, "NO! NOOO! GET OUT OF THERE!" His voice was borderline hysterical. The camera panned to him—middle-aged, overweight, his face red from panic.

The referee separated them, and Mitchell staggered back, blinking rapidly. The crowd sighed in relief as the fight briefly reset.

Mitchell's coach screamed, "Stay sharp! Use your footwork!"

Mitchell nodded, now more cautious. He backed up, trying to create distance. But Alex didn't care.

He rushed forward again.

Jab to the body—Mitchell instinctively countered with a right cross—BAM! It connected! His glove crashed against Alex's temple.

"Oh! He caught Alex!" Calvin shouted.

But Alex didn't stop. He walked through it.

Mitchell's moment of hope vanished in an instant.

Alex's right uppercut launched upward—SNAP!—it crashed into Mitchell's chin.

Mitchell's legs gave out.

He started chicken-dancing, his feet barely keeping him up. He instinctively raised his arms to shield his head, his movements desperate.

Alex's stance shifted. He stepped forward, switching stances.

Mitchell braced.

Alex unleashed a crushing left overhand.

The punch BULLDOZED through Mitchell's guard, smashing directly into his forehead.

THUD!

Mitchell's back slammed into the ropes! His arms flailed as he tried to recover, but Alex didn't give him time.

A barrage of punches rained down—lefts, rights, hooks, body shots—Mitchell had NO answer!

"HE'S DONE! HE'S DONE!" John screamed.

The referee jumped in and stopped the fight!

Silence.

The entire MGM Grand Garden Arena went dead quiet.

Coach Kamogawa, Coach Shinoda, and Assistant Coach Yagi rushed into the ring and hugged Alex, their faces filled with joy. Meanwhile, at the commentary table, Calvin stood frozen, his mouth open in disbelief.

"No… no… THAT WAS AN EARLY STOPPAGE! MITCHELL CAN STILL FIGHT!" he protested.

John shook his head. "Look at him. He's unconscious on his feet."

The camera zoomed in on Mitchell—his eyes glazed, his body barely standing. His coach hurried into the ring to support him.

Michael Buffer returned to the center, microphone in hand.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE WINNER BY TECHNICAL KNOCKOUT… THE STAR OF JAPAN… ALEX 'THE GREAT' MAKUNOUCHI!"

The referee raised Alex's hand.

Back in Tokyo, JapanAt the Makunouchi household, Mari and Aunt Hiroko cheered loudly, watching Alex's dominant victory on TV.

On the screen, Alex was handed a microphone for a post-fight interview.

He looked straight into the camera and, in Japanese, declared—

"I told you he wasn't on my level."

He smirked.

"Matter of fact, you should change my nickname to 'Silencer' because I can silence the crowd."

The translator relayed his words in English.

BOOOOOOO!

The American crowd erupted in boos.

Some fans threw trash into the ring. Security quickly covered Alex and his coaches, escorting them backstage.