VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Then he notices a slight change in Aizawa’s stance, how he lets his left hang loose but keeps his right knuckles stiff near his chin.

“Seems like Aizawa has studied him enough. If that kid keeps throwing the same jabs, he’ll be staring at the canvas before the bell rings.”

Sadly, Ryoma really does keep the same approach, sending out that three-jab pattern again and again despite every miss. He never changes the rhythm, never alters the angle, like a kid following a guidebook to the letter. There’s no flair, no creativity.

And just as Ryohei said, he fights like a novice. In their eyes, Ryoma is nothing more than a rookie who only just graduated from the amateur ranks.

What they don’t know is that Ryoma has been a boxing geek for the past ten years, just not in this life. And right now, he’s laying a trap, bait crafted specifically for a counterpuncher.

Aizawa, bored from slipping past the same jabs over and over and irritated at being used as a stepping stone, doesn’t realize he’s walking straight into it.

“Saying you’re going to win a title with these jabs…?”

His lip curls in disgust as he slips another jab. This time, he adjusts his timing, dives in, and clenches his right fist, ready to throw a bomb.

“Why don’t you eat this knuckle of mine first?”

But that’s when Ryoma suddenly shifts his stance, twisting his right shoulder and whipping out a short, light hook.

Dsh!

It’s light, nowhere near enough to hurt Aizawa through the headgear, but enough to halt him mid-attack and make him question everything he’s studied about Ryoma so far.

“What was that just now? Did I misread the timing?”

The confusion makes him step back. When Ryoma follows with a quick combination, Aizawa has no choice but to bring up a tight guard with both arms.

“What the hell is this, Aizawa?!” Shuji throws up his hands. “Didn’t you say you were gonna beat his ass up?”

Aizawa retreats further, putting distance between them to reset his rhythm. His face tightens with irritation as his mind scrambles.

“Did I read him wrong?”

“Was it that short warm-up earlier that messed with my timing?”

Shuji’s voice cuts through again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Come on! You eat one light hook and now you’ve chickened out?”

That one gets under Aizawa’s skin. And indeed, the hook didn’t hurt him, not even close.

“Calm down… just read his timing again. Let the kid throw those textbook jabs.”

He steps forward, closing the distance, weaving around Ryoma’s jabs while studying the pattern. And yes, Ryoma is back to that same three-jab combo: simple, sharp, and painfully straightforward.

After feeling he’s read enough, Aizawa dives in. He slips past one jab, ready to counter. But this time, Ryoma takes a step back and flicks up a light uppercut.

Dsh!

It lands on Aizawa’s chin. Like before, it’s light, just enough to halt him in his tracks and stoke his anger further.

“You fucki…”

Before he can finish, a jab from Ryoma, this one from a slightly different angle, taps him in the face.

It’s still light, almost teasing. But then, a split second later, a right hand smashes square between Aizawa’s nose and mouth.

WHAM!!!

The headgear does nothing to soften the blow. The shot lands clean in the gap, and before Ryoma can follow up, Aizawa’s hips hit the canvas.

Coach Nakahara immediately steps in and begins the count.

“Two!”

“Three!”

“Four!”

Coach Hiroshi and Ryohei, who moments ago thought Ryoma was fighting like a clueless novice, now realize he’s been setting a trap from the start.

They glance at each other, both swallowing hard, caught between confusion and reluctant respect.

“That… that was a trap,” Hiroshi mutters.

“When did you teach him something like that?” Ryohei asks.

Hiroshi only shakes his head. He knows for certain they’ve never taught Ryoma anything beyond the basics.

But that, what they just saw, was a counter designed to beat a counterpuncher, the kind of move only veterans pull off. It’s not something you hand to a debutant.

Developing a youngster with such tactics too early usually stunts progress. Yet Ryoma just executed it flawlessly against an experienced counterpuncher.

Aizawa realizes it too. And it burns, more than the pain in his face, more than the bruise to his pride. It hits his confidence hardest.

Something ugly churns in his gut, a twisting knot of disbelief and humiliation. His breath comes uneven, and for a moment, the roar of the gym fades into a dull hum.

He can’t shake the image of a kid slipping a punch while he’d been certain he could beat him. He feels exposed, as if every pair of eyes in the room is dissecting him, measuring the gap between who he thinks he is and what he’s just shown.

His fists clench, trembling with anger, eyes wide as he stares at Ryoma, ignoring Coach Nakahara’s count.

“…Eight!”

“Nine!”

That’s when Aizawa snaps, raising a hand toward Nakahara.

“Wait… hold on! I can still…”

“Ten!”

Aizawa is back on his feet, but Nakahara has his arms crossed, the match officially over.

“Please, Coach! You counted too fast. I can still fight!”

“I know,” Nakahara says flatly, “but the fight is over.”

“But…”

Coach Nakahara cuts him off with a cold, unblinking stare that silences him instantly.

“It may not have hurt much,” Nakahara says, voice low and razor-sharp. “But letting a rookie, who debuted yesterday, slip a counter into your face? Are you sure you’re in the right state of mind to keep going? Look at your legs. They’re trembling, begging you to stop.”

Aizawa’s face drains of color. He swallows hard, knowing exactly what Nakahara means. Slowly, he glances down at his own legs.

His fists clench tighter, trembling again. Until then, he exhales deeply, making up his mind. The tremor fades, both in his hands and his stance. Without a word, he climbs out of the ring, drops his gloves into his bag, and walks out of the gym.

That’s when Ryoma finally realizes what’s just happened.

“Uh… Aizawa!” he calls out.

But Aizawa doesn’t look back, his mind already set on retirement.

“Hey, Aizawa… wait!” Ryoma calls again.

“Forget about him,” Nakahara says. “If you’re serious about winning a title in one year, you can’t waste time thinking about the ones you’ve already beaten.”

He then turns to Ryohei and Shuji.

“Who’s next?”

This time, no one answers the challenge. Neither of them has decided to quit, but neither is eager to risk what little confidence they have left. Their recent two straight losses have already shaken them enough.

Nakahara can’t quite hide his disappointment at having such small-minded fighters, but he knows better than to crush their morale further.

“Fine,” he says at last, turning to Ryoma with an unreadable expression. “We’ll find opponents for you outside.”

“So… it’s settled?” Ryoma asks.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Nakahara says as he steps out of the ring. “I’ll arrange two sparring matches for you against boxers from other gyms. Conditions stay the same, beat them within three rounds, and don’t let them put you on the canvas.”