VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma keeps things safe, throwing fewer punches, using the time to get comfortable with the ring and space, calculating Renji’s danger zone through his Vision Grid system. Conveniently, the same display shows him the countdown of the round in each second.

The fight slows to a measured pace. Both men look less like brawlers and more like chess players, only probing and waiting. Renji sends out compact jabs and the occasional short hook that never lands, while Ryoma stays just outside range.

To the high-school hobbyists watching from ringside, it’s boring. But to the veterans, it’s the opening gambit of a high-level match.

Sato leans forward, throat tight. “This is intense. Both are waiting for the other to blink first.”

“That boy…” Tanaka mutters, almost to himself, “he’s not supposed to look this calm against a champion. Either he’s fearless, or he doesn’t know what he’s standing in front of.”

On the champion’s corner, Kirizume glances at the timer, less than 30 seconds remain. He knows Renji is studying, but he’s got a surprise planned: when the clock hits ten seconds, he’ll slam the canvas, a signal for Renji to strike.

But before Kirizume’s palm meets the canvas, Ryoma makes the first move, firing off a flurry of jabs and hooks, mixing angles, showing every card without hesitation.

“What the hell…?”

Kirizume is caught off guard. He still slams the canvas, but now it’s a call for Renji to take back control.

Renji finds himself forced onto the defensive; blocking, slipping, weaving. A few shots slip through, muffled by the headgear but irritating all the same.

“Does this surprise you?” Ryoma smirks between punches. “Of course it does! Go on, keep trying to study me.”

That smirk makes Renji’s blood boil even more.

But he can’t do anything, too absorbed in studying Ryoma’s rhythm, too busy fending off punches to mount any real offense.

With only seconds left in the round, he’s learned almost nothing.

And then…

Ding!

The first round ends.

Both fighters stop, and both still look fresh. The only visible mark is that faint trace of blood under Ryoma’s nose. But everyone knows who owned the round.

Even Renji walks to his corner with a scowl.

“Tch! Kept running around like a pussy.”

Ryoma hears the insult, but it only leaves him satisfied. It sounds less like an attack and more like a grudging “good job, kid.”

Sure enough, Coach Nakahara greets him with the exact words “Good job, kid” followed by an order for Hiroshi to check his nose.

Hiroshi brings a stool for Ryoma, crouches in front of him, tilting his chin up with one hand while the other gently wipes away the faint streak of dried blood. He inspects the nostril with a quick practiced glance before giving a small nod.

“Nothing serious. Already dry,” Hiroshi reports.

“His punch was real, I’ll give him that,” Ryoma mutters. “But that was only because I got careless. I won’t let him touch me again.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Nakahara snaps. “You haven’t seen everything he’s got. Don’t forget who you’re up against.”

“I get it, I get it… he’s the champion.”

Outside the ring, Sato leans slightly toward his colleague, keeping his voice low.

“You seeing this, Tanaka? The kid’s not just holding his ground. He’s setting the pace.”

Tanaka nods, eyes fixed on Ryoma. “Yeah… and against Renji, of all people. I expected him to survive, maybe steal a few shots, but not dictate the tempo.”

“It’s the composure,” Sato murmurs. “Most debutants flinch, rush, or get reckless when facing a champion. But this kid… he’s patient, calculated. That’s not normal for someone who fought his first pro match four days ago.”

“Exactly,” Tanaka nods. “He is boxing like he’s been here for years.”

In the other corner, Kirizume still wears a calm expression, but his mood has shifted. His eyes move slowly, tracking the rise and fall of Renji’s chest, the flex and drop of his shoulders, and any subtle changes in his face.

The sweat is fresh, not yet dripping, and there are no visible marks. But the set of Renji’s jaw, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth, tell a different story. He’s far from satisfied with how the first round went.

“So,” Kirizume asks quietly, “what do you think of him?”

“That brat…” Renji’s glare sharpens, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Hate to admit it, but he’s reading me almost like an open book. Too mature for someone his age.”

“What about his boxing?”

At that, Renji doesn’t answer right away. His breathing slows but deep, as if replaying every exchange in his head.

In that first round, he’d managed to get a feel for Ryoma’s mentality, enough to know the kid isn’t a typical rookie. But to judge his actual boxing style? That’s harder to pin down.

“The only thing I can say right now…” He tilts his head slightly, voice lower. “He’s a head hunter, and an accurate one at that. And I still can’t get a read on his rhythm or range.”

“Yeah,” Kirizume agrees. “He can mix his shots, shift angles… and that last flurry in the final ten seconds? The way he shifted gears right on the mark, without a single warning from his corner… that’s rare. Most fighters need their Seconds yelling the countdown to pull that off. But he did it mid-fight.”

Kirizume goes quiet for a moment, gaze drifting toward Ryoma’s corner. There’s a faint crease in his brow, as if turning over a puzzle in his mind.

“…Makes you wonder,” he mutters. “How the hell did he know exactly when the clock was about to hit ten?”

Renji exhales through his nose. “Could be ring experience. Guys who’ve fought for years start feeling the rhythm of a round without looking at the clock.”

Kirizume shakes his head. “But he’s just a rookie, only one pro fight to his name.”

Then Renji adds with a faint shadow of doubt creeps across his face. “And his defense is top-notch. If this were an official four-rounder, I’m not sure I could beat him on points.”

Kirizume pauses, letting the thought settle before answering. “A head hunter with smooth footwork… sounds like an Ali wannabe.”

Renji nods.

“Then…” Kirizume’s voice hardens. “Clip his wings. Drag him back to earth, stop the dance, and make him fight on your terms.”

“Understood.”

Renji takes a long breath, his shoulders rising and falling. It’s the kind of breath a man takes when he’s made up his mind.

And then…

“Please, take off my headgear.”

Kirizume arches a brow. “…Taking this personal, huh?”

“That’s not it.” Renji shakes his head slightly. “I can’t read him properly with this thing on. I need to feel his punches directly, let my body absorb them, let my instincts do the work.”

Kirizume doesn’t argue. He knows Renji thrives in the fire, growing sharper with every exchange. And with the weight advantage on his side, he believes Renji can take whatever Ryoma throws.

Across the ring, Ryoma catches sight of Renji’s headgear coming off. His gaze narrows, and for a moment, his foot shifts back, like he’s grounding himself.

And then…

“Coach,” he calls evenly, “take mine off too.”

Nakahara’s head snaps toward him. “What? Are you out of your mind? You’re already giving up weight. Taking it off now is just giving him what he wants.”

Ryoma’s expression doesn’t change. “Maybe… but I won’t let him touch my head.”

Nakahara studies him, his eyes narrowing. The confidence in Ryoma’s gaze isn’t just wild or reckless.

“Still, this is…”

Ryoma cuts him off with a glare, sharp and unwavering. It’s not defiance, but a statement. With a reluctant sigh, Nakahara unstraps the headgear and pulls it free.

“Fine… do as you please,” he mutters, “but if this turns ugly, I’m throwing in the towel.”