VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Renji leaves the corner without guidance, advice, or a new strategy from his coach. He doesn’t need any; the time for plans has already passed. What remains now is execution, one final push to bring this to an end.

“Come on, boy! Last round, maybe our last fight ever. Better give it everything now before you regret it.”

Across the ring, Ryoma bounces lightly on his toes, testing his legs the way a soldier might check a dull blade. His plan hasn’t changed: avoid lingering in the trenches of close combat, and survive the next two minutes. That’s all.

He doesn’t need victory, not tonight. Not with his body weakened by the weight cut, and every muscle dragging behind the rhythm of his will.

As long as I can see his punches… I’ll be fine.

He sets his guard up; right fist tight against his chin, left hand extended just slightly, a barrier and a weapon, the thin line keeping Renji at bay.

Renji advances with patient. Ryoma sends a few jabs, but he simply brushes them aside as though swatting flies.

Each step taken by Renji shortens the air between them. He doesn’t hurry. Knowing fatigue will finish what he started, he just lets Ryoma exhaust himself out.

And then, once he sees Ryoma plant his feet…

Now’s my time.

Renji bursts forward, slapping past a jab and whipping a compact left toward him.

Ryoma parries and scuttles back.

“Can’t get him close…”

His legs still answer, but Renji shadows him like a reflection that won’t be shaken. And it’s clear now, the speed difference, once a lifeline, is nearly gone.

“You better stop running and fight me like a man!”

Renji closes the gap and then slams a right toward Ryoma’s left ribs. The shot bangs against his guard, freezing his footwork for a heartbeat.

Then he throws a left hook, aims high. Ryoma snaps his head away, and Renji’s glove just skims past the tip of his pointy nose with a hiss of air.

But Renji’s right knuckle comes again, mercilessly aimed at the same left ribs. It’s blocked, yet he simply slams another blow, hammering the same place, pinning Ryoma’s left arm where it cannot leave.

Then, with a sudden pivot of angle, Renji redirects. The same right hand sends a sharp hook, arcing upward toward Ryoma’s head, a low-high sequence fired with cruel speed and weight.

“This combo…?” Ryoma sees it coming.

With left arm has just pinned low, he uses his right palm at the last moment to hold the blow, jerking his head back, balance faltering.

And Renji grins. “Now your right side’s wide open.”

He whips his left knuckle toward Ryoma’s right ribs which is wide open with no guard protecting it.

Ryoma reads it again, eyes sharp as ever. But his defense is fractured, as he’s just used both arms protecting his left side.

Instinct screams to leap away, yet his body betrays him. The legs remain rooted, and the command lost in transmission.

All he can do is lean back, leaving himself exposed.

Zfff!

The hook only graces across his abs. But due to his own momentum, Ryoma crashes backward onto the canvas.

“Down!”

The referee cuts between them, shoving Renji back before beginning the count.

“Tch.” Renji clicks his tongue, irritated he couldn’t finish the damage he’d set up.

From the corner, Coach Nakahara’s voice rips across the gym, heavy with urgency.

“Kid! You alright?”

But Ryoma’s eyes are fixed on the referee instead.

“Hey… That’s just a slip.”

“You idiot!” Nakahara shouts again, now louder and sharper than before. “Rest while you can. Doesn’t matter if it’s a slip or a knockdown, this is just a spar!”

Ryoma scowls, irritation etched across his face, and simply waits out the referee’s count. He steadies his breathing, calms his pulse, and tries to gauge the strength left in his legs and arms.

From the ropes, a murmur ripples through the small crowd of onlookers. A few gasp, some exchange uneasy glances, caught between awe and dread. They had seen it clearly; Ryoma slipping his head just in time, dodging the full weight of Renji’s punch by the narrowest margin.

The precision of it was brilliant, almost unreal. It’s like watching a man walk a tightrope over a pit, surviving the step but one slip away from disaster.

When the count reaches eight, Ryoma finally rises to his feet. The referee comes to check his condition, but Ryoma brushes him away.

“I told you! It was just a slip!” he snaps, deliberately extends the pause to get more rest.

“Sorry, I didn’t see it,” the referee mutters.

“How can you call yourself a referee if you can’t even watch properly?”

“Well, I’m not actually a referee.”

“Hey, Itsuki!” Renji cuts him off sharply. “Move aside. You’re just giving him time to breathe.”

The referee hesitates, then steps back. And Renji wastes no time, already stalking forward.

“If you really can’t fight, then quit!”

The stolen seconds has brought some life back to Ryoma’s legs, but not enough to flip the tide. He slips, blocks, weaves, but every exchange ends the same, his feet rooted, absorbing Renji’s weight.

Now he has no choice but depending solely on his eyesight. And somehow, the strain sharpens into clarity. As he slowly enters the zone, external noise dulls and warps, Renji’s punches begin to slow, as though cast through syrup.

But clarity doesn’t mean freedom. His legs stay heavy, rooted to the canvas, and though his arms stop the shots, each block still crashes into him, jolting him sideways and bleeding what little strength he has left.

“Need to get away. I have to…”

Before he gets the chance to retreat…

Bug!

Renji finally drives his knuckle deep into his gut.

“Got you!”

Ryoma folds, letting his jaw drop. And Renji’s eyes flash. He slings a brutal left hook, aiming at that open jaw.

On the corner, Coach Nakahara grips the towel, the motion already twitching in his arm. But Ryoma, still seeing the hook in a slow frame, twists his head at the first contact, letting the glove skid across his mouth instead of smashing into his jaw.

The blow still rocks him, gumshield flying free, yet he remains standing. But in that same instant, Nakahara throws the towel into the ring, believing that must have broken his jaw.

Ryoma, unaware what Nakahara has done, snaps forward with a savage right. And Renji, not seeing the towel either, answers in kind.

“Let’s slug it now!”

Two fists rocket toward each other. A ripple runs through the ringside, gasps breaking out, some faces twisted in dread, others frozen in hungry anticipation.

Reika and Aki can’t even watch; they shield their eyes with their hands, peeking through their fingers like children bracing for a car crash.

Ryoma reads Renji’s swing ahead, and shifts just before impact, letting the strike graze his cheek. His own blow lands flush, angling across Renji’s jaw.

Bam!!!

Coming from a terrifying angle, it whips Renji’s head sideways and rattling his skull.

For a flicker of a second, Renji’s consciousness blinks out. And Ryoma pours in a follow-up, three punches in a burst of one second.

Two hits crash home, one from each side of Renji’s head. But the third never lands, as the referee wedges himself in, arms out.

“Stop!!!”

Ryoma explodes. “Get the fuck outta my way! There’s still thirty seconds. Why stop me now?”

The shout snaps Renji back awake. Still dazed, he clutches the referee’s shoulder from behind, his legs numb and unsteady.

“This is bullshit,” Ryoma growls, chest heaving. “I would’ve put him down if you hadn’t jumped in.”

But the referee doesn’t flinch. He simply gestures toward the middle of the ring.

“Look behind you! Your second’s thrown the towel.”

Ryoma blinks, turns, and sees a white towel slumped lifeless on the canvas. His chest tightens as Coach Nakahara steps toward him, gumshield in hand, his expression carved with guilt.

“Why… why did you…?” Ryoma mutters, voice thin with disbelief.

Coach Nakahara can barely bring himself to meet Ryoma’s eyes. His gaze flickers, as if eye contact alone might burn him with the truth of what he’s done.