VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The red corner greets Ryoma with energy, but he doesn’t return it. Of course, it would’ve been perfect if Aramaki had stayed down. But fights rarely go the way you want.

“It’s a shame,” Nakahara says, steady but firm. “Still, you dropped him twice. You owned the first round too. Last until the end, and this match is yours.”

“Well… if I can last that long.” Ryoma’s voice carries a sharp edge of doubt.

Nakahara blinks. “What’s wrong? Did he catch you? I didn’t see him land anything clean.”

Ryoma shakes his head, but the worry won’t leave his face. His eyes flick toward Nakahara, as if words hover on his lips but refuse to surface.

“Something on your mind?” Nakahara presses, leaning closer. “Say it. Nobody knows your body better than you.”

Ryoma exhales, shuts his eyes a moment, then lets it out.

“Maybe I’m just overthinking… but in sparring with Ryohei and Okabe, I never lasted four full rounds.”

Nakahara’s calm stiffens. Now he pays serious attention to Ryoma’s condition, to the sweat trickling down his temples.

It does look too much for a fighter who hasn’t taken real damage. Then he glances at Hiroshi, who’s already frowning.

“Yeah,” Hiroshi mutters. “He always stopped Okabe much early in the first round.”

Ryoma nods, jaw tight. “And I remember how drained I was even then. Now, after that nightmare weight cut, after yesterday’s weigh-in, I’m afraid my legs won’t make it past the third.”

Nakahara waves a hand, trying to brush it aside. “Sparring both Ryohei and Okabe isn’t the same with fighting only one. Tonight, your opponent’s barely touched you. Only one clean shot in the first, and…”

Ryoma cuts him off. “His body shots are different. Heavy. Even blocked, they shake through me. It’s loading my legs with pressure.”

The words sink heavier than either coach expects. Nakahara glances at Hiroshi, but both fall silent.

Ryoma doesn’t wait. His gaze locks across the ring, to the blue corner. Aramaki slouches on his stool while the cutman presses ice hard against his swollen right eye.

Seconds tick, and the ice bag lifts.

There his Vision Grid hums to life.

***

[Vision Grid: Target Scan]

Zone Lock: Right Orbital Region

Edema Expansion Rate: Slowing

Obstruction Probability: 24% (stable)

Conclusion: Target adapting. Recovery prolongs visibility.

Recommendation: Sustained pressure required. Blind spot no longer guaranteed.

***

As he feared, the ice has done its job. The weakness he counted on is now slipping away. He could hammer that eye again, but Aramaki will guard it with everything now.

Now his mind runs scenarios, alternative options, each with risk. Across from him, Nakahara seems to be weighing the same.

“You can go all out in the next round,” the coach says, though his tone wavers. “But you’ll burn through your tank. And looking at Aramaki… he might be able to withstand it. Better to stick with the plan. Play safe, drag him deep, win on points.”

Ryoma’s head snaps toward him, objection plain. “Two more rounds of running? Too long. He’ll find openings, and if he lands clean to the body… then the fourth round will turn into hell. He could finish me before the bell.”

Nakahara can’t answer. Ryoma’s reasoning is solid, and the fire in his eyes shows the decision’s already made.

“No more running,” Ryoma says. “I’ll finish it this round.”

“And if you don’t?”

“That’s…”

The referee calls both corners out.

Ryoma rises from the stool, tugging his gloves tight. His words come only as he straightens.

“We’ll think about that later.”

Hiroshi snatches the stool away. Nakahara, left without room to press further, steps down with a weight turning in his chest.

“Hiroshi,” he mutters, voice low, nearly drowned by the crowd. “Am I even a trainer anymore?”

Hiroshi startles. “Coach… what are you saying?”

“That kid… he may be reckless, impatient, always eager to gamble. But even then, he calculates, finds his own answers. And me…?”

His jaw locks, the weight isn’t just anger. It’s the bitter sting of inferiority.

“Tell me, Hiroshi. Have I given him a single piece of advice worth anything in this fight?”

Hiroshi doesn’t answer, because he understands and he feels it too.

Ryoma isn’t the same kid they once guided. In just two fights, he’s become someone else entirely, almost like a stranger wearing the same face.

The truth presses on Hiroshi as hard as it does on Nakahara: Ryoma no longer needs hand-holding. He’s walking a path they can barely follow.

***

The air inside the hall grows feverish. Anticipation is thick enough to rattle the seats as the crowd has already chosen the ending they want.

“Ryōmaaa! End it now!”

“Give us a knockout!”

The bell cracks, slicing through the roar. Ryoma lifts his fists, and the response he gives is immediate.

His gloves snap forward, jabs, then straights, spilling out in a steady barrage. They don’t carry the same whiplash sting as before, but there’s weight behind each one, driven off his planted lead foot.

His frame leans into the rhythm, stiff, deliberate, pressing like a piston engine. The assault doesn’t let up.

“You want a KO? Yeah… I need it more than you do.”

Across from him, Aramaki absorbs the storm, gloves tight, head tucked, each blow rattling against his guard.

He isn’t thinking about counters, or points, or even victory. His corner has abandoned him. Kirizume’s promise has soured to nothing. The road ahead looks closed.

And yet, he fights, not to win, but only to survive for another round. He still wants to see how far his boxing can take him.

Ryoma’s lefts slip through the guard now and then, but nothing clean. Not once does Aramaki leave an opening on that swollen right eye.

From a relentless in-fighter, Aramaki shifts into patience, shelling up, no steps forward, no thoughts of throwing back.

He knows, after that second knockdown, Ryoma’s blood is up. He’ll want to end it here, and fast.

“A chance… As long as I don’t fold here, there’s still a chance.”

Impatient, Ryoma changes levels, pounding at the body, ribs, gut, over and over. Aramaki grits his teeth, arms high and tight, ignoring the ache below.

“Can’t… stay here!”

He bobs his head, dips, tries to slide away, but Ryoma cuts the ring off, smothering every inch of space. Once he catches Aramaki in the corner…

Bug!

A left hooks deep into Aramaki’s midsection, driving the air out of him. His guard dips an inch, just enough for Ryoma to whip high, hunting the head.

But still, Aramaki clamps back down, sealing his face behind his forearms as if his life hangs on it.

“This bastard… he just won’t crack.”

Ryoma unloads, fists snapping in rapid succession, yet still no break, no surrender.

Frustration mounts. Every punch drains Ryoma faster, sweat slick, lungs burning, his arms stiffening. And still Aramaki hides.

“Fine. If you won’t show your face, I’ll break your ribs instead.”

Ryoma pivots, coiling low on his right knee. The punch is loaded heavy, a wrecking ball aimed at Aramaki’s flank.

Drk!!!

Bone against bone.

The sound is brutal… except it isn’t Aramaki’s ribs that take the damage. By a beat of bad timing, his elbow sinks to cover, and Ryoma slams straight into it.

Both men freeze, both grimace, but Ryoma clearly takes the worst of it.

And Aramaki’s eyes flare.

Now… my chance!

He cocks his right for a hook, but Ryoma’s left flashes first.

Dsh!

It cracks across Aramaki’s jaw, whipping his head sideways. In the next heartbeat, his knees buckle, and…

Down!

The referee steps in as the hall explodes.

“Finally!”

“He’s got him!”

“A cross after a body shot… he’s finished!”

To the crowd, it looks perfect: body blow folding Aramaki, left cross sealing it. A clean combination, no question. But Ryoma trudges to his corner with a grimace, knuckles screaming.

From the canvas, Aramaki notices it. Ryoma’s stride is dragging, heavy, uneven. His right hand hangs wrong, and his legs look close to buckling.

The referee’s count reaches seven. But Aramaki has just caught a flicker of hope.

“Chance…”

“That’s my chance.”

“I can’t give up yet.”