VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Somehow, the commentators have also picked up on the history between these two fighters. Who knows where they got it. But they waste no time turning it into fuel for the broadcast.

“Do you know,” the first commentator leans into the mic, his tone almost conspiratorial, “these two actually come from the same school, Kamisaka High. Both started their amateur boxing there.”

“Oh, really?” the second replies. “Wasn’t Kanzaki two years older? So this is like a senpai versus kouhai showdown?”

“Exactly. But unlike Ryoma, Kanzaki stepped away from boxing for a while after graduation. And now, fate brings them back together here in this rookie tournament.”

“Like destiny, huh?” the second says, still casual.

“And haven’t you noticed? Their styles are almost identical. That’s the result of Kanzaki’s influence on his junior.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah… in any case, this is shaping up to be a very interesting fight. The audience is going to love it.”

Ryoma catches every word as he makes his way into the ring. And he doesn’t like the narration one bit.

From the way it’s being spun, he has a hunch the story was leaked from Kanzaki’s side, a little trick to spice things up.

Supporters who had jeered at Kanzaki only moments ago now hesitate, giving him the respect owed to the senpai of their idol. Even so, plenty keep their jeers alive, unwilling to let go of the villain they’ve already chosen.

“Washed-up senpai!”

“You’re already too old to be a rookie!”

“Go back to retirement!”

Yet Kanzaki doesn’t flinch. His attention never wavers from Ryoma.

This fight has nothing to do with the crowd, or with climbing through the brackets of a rookie tournament.

For Kanzaki, this is about a dream he once lost, and about his pride as a man. It’s about reclaiming the legacy of a boxing style stolen from him.

***

The announcer strides to the center of the ring, spotlight washing over him as the crowd’s buzzing voices rise into one restless tide.

In each corner, the fighters keep warm. Kanzaki stretches his shoulders loose, rolling his neck with calm arrogance, while across the ring, Ryoma bounces lightly on his toes.

Then the lights dim, and the announcer strides to center ring, microphone lifted high.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is tonight’s featured contest! Four rounds in the Super Featherweight division, a quarterfinal bout of the East Japan Rookie King Tournament!”

The announcer pivots toward the blue corner first.

“Introducing, from Minato Bayside Gym! Twenty-one years old, standing 171 centimeters, weighing in officially at 59.1 kilos… undefeated, with four wins, two by knockout… Toruuu Kanzakiii!”

A wave of applause rises, mixed with small boos from Ryoma’s fans, but Kanzaki hardly flinches, bouncing lightly on his toes as his coach pats his shoulders.

“Remember, his right hand,” Tsuchida leans close, voice sharp but low. “Use the first round to test it. If he really can’t throw it, don’t wait for the next round. Press him hard. End it before he adjusts.”

Kanzaki gives a single nod, eyes never leaving Ryoma across the ring.

The announcer pivots, free hand gesturing to Ryoma. And the spotlight swings across the ring.

“And his opponent… from Nakahara Boxing Gym! Nineteen years old, standing 173 centimeters, weighing in officially at 59 kilos… with a perfect record of two wins, one by knockout… Ryoooma Takedaaa!”

Ryoma raises a single hand, and the hall nearly comes unglued. The roar drowns everything else, fans leaping to their feet, the raw electricity of a rookie tournament surging through the crowd.

Nakahara leans closer, his voice calm but firm. “Stick to what we planned. Let him think he knows us inside out, but don’t give everything away. One surprise at a time. No rushing, no showing off.”

“Got it.” Ryoma narrows his eyes. “I’ll stick to the usual for now. See how far my left alone can take me.”

Finally, the referee raises his hand.

“Seconds out!”

Both Tsuchida and Nakahara step down, leaving their fighters under the lights.

The ref gestures both fighters to the center. Ryoma and Kanzaki march forward, the air between them thick with the weight of history, as the crowd’s noise swells to a breaking point.

“Alright, gentlemen,” the ref’s arms are raised to hold the distance. “You know the rules. Obey my commands, protect yourselves at all times. No holding, no hitting on the break, no shots below the belt, or behind the head.”

After that, he gestures with his hands.

“Touch gloves if you wish… then back to your corners.”

But neither fighter moves. Their stares lock, hard and hostile, until Kanzaki snorts and turns his back first, dismissive.

Ryoma lingers a moment longer, a short chuckle slipping out before he pivots away.

“He’s still mad, huh? Fine… let’s dig under his skin a bit more.”

***

Both fighters stand a meter out from their corners, coiled like springs, eager to seize the first move.

The referee holds his arms wide between them, a thin wall keeping the collision at bay.

And then…

Ding, ding, ding!

The crowd erupts in a roar, rattling the rafters.

Ryoma and Kanzaki step forward in unison, measured and deliberate, orthodox stances mirror-perfect: right hands guarding their chins, lefts extended like antennae.

Their heads bob, weaving side to side, testing the space between them. Left hands twitch, flick, feint, neither committing, both still gauging distance.

And then, something peculiar surfaces, a rhythm rarely seen. Their stances, their side-steps, the way their jabs probe, it all flows almost in sync, as if one shadowed the other.

The commentator’s voice cuts in over the roar:

“Look at this… you can see it plain as day.”

“The kouhai walking the very path of his mentor, wholeheartedly… it’s almost poetic.”

But what the crowd and cameras can’t see is the smirk behind Ryoma’s guard. He isn’t just reflecting Kanzaki’s style. He’s mimicking it, detail by detail, down to the twitch of a shoulder and the rhythm of a head slip.

His Vision Grid feeds him everything: foot pressure, tempo shifts, micro-reactions. Ryoma matches them on purpose. It’s not to honor Kanzaki, but to provoke him.

And of course, it works.

“This bastard…” Kanzaki scawls. “Is he mocking me?”

Ryoma tilts his guard open, a sliver of a taunt slipping through. “Is this how it goes… Senpai?”

The word lands like a spark in dry brush. Kanzaki snaps, firing a jab. And Ryoma fires his own, at the exact same instant, a perfect mirror.

Dsh!

Ryoma’s fist smacks against Kanzaki’s guard. But Kanzaki’s jab, though thrown a split second earlier, falls just short. His reach is a fraction too small, his glove stopping a breath from Ryoma’s nose.

Kanzaki sidesteps, sharp, launching another jab. Ryoma still shadows the movement, frame for frame, like a reflection in glass.

And again…

Dsh!

Ryoma’s knuckles thud against guard, while Kanzaki’s glove only slices empty air.

Kanzaki tries to stay composed, probing with jab after jab, using the rhythm to measure distance and loosen his shoulders.

But with each exchange, the irritation on his face only sharpens. Ryoma mirrors every twitch, every step, every punch, mocking him with perfect imitation.

And in nearly every exchange, Ryoma edges him out by reach alone. No clean shots yet, but it’s enough to make the difference obvious.

Then, just as Kanzaki’s composure frays, Ryoma shifts. A tiny adjustment, the angle of his jab bending ever so slightly, and…

Dsh! Thud!

Two clean jabs snap against Kanzaki’s cheeks before he can react.

Kanzaki stiffens, lips curling back as if to bare his teeth. He jerks his head once, resetting his stance. The fire in his glare betrays the crack in his composure.

But Ryoma stops moving, giving a slight raise of his gloves, shoulders rolling in a casual shrug, head shaking as if disappointed.

“What’s wrong, Senpai?” He whistles, flat and taunting, “Can’t handle your own style?”