VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Both Nakahara and Hiroshi strike bold poses, fists clenched tight, raising them in defiance, like this was all part of the plan.

“Coach, it works…” Hiroshi beams.

Nakahara clears his throat, feigning composure. “Well, there’s a bit of luck in it.”

“No, what I mean…” Hiroshi chooses his words carefully. “Ryoma’s step-in… that’s the result of training. The opponent never expected it. This isn’t luck.”

Exactly. The blue corner is still blanketed by surprise. Maruyama and his team had studied Ryoma inside and out. Yet nowhere in their notes did they imagine Ryoma opening like this, stepping in fast, fighting like an aggressive in-fighter.

Finally, one commentator finds his voice. “Ah, what a surprise! Ryoma’s totally unusual tonight.”

“Yeah, that’s…” his partner stumbles. “He usually takes the first round slowly, staying at range with slick footwork. But this time… he just charged in and unleashed a brutal close-range combo.”

“That’s it, folks! The Chameleon’s picked his skin for the night!”

“Yeah! He never fails to surprise us!”

Meanwhile, the referee’s voice cuts in with the counting, loud and oddly slow.

“Three…”

“Four…”

Noguchi stays on one knee, chest heaving. He steadies his breath, shakes out his arms, tries to feel his legs beneath him.

The ambush replays in his mind, the humiliation of being caught off guard. And irritation rises hot in his chest.

“Six…”

Noguchi pushes himself up, too eager to settle the score. But his stance wobbles, and his knees still unsteady.

“Stupid!” Maruyama barks. “Take your time!”

But still, Noguchi forces his gloves high, insisting he’s ready. He clenches his teeth, unsettled by the thought that just one punch rattled his legs like this.

The referee steps in close, circling him with raised hands. “You good? Show me.”

Noguchi nods, snapping, “I’m fine.”

But the ref lingers, stalling with a needless check-up, examining his gloves, peering at his eyes, buying him seconds to recover. Noguchi realizes it, smirks faintly, and takes the gift.

From across the ring, Ryoma narrows his eyes, suspicion flaring. And so he calls out, voice sharp.

“Oi! Stop wasting time and let him fight!”

Ultimately, the referee chops a hand through the air.

“Box!”

Ryoma surges forward without hesitation, closing the gap just enough to impose pressure without smothering his space.

He starts sharp, two stiff jabs snapping out, measuring, testing Noguchi’s condition after the knockdown.

Dug, dug!

Noguchi blocks both, but the third comes heavier.

Bam!

A right hand slams into his guard, weighty enough to shove him back toward the corner.

Desperate not to be trapped, Noguchi whips something out. And Ryoma’s Vision Grid flares, an alarm warning him through his head.

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Ryoma slips beneath it with ease, bending left, and…

Bug!

…a left body blow slams into Noguchi’s ribs.

Then a right straight follows, and Noguchi covers his face with both arms. Yet the sheer force drives him back against the turnbuckles.

That’s when…

Swssh!

Ryoma spreads his stance wider.

He coils power from his thighs to hips, and to shoulders. And then the barrage begins.

Bam!

Dsh!

Dum!

Bug!

A mix of heavy blows, hybrids between hooks and straight, each punch heavy, deliberate, mid-range, a rhythm of punishment.

The crowd erupts with every thud, a storm of voices rising higher with each connection, the arena shaking as if Ryoma’s fists are pounding not just Noguchi, but the air they breathe.

From the desk, a commentator jumps in. “You see that stance? That’s new… we’ve never seen him fight this way!”

“Exactly!” his partner chimes in. “That’s a power puncher’s stance. Forget the jab, he’s just unloading with force.”

Noguchi turtles up, arms locked tight against his face. Every time he twitches to fire back, he thinks twice, retracting his hands.

Then Ryoma changes the rhythm. He dips low, shifts the angle, and…

Bug!

…a left rips into Noguchi’s ribs. His right guard drops, just an inch, but it’s enough for Ryoma’s right straight cracks through.

Bash!

It smashes Noguchi’s face, snapping his head back. And the crowd gasps in unison.

Noguchi reels backward, then latches on, clinching hard. His arms clamp around Ryoma’s shoulders, smothering the offense, bleeding precious seconds to recover.

Ryoma braces, expecting the referee to intervene. But the official lingers at the side, watching, too long, far too long.

In his head mind, the Vision Grid flickers to life, cold and precise.

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Ryoma jerks and twists, trying to free his arms, but Noguchi’s grip is stubborn. His forearms lock like iron bars, smothering every angle for a counter.

It’s a clinch that reeks of experience, not a boxer’s tie-up, but the rough grinding hold of a man who’s spent time in the cage. Grappling is second nature to him, and it keeps Ryoma’s fists quiet.

The stall works. With lungs refilled and composure steadied, Noguchi suddenly shoves Ryoma off. A gap cracks open, and…

Snap, dsh!

A quick one-two lashes out, fists popping against Ryoma’s guard and forcing him to reel back half a step. It’s all the space Noguchi needs to slip free of the corner, circling away from danger.

And for the first time since the bell rang, Noguchi finally gets the chance to rebuild his rhythm.

“Damn… that was a hell of nightmare.”

***

Ryoma lunges to close the gap again, but Noguchi isn’t giving him the same chance twice. He may be a rookie in the ring, yet his cage-fighting past gives him instincts most boxers don’t carry.

He knows his body isn’t ready yet, his legs still sluggish, his arms still heavy from the knockdown. So he buys time the way veterans do: circling, flicking jabs, tossing feints in flurries to chip away at Ryoma’s rhythm.

In the blue corner, Maruyama also seizes the breather, eyes narrowing as he reassesses.

“Maruyama-san! This isn’t what we prepared for!” One of his assistants blurts.

“I know, Ichida… I know.” Maruyama exhales, voice tight. “A young boxer like him certainly has a lot of room for improvement. But I can’t believe this kid has come this far in just six weeks.”

His gaze tracks not only Ryoma’s new fighting style, but also his body as much as his fists. Broader back, thicker calves, stronger thighs, they are signs of a frame rebuilt for power. The logic is obvious: more muscle, more weight behind every punch. Essential against Noguchi.

But what unsettles him is the speed of how Ryoma gained everything; the physical transformation along with the mastery of a new aggressive style.

And to gamble on abandoning Ryoma’s graceful footwork for raw power is bold, maybe reckless. Yet tonight it looks frighteningly effective.

“I hate to admit it…” Maruyama’s jaw tightens, “…but their camp came more prepared. We’ll need to adjust before the second round, or we’ll be chasing shadows.”

***

Back in the ring, Noguchi himself already comes up with an unusual solution. He puts a weird stance, something not usually seen in boxing ring.

He stands loose, upright, and almost casual. His shoulders are relaxed, weight spread evenly. Both hands jut forward in a way that feels wrong for the ring, more Thai fighter than boxer, though his legs stay rooted instead of lifted.

From the desk, a commentator blurts out, half-bewildered, “What the hell kind of stance is that? That’s not boxing at all! What is this now? A grappling match?”

His arms aren’t there to guard his face but to reach, to paw, to snare at Ryoma’s strikes before they’re born.

When Ryoma strikes from range, Noguchi’s arms work like a net. Those hands disrupt straight lines, swatting down jabs, stealing rhythm.

It’s unconventional, but effective. Ryoma even takes a break from his assault, eyes sharpened, and his Vision Grid starts scanning.

Then a voice appears in his head.

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