VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the last thirty seconds, Ryoma shifts gears, his tempo spiking, fists pumping in a furious cascade. Each strike slices through the air with sharp intent, the sound of knuckles cutting wind almost lost under the deafening roar of the arena.

His body feels light, coiled, ready, each muscle firing in perfect synchronization as he pours on the pressure.

But Noguchi’s stance, loose, irregular, awkward to the untrained eye, keeps breaking his rhythm. His arms, extended at angles that look wrong but somehow work, jam the spaces Ryoma tries to exploit.

And the moment Ryoma dares to step fully inside, Noguchi yanks those limbs back into a tight, shell-like guard, letting punches thud uselessly against his forearms.

After blocking a quick barrage…

Dug, dug, dm!

…Noguchi slips off to the side, feet gliding in a smooth arc. The crowd gasps as he pivots free, refusing to be cornered or drawn into Ryoma’s storm.

Now reset, Noguchi bounces lightly on the balls of his feet. His legs, once heavy, are alive again, carrying him just out of reach each time Ryoma presses forward.

His smirk starts to creep back into place, as if he’s just survived the thrill.

And finally…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the air, silencing fists but not the bloodthirsty crowd. Cheers swell like a tidal wave, a commentator’s voice barely rising above them.

“What a round! If that’s just the opener, the rest of this fight is going to be explosive!”

Noguchi’s expression eases, loosening into something almost playful.

“Pheew…” he exhales, dragging the back of his glove across his brow.

Then, with a crooked grin, he tosses a compliment across the canvas.

“That was great, kid! Not bad at all.”

Ryoma doesn’t dignify it with a response. His glare is sharp, dismissive, and after a beat he turns away, retreating to his corner with clipped, deliberate steps.

Noguchi, by contrast, strolls back like a man leaving a bar after last call. He’s unhurried, unbothered, breathing steadier than expected, as though the knockdown earlier had been little more than a stumble.

On the scorecards, he’s lost the round. But Noguchi has never been the type to care about points.

“Damn…” he mutters as he drops onto the stool Uchida slides into place. “The kid caught me clean. And those punches… heavier than I thought.”

“Just sit,” Maruyama snaps, arms folded across his chest, his glare sharp enough to cut. “We’ll need to adjust.”

Noguchi shrugs, settling in with an air of bored detachment, as if Ryoma’s drastic shift in style were nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Relax. This isn’t the first heavy puncher I’ve dealt with.”

“He knocked you down, remember?” Maruyama fires back, leaning closer. “Or did that shot rattle something loose in your skull?”

Noguchi exhales a lazy laugh, then veers off the subject entirely. “We wasted all that prep on his flickers, and he throws them out the window. Annoying, sure… but come on! Isn’t it better this way?”

Maruyama’s silence stretches, heavy with disapproval. He knows Noguchi too well, knows that behind the grin is a man who thrives on chaos, who adjusts not through strategy sheets or drills, but through instinct, cruelty, and the joy of improvisation.

“Don’t take him lightly,” he warns, his voice low, deliberate. “Just because he’s relying on power now doesn’t mean the flickers are gone. You’ve seen how sharp he is at changing styles, how fast he finds solutions. Underestimate him and you’ll pay for it.”

“I know, I know.” Noguchi waves a glove, still grinning. “I’m not underestimating him. Honestly, this is my kind of fight. Can’t you just let me enjoy it?”

Maruyama exhales hard through his nose, frustration etched in every line of his face. Talking sense into Noguchi is pointless once he’s decided to indulge himself.

And yet, beneath his annoyance, even Maruyama admits, Noguchi’s instincts are rare. He can read an opponent mid-battle in ways most fighters never grasp.

But what Maruyama can’t see is the flicker in Noguchi’s eyes, as the schemes already forming. Tricks, fouls, little cruelties ready to be tested. The thought of them alone makes Noguchi smile wider.

***

In the red corner, Nakahara and Hiroshi are buzzing, the energy practically shaking out of them. They look like two kids unwrapping their first New Year’s gift; grins stretched wide, fists clenched, voices hoarse from shouting.

“That knockdown!” Hiroshi crows, bouncing on the edge of the apron. “All that grind, all those hours. It paid off, boss!”

“Beautiful timing,” Nakahara agrees, slapping Ryoma’s shoulder. His eyes are alight, pride written clear across his face. “You’ve finally made him respect your hands.”

But Ryoma doesn’t share their euphoria. His gaze never leaves the opposite corner. His sharp eyes track Maruyama’s lips, Noguchi’s smirk, the casual way Noguchi sits like the round had been nothing.

The Vision Grid hums to life, translating scraps of lip movements into faint echoes in his mind.

>

Not much substance. No instructions yet, because Maruyama hasn’t offered Noguchi anything tactical. And Ryoma knows why.

Noguchi doesn’t need advice. His style may look crude, but his recovery after the knockdown revealed something else; years of seasoning, perhaps outside the clean world of boxing.

Finally, Nakahara notices the distance in Ryoma’s eyes. “Kid. What’s wrong?”

Ryoma shakes his head, then admits in a low voice, “Noguchi’s stance. The one he used after I cornered him.”

Nakahara’s expression tightens immediately. “Yeah, I saw it. Odd stance… like some hybrid between Muay Thai and wrestling. And it killed your momentum cold.”

“Exactly.” Ryoma nods, eyes narrowing. “With his hands jutting forward like that, my jabs barely had room to breathe. It felt like… cage-fighting experience.”

“Could be his answer to your flickers,” Hiroshi suggests, still riding the high.

“I’ve thought of that too,” Ryoma replies.

Nakahara leans in, voice firm. “Then push deeper. Fortunately, we trained you for close-range infighting.”

Ryoma’s lips twitch at the word.

Fortunately?

No. Nothing fortunate about it. That wasn’t chance, but foresight. He had known, long before tonight, the kind of fighter Noguchi truly was. He had pressed Nakahara to reshape his training for this very scenario.

That’s why now he feels certain he can end this fight in the next round. Yet one thing gnaws at him. The referee.

His eyes flick to the man in black. Every subtle oddity from the first round, the slight delays, the positioning, the faint hesitation, rises back to the surface. Something clearly wasn’t right.

The referee, noticing Ryoma’s gaze, adjusts his stance with exaggerated calm, the picture of professionalism.

“Seconds out!”

The command rings as the corners clear.

The ref beckons both fighters to the center, arms stretched wide, keeping them apart a beat longer than usual. His eyes linger, just a flicker, on Ryoma before stepping back.

And then…

Ding!

The bell sets the crowd ablaze once more.

Noguchi slides into that strange stance immediately, arms thrust forward like crooked hooks waiting to snare. Ryoma crouches low in reply, inching forward step by measured step, every muscle taut.

And the commentator’s voice cuts in, hushed but brimming with intrigue.

“Strange start… both fighters are showing stances we’ve never seen from them before. You can feel it! Something unusual is about to unfold.”