VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

And Ryoma doesn’t let him breathe. He keeps the punches short, compact, rolling from hip to hip with the precision of a piston engine.

Dug, dug, bug, dsh… bug!!!

Instead of trapping Ryoma, Noguchi is the one trapped now. His arms tuck closer, gloves dropping to protect his midsection.

He absorbs what he can on forearms and elbows, but the tide has shifted. He’s no longer dictating. He’s surviving.

At last, Noguchi stiffens his stance and tries to fire back. He slings his own hooks, compact punches at Ryoma’s torso, cuffing blows that whistle toward the temple.

Gradually, the fight combusts. No space between them, just two men locked in a vicious trench war, fists grinding out inches at arm’s length.

And the crowd detonates.

“That’s more like it!”

“Kill each other!”

“Pay him back, Ryoma!”

“Stop hugging and trade, damn it!”

Their voices overlap, a mess of bloodlust, but it feeds the furnace.

Ryoma’s vision sharpens as though the entire ring has narrowed into a tunnel. The Grid flares alive, streaming lines of cold text, micro-windows, split-second cues.

Angles drawn across his opponent’s shifting guard. Arrows highlighting gaps invisible to the naked eye. Punch trajectories ghost themselves before they’re thrown.

Noguchi fires a hook. Ryoma sees it and slips half an inch inside, just enough for air to tickle his ear. And in that tiny opening, he rips back two shots before Noguchi’s arm even resets.

Thud, thud!

Noguchi snarls, trying to match hook for hook.

Ryoma rolls his shoulders, the motion fluid as water, letting punches skim his forearms, and then sneaks a hook around the guard.

Dsh!

Noguchi’s head jolts, his balance rocked.

The crowd howls as if sensing the pendulum swing.

Every exchange looks like chaos, fists flying both ways.

But within the storm Ryoma’s rhythm reigns supreme. He’s sharper, faster, cleaner. Each beat Noguchi tries to set, Ryoma intercepts, and then answers with a sharper one-two.

One punch becomes two. Two grow into three. His combinations roll like chained thunder, while Noguchi’s guard twitches lower, balance unraveled.

The audience is on its feet again. To them, it’s a war. To Ryoma, it’s control, ruthless and systematic, tight-space domination.

***

The round eventually winds toward its dying seconds, and momentum tilts visibly. Ryoma stalks forward, his right hand slips perfectly between Noguchi’s gloves, splitting them like an axe cleaving wood, pinning Noguchi onto the ropes.

The a shovel hook buries deep into the ribs…

Dum!

…making Noguchi stagger half a step, forced to crouch and cover.

“And look at that!” one commentator bellows, almost standing. “Ryoma’s seizing control here at the end of the round!”

“He’s the one landing clean!” the other adds, voice cracking with excitement.

The crowd surges again, fists pumping, voices cresting as Ryoma drives another short left across the chin.

Noguchi’s legs quiver for the first time. His grin fades, only to twist back, uglier than before.

Then, with a sudden dip, he coils low, muttering through his mouthpiece:

“Why don’t you eat this?”

He rips his left hand upward from an impossible angle.

Ryoma’s eyes sharpen. The angle is wrong, far too low for a legitimate uppercut.

>

The Vision Grid flares a red warning.

He knows this angle well, he’s felt it before in another ring, in another life.

Without thinking, Ryoma shoves off Noguchi’s shoulder and springs backward.

Swssh!!

Leather scuffs fabric as the glove skims his trunks. His body jerks with the brush, but the true damage never connects.

He’s safe. For half a second, relief sparks.

But suddenly…

“Stop!”

The referee charges between them, arms chopping.

“Red corner! Foul!”

Ryoma’s jaw drops. “What?! That was him! He went low!”

The referee’s eyes are flat, unblinking. “You pushed. Illegal action. One point deducted.”

The arena erupts, a storm of noise, half confusion, half outrage.

From press row, Sato jerks upright in his seat, “Wait… what? Did he just punish Ryoma for defending himself?”

Tanaka squints, shaking his head as if trying to clear static from his ears. “No, no… that was a clear low-blow attempt from Noguchi. Everyone saw it. The glove skimmed Ryoma’s trunks.”

“But the ref’s punishing the wrong man,” Sato mutters, disbelief bleeding into anger. “That’s not just a mistake. That’s a tilt.”

Tanaka leans closer, lowering his voice against the roar of the crowd. “Think about it. The hesitation in the first clinches… the way he let Noguchi’s rabbit shots slide… and now this. It’s too consistent. He’s not incompetent, man. He’s complicit.”

In the red corner, Nakahara has been slamming both fists on the apron, spit flying as he shouts.

“Are you kidding me?! That was a goddamn low blow!”

Hiroshi bellows over him, voice breaking. “Open your eyes, ref! He’s the one cheating, not us!”

Ryoma shakes his head violently, sweat flying. His glove jabs at Noguchi, voice raw. “He went low! You saw it! Don’t you play dumb with me!”

But the referee ignores him, eyes on the judges, signaling the deduction.

“Wooaaah… two point penalties in less than a minute,” one commentator mutters, tone shifting dark.

The other answers, uneasy. “That’s… devastating for Ryoma. He already gave up the lead with that earlier down. This might bury him on the cards.”

Back in the ring, Noguchi’s shoulders rise and fall in heavy breaths. But behind his gloves, his grin curls wider, venomous. To the audience, he looks fresh, composed. To Ryoma, he looks like poison thriving in the rot of bias.

Ryoma’s fists tremble at his sides. His chest heaves like a piston threatening to blow. The urge to scream, to rip the mask off this farce, burns inside his ribs.

Then, once again, the Grid cuts cold.

>

>

Ryoma stands rigid, teeth bared, eyes burning holes through the referee. He flicks his gaze to the HUD timer. Three seconds remain.

“Tch!”

There’s not enough time for him to win this round anymore.

The referee motions them back.

“Box!”

But Ryoma doesn’t charge. He pivots away, boots scraping canvas, and stalks toward his corner.

“Hey…” the referee calls after him.

Ryoma just ignores him.

And the bell rings.

***

In the red corner, Hiroshi rushes with the stool, but Ryoma doesn’t sit. He just turns, eyes locked not on Noguchi but on the referee. His stare is sharp enough to burn holes through bone.

“Kid, sit down!” Nakahara orders, snapping.

Hiroshi also presses a bottle toward him.

But neither earns a blink. Ryoma doesn’t move, doesn’t take the drink, doesn’t tear his gaze away from the official.

Finally, Nakahara starts forward the ref, fists curled. But he only makes it halfway before freezing.

If he complains now, if he yells, they lose thirty precious seconds of coaching. He swallows the rage like glass, forces himself back, and clamps a hand on Ryoma’s shoulder.

“Hey. Enough already. Getting worked up won’t help you. We knew this was coming. Aramaki warned us. And…”

His voice falters. The words die, because Ryoma isn’t listening.

Ryoma’s chest rises and falls, sharp and shallow. His hands hang loose at his sides, but his jaw is clenched so tight the muscles jump under his skin.

Nakahara has never seen him this angry. Not even in the gyms, not even in the sparring wars.

This is something else. Something dangerous.