VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Both fighters sit in opposite corners. Yet one irony hangs thick in the air. Ryoma, the one trailing by knockdown and two deductions, stands tall, still looking fresh.

But Noguchi, leading on points, slumps on his stool, face bruised and swollen. The cutman presses an iron hard against his cheek, smearing grease along the puffed skin.

Maruyama studies Ryoma across the ring. The kid isn’t even sitting, just standing there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on the ref like he wants to burn him alive.

“He’s losing it,” Maruyama frowns. “Look at him. He’s been so eager to end this early. But his impatience has caused him this fight. That rage is eating at his gas tank.”

Noguchi winces as the cold iron presses his cheek. “Tch…”

Maruyama leans closer, voice low and sharp. “Listen. You don’t need to trade with him anymore. You’re miles ahead on points. He can’t touch you on the cards unless he puts you down. And he won’t. Not if you don’t give him the chance.”

Noguchi exhales, rolling his shoulders, but his gaze drifts past Maruyama.

Up in the stands, Daigo Kirizume watches with a flat face. Noguchi’s leading but Kirizume doesn’t seem impressed, not looking satisfied in the slightest bit.

Noguchi’s lips curl. Damn bastard wants more, huh?

The thought sticks in him, twisting into a grin. Just like Kirizume, Noguchi himself has his own greed. If he wins this fight by smashing Ryoma to pieces in the process, that will give him a different paycheck.

Maruyama pats his shoulder. “Keep your distance. Jab, clinch if you need. Let him burn out. So far, he’s always slowed down after the third round.”

But Noguchi smirks wider, ignoring the advice. “Nah. I’ll win this. But… let’s make these next two rounds hell for him.”

Maruyama’s eyes narrow. “Don’t get greedy. You’ve already got this in the bag…”

But Noguchi isn’t listening. His gaze has already drifted past, locking on Ryoma across the ring. His smirk stretches even wider, hunger burning in his eyes.

Maruyama exhales sharply, jaw tight. “Fine. But if you lose this… don’t ever come back to my gym.”

Without waiting for the official’s call, he slips through the ropes, leaving Noguchi on the stool with that widening grin.

***

The hall buzzes like a storm contained in a box. Shouts and whistles rattle the air, every voice sharpened with hunger for the next round.

One commentator rides the noise. “You can feel it. This fight is boiling over. Both men look ready to tear each other apart!”

The referee waves the corners clear. Seconds step out, ropes snapping back into place.

Noguchi pushes up from his stool, rolling his shoulders. Across from him, Ryoma is already on his feet, never having sat, eyes locked, breaths heavy, rage and resolve coiled tight.

And then…

Ding!

The bell rings, and the third round begins.

Ryoma launches out of his corner like a released spring. All the fury he’s bottled up bursts into his fists. A jab slams forward, then a right cross, then a hook.

Each punch is thrown like it’s meant to end the night. And the crowd erupts at the sudden blaze of violence.

But Noguchi doesn’t meet him head-on. He slips sideways, arms stretched out in that crooked reaching stance. Hands pawing, swatting, never guarding.

He looks more like he’s teasing than defending. Each time Ryoma fires, a palm bumps his glove off-line, a forearm nudges the shot aside, ruining the snap.

“Quit playing with me!” Ryoma snarls, whipping a heavy left hook.

Noguchi smirks, slapping it halfway, circling away. “Come on, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Another right from Ryoma crashes in, but again the forward arms disrupt, killing the sting before it blooms. The punches land, but never clean, never the way Ryoma wants.

And with each failed attempt, Ryoma’s breath grows harsher, his eyes burning hotter. His storm keeps raging, but Noguchi just dances on the edge, feeding his temper.

At last, after so many attempts…

Dsh!

A straight right from Ryoma finally sneaks through the maze and lands flush on the cheek.

Noguchi’s head jerks sideways, spit flying. The crowd roars, a surge of approval as Ryoma finally connects clean.

Noguchi staggers back two steps. And Ryoma lunges after him, teeth bared, loading another hook.

But his Vision Grid flickers.

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Ryoma snarls. “Shut up… I’ve got him!”

He whips the hook, but Noguchi absorbs it on his forearm, and then slides inward.

Snap… clamp!

Arms spring out, cutting the space, smothering chest to chest. Ryoma’s gloves are trapped in an instant.

And the crowd groans again, frustration spilling.

“Come on, ref, break that up!”

“Quit hugging and fight!”

Noguchi squeezes tighter, pressing his weight down, his breath hot against Ryoma’s ear.

“This is my world now.”

He begins slipping in cuff and sly shoves, sneaking small hits on the ribs and Ryoma’s ears.

Ryoma tries to break free, but Noguchi isn’t letting go, even manages one head butt.

The referee crouches, squinting, but never sees, or clearly pretends not to.

Then Noguchi tries to hook Ryoma’s eye with his brow. Ryoma jerks away, teeth grinding.

Then Noguchi digs a glove into the hip. Ryoma snarls, shoulders coiling.

Then he stomps the foot, and Ryoma’s fury scratches the ceiling.

Then finally…

Blugh!

A left hand rips below the belt, no mistaking it this time. It hits the damn balls.

“Argh, fuuuck…”

Ryoma buckles, staggering back with one glove holding his belt.

The arena erupts, half gasp, half roar. And this time, the ref is forced to act, chopping his arms wide.

“Stop! Low blow. Blue corner, one point!”

Ryoma staggers back toward his corner, one glove still pressed to his trunks, jaw clenched against the pain.

Nakahara is already on the apron, barking. “You see that?! You finally see it now?!”

The referee follows Ryoma, crouching slightly, voice flat. “You okay? Do you need time?”

Ryoma growls through his teeth. “Fuck off… Don’t touch me.”

Nakahara jabs a finger at the official, face red. “How many times do you need to watch him foul before you wake up?! How much longer are you gonna let this go?!”

The referee straightens, eyes narrowing. “Watch yourself, coach. One more word and you’re out.”

Nakahara slams a fist against the turnbuckle pad, furious, but swallows the rest.

***

The crowd keeps buzzing, split between outrage and excitement, as Ryoma paces in the corner, chest heaving, eyes still burning holes through Noguchi.

Meanwhile, Noguchi just shrugs, wipes his nose, taking the penalty like it’s a mosquito bite. He’s still ahead on points, still smirking.

After a few moments of break, the ref waves them back. Noguchi steps forward, arms extended for a hug, his face looking all innocence.

“Sorry, sorry… didn’t mean it. Really.”

Suddenly, Ryoma’s Vision Grid cuts through his haze.

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Ryoma’s eyes burn. His ribs still throb. He sees the trick, the mask, and the mockery in Noguchi’s face, masking it with fake apology.

And now he sees the chance to give something back.

“Yeah…” Ryoma snarls. “I’ll show you sorry.”

Noguchi’s eyes flick, but it’s too late.

Ryoma cocks his right hand, sends a stiff jab for a set-up, and then throws a powerful cross.

Thud, BAM!!!

The glove crushes into Noguchi’s face, snapping his head back before his outstretched hand can even lower.

Spectators gasp, but Ryoma doesn’t even stop. He slams a left straight down the middle.

Bam!

Noguchi reels.

And another right, heavier and crueler, through the opening.

Bam!!!

Sweat and blood bursts off on impact, spraying in a sharp arc.

Noguchi lulls back and finally folds to the canvas, arms sprawling.

“Eat your sorry, motherfucker!”