VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ayano stalks forward again, but Ryoma doesn’t try to keep him at bay. He lets him throw, still studying.

It’s not the crushing double strike this time. Ayano’s showing that he’s more than brute force.

He starts jabbing on the move, quick, sharp lefts as he steps in, using his longer reach to close the gap.

Ryoma reads every one of them, but he doesn’t dodge. He decides to block.

Dug! Dug!

Dug! Dug! Dug!

They’re disciplined jabs, polished through repetition, but not as fast as what Ryoma faced at Super Featherweight.

And there’s little variation to it, heavier, but predictable. Ryoma stays compact, guard tight, using the exchange to feel out this new division.

Ayano, misreading his patience, thinks it’s fear, just like all the others boxers he beat so far. Now with the crowd roaring, fighting on a bigger stage, he decides to put on a show.

He pivots, bounces, even switches stance twice, flash over function, before firing another flurry of lefts and finishing with a heavy straight.

BAM!

The last one rattles Ryoma’s guard, forcing him to readjust his balance.

Ayano doesn’t press. He grins, rolling his neck side to side.

“You’re not the only one who can dance,” he brags.

Ryoma arches a brow, and then snaps a probing jab, baiting him.

Ayano blocks, and lunges, throwing two jabs. Then he crouches, and here comes the sudden pounce, the same brutal entry, the double strike that made his name.

Ryoma catches both.

BUG! BAM!!!

The impact echoes through the hall, and the crowd gasps as one, the sound of raw force crashing against solid defense.

Ayano swings two more hooks up close, but Ryoma’s already slipping away, letting him hit nothing but air.

“A devastating combo of strikes,” a commentator beams.

“It forces Ryoma to back off,” the other one add. “What’s he gonna do now? He can’t just let Ayano to set the pace. He’s gotta answer back.”

Ryoma’s answer? Only feints, once, twice, before tossing a half-hearted jab.

It draws a slight reaction from Ayano, and Ryoma uses the opening to circle, retaking the center of the ring.

His composure never breaks. His eyes stay sharp, scanning not just Ayano’s body, but his mindset.

Now he fully understands the difference between Ayano and Renji Kuroiwa, and why Ayano’s pressure feels heavier.

Renji’s power had restraint, precision wrapped in technique, elegance behind every strike. But Ayano’s different. His every punch carries intent. There’s no restraint, no calculation.

Except for those jabs earlier, Ayano’s always kept throwing pure crushing will behind every swing, a desire to break whoever stands before him.

And now, with Ryoma refusing to play into his chaos, that desire has turned to mounting hatred.

Ayano’s glare burns like a beast staring at its prey, like he wants to kill him.

>

“Yeah…” Ryoma exhales calmly. “This is the madness that froze all his past opponents.”

***

Even with his growing confidence in reading Ayano, Ryoma stays disciplined. He doesn’t rush. The first round is for study, not pride.

Ayano, on the other hand, keeps charging, unaware that he’s revealing everything Ryoma needs.

Until finally…

Ding!

The bell rings. End of the first round.

“Whew… what an intense opening,” one commentator breathes out. “Just like always, Ayano really came in swinging. Not holding back at all.”

“But Ryoma…” the other adds. “He’s uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Aside from that one sharp jab that snapped Ayano’s head back, he barely threw anything.”

“Could be the weight difference,” the first replies. “This is his first fight at Lightweight. Every punch from Ayano has to feel like a sledgehammer compared to Super Featherweight.”

“Still, you can tell, Ryoma’s not being passive out of fear. He’s adjusting.”

Before Ryoma reaches his stool, the drums cut through the entire hall once more. They aren’t allowed during the fight itself, but between rounds, the rules are looser.

And Ryoma’s supporters aren’t wasting that chance.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

“RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!”

The beat rolls like thunder, followed by rhythmic claps and a chant that swells from every corner.

In the opposite corner, Ayano sits down hard on his stool, scowling. His shoulders rise and fall with irritated breaths as one of his cornermen presses an ice pack against his neck.

“Tch…” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “That damn chant again.”

“Forget it,” Coach Takashiro says, trying to keep him focused. “They’re just making noise.”

Ayano slams his gloves together in frustration. “It’s not just noise. It’s his name. Over and over. Like they’re worshipping him or something.”

Another cornerman, Suda, wipes the sweat from his face, trying to calm him.

“Then make them chant yours next round,” he says.

Naoto’s smile is flat. “He’s afraid of what you hit like. He’s still a boy after all. Just break him.”

Ayano leans forward, elbows on his knees, his glare cutting toward the blue corner. “Yeah… I will. Let’s see if they’re still shouting for him when he’s on the floor.”

Across the ring, Ryoma watches them talk. He can’t hear the words, but his Vision Grid reads every shape their mouths make. They don’t bother to hide it.

Not just the lips; he sees the hard glint in their eyes too. Ayano’s contempt spreads through his corner like an infection.

“It seems the crowd’s really got right under their skin. Look at how much they hate me,” Ryoma sneers.

Nakahara glances toward the red corner and exhales. He’s seen that expression before, Ayano and his crew have been prickly ever since the rookie tournament when they shared a locker room.

“Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by them,” Nakahara says.

“Not really,” Ryoma shakes his head, grinning. “I’m chill.”

Nakahara raises an eyebrow. “But your first round didn’t tell the same thing.”

Ryoma shrugs. “His punches are heavy, yes. My arms are still buzzing. But really… did they never teach him anything beyond throwing hard shots?”

Nakahara studies him. Ryoma hasn’t thrown many blows in the first round; Nakahara worries the kid might be rattled.

But Ryoma’s face gives nothing away.

“You can still talk about it lightly, heh?” Nakahara teases.

“Thanks to Kenta’s help, and all the heavy punches he threw at me,” Ryoma answers, giving his senior a sideways nod.

Kenta smiles. “So that’s why you were pushing me to punch you harder?”

“Yeah.” Ryoma’s tone is flat, determined. “There was something off about Ayano’s record. His boxing’s so straightforward, but nobody ever punished him for it. Tonight, I’ll be the first to do it. If luck’s with me, I might end it next round.”

Nakahara narrows his eyes. “Don’t underestimate him. This could flip on you just as fast if you get careless.”

“I’m not underestimating him,” Ryoma says, shaking his head. “I’ve read him. And my verdict is final. His punches are heavy, and those rookies weren’t ready for that kind of presence. But it won’t work on me.”

Moments later, the referee calls both corners to clear the ring.

“Seconds out!”

Nakahara steps through the ropes with the rest of his team but lingers on the apron, eyes fixed on Ryoma’s back.

The crowd has been jubilant with their support. The last thing he wants is for all that noise to start filling Ryoma’s head.

So he calls out. “Hey, kid!”

Ryoma turns, half expecting another correction. “What is it?”

“Confidence can win you fights.” Nakahara warns him, eyes narrow. “But overconfidence? The ring never forgives that.”