VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma arches a brow, half a smile breaking through. The warning isn’t wrong, but it’s pointed the wrong way.

If anyone’s drowning in overconfidence, it’s Ayano. And Ryoma’s already decided to make him pay for it.

Across the ring, Ayano spins his left like a windmill, grinning with a predator’s excitement. He’s only taken one punch to the face, a light one, and he’s already sure of himself.

“Moving up a class with nothing but a mosquito bite?” he sneers, lips curling. “I’ll make you regret that decision for the rest of your life.”

The bell rings…

Ding!

…and Ayano storms into the center.

He thought Ryoma would circle away like before. But no, Ryoma steps forward, plants his feet, angles his body in one clean line, left arm tight against his ribs, lead shoulder lifted, right hand guarding his chin.

“A Philly Shell, huh?” Ayano scoffs, lips curling.

He bumps his gloves together, bounces once, and opens up with a few stiff jabs.

Ryoma rolls, slips, and catches two on his shoulder.

DUG! DUG!

Ayano’s face twitches. “Fine… I’ll just break it with my fists.”

He presses in, mixing his lefts with short, heavy hooks to the body. Ryoma slips the jabs, catches the hooks on his forearm, keeping his guard compact.

“Let’s see how long you can keep that up.”

The assault doesn’t stop. No clean hits, but Ayano’s rhythm builds, each swing heavier than the last.

He’s not chasing points, just impact. As long as his fists collide with something solid, it feeds him.

His grin widens between punches, the feedback of glove on guard igniting his blood.

BUG! BUG!

BUG! DSH! DSH! BUG! BUG!

The commentators’ voices ride the rhythm, excitement bleeding into every word.

“Blow after blow… Ayano keeps hammering that shell!”

“Another heavy slam! You can hear it from here!”

“Ryoma’s blocking perfectly, but for how long?”

“Yeah, this isn’t a short rookie round. He can’t keep that up forever. Those shots will drain him!”

Ayano hears it all; the cheers syncing to his rhythm, the commentators praising his onslaught.

Most fighters would get frustrated only hitting guard and shoulder, but not Ayano. He’s wired differently. Breaking people is what drives him.

Even hammering a sandbag gives him a rush. But now, pounding against Ryoma’s guard and shoulder, the resistance, the recoil, it’s better than any sandbag he’s ever hit.

Finally, Ryoma slips a punch and steps away.

Ayano mistakes it for retreat.

“Running away now?”

He lunges in, his signature pounce, both arms coiled for that crushing double strike.

What Ayano doesn’t see, Ryoma isn’t running away in fear.

As someone who’s been shot in the chest and already faced death once, a mere knuckle wrapped in leather won’t be enough to scare him.

He isn’t escaping. He’s baiting.

>

Ryoma pivots inward, stepping straight into the heart of the storm, something no boxer has ever done before when fighting Ayano.

Ayano flinches for half a heartbeat, surprised, but the motion’s already set. His left hook rises from below, the first hammer is thrown.

Ryoma catches it with his right glove before it fully extends, leans to the right, using his weight to smother it while slipping past the follow-up chopping right, his left shoulder lifting in defense.

Dsh!

Ayano’s glove grazes across his shoulder, and Ryoma’s already inside, right under Ayano’s chest, at the storm’s eye.

He twists his hips, shoulder snapping up, sending a sharp right from below.

Dhuak!

The uppercut lands clean on Ayano’s chin, snapping his head back.

A commentator bursts out. “Woo! That’s sick!”

Gasps ripple across the crowd. Ayano’s supporters freeze as their hero drops to one knee.

Down!

***

The hall is thick with confusion, still struggling to grasp the sudden reversal. Ayano had been in control since the opening bell, with Ryoma always looking like he was on the run.

Now, they’re seeing Ayano on one knee. Was it luck, or deliberate plan, they can’t tell.

The referee steps in, signaling Ryoma to move to the neutral corner. But Ryoma lingers for a moment, cold eyes fixed on Ayano as he drops one line:

“You’ll need something more lethal to make me fear.”

It lights a fire in Ayano’s chest. He growls, forcing himself back up, his gloves lifting as if he wants to smash Ryoma’s face right away.

But the ref catches his gloves, just checking him over.

“You okay? Can you still fight?”

“Of course…” Ayano spits, breathing hard. “There’s no way that light punch could hurt me.”

The ref studies him a moment longer, then nods and steps aside.

“Box!”

Without any count after the knockdown, the fight resumes. Ayano is furious, his urge to break something only getting bigger.

His fans roar his name, praising his toughness, while his corner shouts for him to pay Ryoma back.

He wants to answer them, to prove he’s still in control. But his legs won’t obey. His balance stumbles beneath him.

What the…? Move, damn it!

He said it didn’t hurt, but his body knows the truth.

Ryoma doesn’t waste the moment.

>

He steps in and fires a clean 1–1–2, two jabs and a straight.

Ayano raises his guard, blocking.

DUG! DUG! DUG!

Ryoma then shifts angle, whips a left hook to the ear, and then another to the ribs.

Dsh! Bug!

“Calm and calculated… Ryoma’s mixing up his punches now.”

“What a reversal! That uppercut turned the tide, and now Ryoma’s pouring on the pressure.”

From the red corner, Takashiro yells out, “Endure, Ayano! Don’t rush it. Recover first!”

Ayano absorbs the blows, holding his guard high. But the hits feel too light, too soft for him to respect.

It’s not pain that burns him now. It’s humiliation.

Damn it… how the hell did that weak punch knock me down?

Frustration twists his face. He drops his left, just for a moment, trying to fire back.

That’s when Ryoma punishes him with something real.

Dhuak!

A sharp right snaps into the corner of his mouth. His head jerks back, blood on his lip. He grits his teeth, lifting his left guard again.

Ayano tries moving his body, slipping, making himself harder to hit. But his head movement is stiff, predictable. Ryoma’s eyes track every motion through his Vision Grid.

DUG! DUG!

DUG! DUG! DUG!

Quick, precise shots pepper Ayano’s guard, sharp but deceptively light.

Even when Ryoma shifts angles and lands a clean hook to the temple, the punches feel like taps, just annoying, not threatening.

Without Ayano realizing it, he’s currently being played. Ryoma’s feeding his pride, drawing him deeper into frustration with deliberate light punches, letting his temper lead.

Then Ayano takes the bait, again. He swings two heavy hooks that hit nothing but air. And Ryoma’s left counter lands crisp on his face.

Dsh!

Still, Ayano ignores them, desperate to land something real. He loads his right, puts everything into one heavy straight…

And that’s when Ryoma punishes him again with something real.

BAM!!!

A perfect cross-counter slams into Ayano’s nose.

“Whoa! Another clean shot from Ryoma!”

Blood bursts from Ayano’s nostrils, his head snaps back.

And Ryoma doesn’t stop. As Ayano’s body falls forward, Ryoma greets him with two more punches.

And Ayano collapses, down again.

“Another knockdown! Just twenty seconds since the last one!”

“We’ve never seen this before. Ayano has never been dropped in his entire career, and Ryoma’s done it twice in one round!”

“This is unbelievable! Ryoma Takeda… completely dictating the fight as he pleases!”