VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ayano’s supporters, just ten seconds ago still roaring with pride, gradually fall silent. Faces twist in confusion, disappointment, disbelief. The boxer who once dominated every match now looks like a clueless amateur.

At the red corner, Takashiro has been glaring in frustration, jaw tight, eyes hollow. Then he snaps, slamming both hands on the apron.

“Are you stupid or what!?” he roars. “Raise your guard! Just survive this round and get back here! Don’t you dare throw another punch!”

Normally, that kind of order makes no sense. Going fully defensive just invites your opponent to do whatever he wants.

But Takashiro’s faith in his fighter has gone. He no longer trusts Ayano’s judgment. All that’s left is damage control, to protect him until the round ends.

And Ayano obeys, or maybe Ryoma’s calculated assault forces him to. He shells up, both gloves high, chin tucked, absorbing the blows.

Ryoma stays patient, circling, reading, picking his shots like a surgeon.

He prods the body with a sharp jab…

BUG!

Ayano’s stomach folds, knees buckling slightly.

Still no counter from him, Ryoma strings a 1–2–1 at the guard, then dips and drives a right hook into the ribs.

BUG!

Ayano reels, bending left in pain. His left guard slips for a heartbeat, just enough for Ryoma to aim upstairs.

DSH!

A clean right hook crashes across his face, snapping his head sideways.

“Oh-hoo! Look how calmly he’s picking his targets,” one commentator says, half-laughing. “If Ayano won’t fire back, Ryoma’s going to treat him like a heavy bag.”

“This is brutal,” another adds. “Japan’s Rookie MVP, once feared for his destruction, now looks like a schoolboy being disciplined.”

Ayano hears it. Every word stings deeper than the punches. Humiliation boils through his chest, drowning out reason.

He growls, and throws a desperate right.

Ryoma’s eyes narrow, already anticipated it.

Dsh! Dsh!

A crisp 1–2 snaps into his face. Ayano’s head jerks back twice, pendulum-like, spit flying.

From the corner, Takashiro loses it completely, veins bulging.

“What the hell are you doing, Ayano!?” he screams, slamming the canvas again. “Ten seconds left! Just guard! Don’t throw another damn punch!”

The coach who once praised Ayano’s relentless aggression now has to tell him not to fight at all.

And Ayano obeys, at least for a moment.

Two seconds left in the round, his impatience flares again. He throws a punch, and Ryoma punishes him.

DSH! DSH! WHAM!

Two jabs and a cross land clean. Ayano’s legs wobble, balance crumbling.

But then…

Ding!

The bell saves him.

Ayano collapses to the canvas anyway, completely spent. No count this time. The referee just waves it off, signaling the end of the second round.

Takashiro and his team rush in, grabbing Ayano under the arms, half-carrying him back to the stool.

Ryoma stays where he is, still and silent, eyes following them. There’s no celebration in his expression, only faint disappointment, a small exhale that says he wanted to finish it clean.

His fans keep cheering anyway. He’s given them another thrilling moment, exactly what they came to see.

RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!

***

The blue corner mirrors the same energy. They’re quietly purring with satisfaction, sharing the crowd’s euphoria, though they’re clearly trying not to show it too much.

Then they notice Ryoma’s composed expression, and immediately adjust their own. Nakahara clears his throat, putting on a calm front.

“What? You don’t look too happy,” he asks.

“I really thought I could finish it with that third down,” Ryoma says flatly. “But the damn bell saved him. Or maybe it was his corner. They kept telling him to go full turtle.”

“Just sit and steady your breathing,” Nakahara says. “It’s a ten-round fight. We don’t know how long he can last, or how long you can keep those legs moving.”

Hiroshi presses an ice bag to the back of Ryoma’s neck, wiping the sweat from his shoulders. Kenta hands him water, placing the bucket in front of him.

And that’s all they need to do. Ryoma returns to the stool completely unscathed. Even his breathing, after just ten seconds of quiet focus, settles back to normal.

Only then does Nakahara speak again. “So, what’s your plan next?”

Ryoma frowns. “You’re asking me what my plan is next?”

Nakahara blinks. “What?”

“You’re my second,” Ryoma squints. “Aren’t you supposed to give me a plan?”

“No, no, I mean…” Nakahara waves a hand, half-laughing. “You already planned that second round. You said you’d end it.”

“And I miscalculated.”

“Come on, you were off by one second. It’s fine. Don’t overthink it. Just make another plan. I trust your instincts now.”

“Fine…” Ryoma exhales. “Let me think. Just give me a moment.”

Nakahara nods awkwardly, and Ryoma’s gaze drifts back to the red corner.

“Hey, activate lip-reading for me.”

>

>

Ryoma begins eavesdropping. At first, nothing useful, Ayano hasn’t said a word yet, and Takashiro’s back blocks the view. The Vision Grid’s interface translates only the movements of Suda and Naoto’s lips through the system’s synthetic voice.

Soon, Naoto crouches in front of Ayano to treat his wounds, and Ryoma’s focus shifts to Suda.

>

And that’s all he got, nothing useful yet.

***

Right now, Ayano’s face is already cleaned of his own blood, though faint streaks still mark his nostrils.

The bruises and swelling remain. His breathing is ragged, exhausted, deflated. Takashiro isn’t holding back his words, but it’s unclear if Ayano even hears him.

“You even let him trap you,” Takashiro snaps. “Not just once, but over and over again. He gave you cues, said the numbers out loud, and for god’s sake, you actually followed them! What are you? An amateur?”

“I just thought…” Ayano finally speaks, still gasping for breath. “I thought if I knew his next move, I could set up a counter.”

“Set him up for a counter?” Takashiro’s face twisted, half in disbelief, half in bitter amusement. “And it never once crossed your mind that it was all his traps? That he was setting you up? Luring you to open your guard?”

Ayano says nothing. The weight of it crushes him more than the punches did. If this were the final round, he’d probably have walked out and never looked back.

“But seriously…” Suda leans in. “Has anyone ever done that before? Calling their punches out loud like that, in a real fight?”

Takashiro exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “No one’s ever stupid enough to try something like that. But he did it… and this idiot actually fell for it.”

It should’ve been an eye-opening moment, the kind that helps a fighter grow. But now, Takashiro isn’t so sure.

Looking at Ayano, usually brimming with confidence yet now so quiet and defeated, he begins to worry that the experience might do more harm than good.

So Takashiro crouches down, meeting his fighter eye to eye, the way a real trainer should when it matters most.

“There are still eight rounds left,” he says firmly. “For the next one, focus on recovery. Watch him. Study how he moves.”

“Study him?” Ayano’s brow furrows, disbelief tightening his voice. “You want me to learn from him? Coach, what is this… are you giving up already?”

“No, idiot…” Takashiro sighs, the frustration clear in his tone. “Right now, you’ve only got one advantage, your reach. Use it. Stick to your jab, fast and compact, keep him off you. I’ve also taught you to move your feet, didn’t I? So use them too. Don’t engage. Survive the next round first, then we’ll think of something.”

Ayano stares back at him, eyes wide with disbelief, like he can’t accept what he’s hearing.

“You… you’re actually telling me to run away?” His voice cracks with anger. “Like a coward? You really want to throw this fight that badly?”