VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The gym feels different now, growing quieter. Every sound folds into the stillness as Ryoma climbs into the ring.

Nakahara adjusts Ryoma’s headgear from outside the ropes, tightening the strap beneath his chin.

“Don’t overthink it,” he murmurs. “Just read, react, and breathe.”

Ryoma nods once.

Around them, the crowd tightens, shoulders brushing. A few journalists raise their cameras, flashes breaking the dim air. The anticipation builds, everyone knows this spar isn’t ordinary.

When Nakahara finishes, Ryoma turns, and catches Elliot’s lips moving as he speaks to Sergei, who’s leaning on the ropes, calm and unreadable.

Ryoma can’t hear a thing, but his Vision Grid picks up the words, tracing their shape.

“Heard he uses a different style. But I hope he uses the flickers today.”

A faint smile crosses Ryoma’s face. So that’s what you want, huh?

The referee steps in, calling both men to the center. He speaks in Japanese, explaining it’s only a training session, a light spar. But Elliot doesn’t seem to understand, his attention is fixed on Ryoma.

He extends a glove, voice calm but firm. “Please, don’t hold back.”

Ryoma raises a brow, then answers in fluent English. “I could mimic Renji’s style, if you want.”

Elliot’s brows lift, surprise flickering before a grin forms. “What a considerate.”

Their gloves touch, a soft thud, respectful but electric, and they each take two steps back. The air tightens as the ref signals to start.

Then the bell rings.

Ding!

Elliot begins first, hands low, feet gliding in that smooth pendulum rhythm, drifting forward and back, weight floating between his legs.

His motion alone draws murmurs from the crowd. Even those who’ve watched his previous spars can tell this is something different.

Because indeed, Elliot never used this Soviet-style before.

Across from him, Ryoma drops his left hand slightly, stance squared, forward and assertive, not the tilted lean of a counterpuncher, but the poise of pressure.

His right hand hovers near his chin, twitching with intent, ready to drive through openings rather than react to them.

Elliot studies him closely, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. He’s seen this stance before, studied it frame by frame on screen.

And now, it stands before him, alive, breathing, and real: Renji’s offensive flicker stance.

As if in gratitude, Elliot takes the initiative. No disguise, no testing phase, he fights with his true form.

He bounces forward, jabs. Hops back, jabs again. Forward once more, another jab.

Back and forth, three jabs, none connecting, each one only slicing empty air like a metronome marking tempo.

Then he pauses the hands, but keeps the rhythm in his feet, that pendulum sway, before resuming with another three probing jabs.

Ryoma doesn’t react. He stands calm, shoulder lifted, left arm loose, eyes locked and patient. He knows those jabs won’t reach him.

And somehow, that composure earns Elliot’s respect.

“He’s good…”

Then Elliot shifts gears. The same rhythm, but faster, the pendulum beats quicken. His next forward bounce cuts deeper.

Ryoma knows this time the jab will land. He leans back, avoiding the jab, and then lunges forward, snapping a flicker in reply.

But Elliot’s already bouncing away. The moment his rear foot touches down, he launches another slapping jab.

A left flies just as Ryoma’s weight tips forward from his flicker.

He sees it, raises his right…

DSH!

…blocked.

But Elliot’s already in motion again, bouncing forward, sending another slapping jab, almost like a spear hook, light but fast.

Ryoma parries with his left…

Dep!

But Elliot’s rhythm suddenly breaks. He drops a right hook to the body, sharp and sudden.

Ryoma pulls his left, putting his left elbow back on the ribs, tightening his guard.

BAM!

Blocked again. But slaps another left across Ryoma’s headgear before hopping back.

DSH!

It’s light, and precise.

Then another, Elliot bounces forward again, slapping another light left.

DSH!

This time it’s blocked. But before Ryoma can answer, Elliot shifts tempo again, a heavy right slams against his lead shoulder.

BAM!!!

Ryoma fires a cross, but Elliot’s gone, hopping out of range, floating backward, then forward again with another snapping jab…

DSH!

Another left slapping his headgear.

Confused by Elliot’s rhythm, Ryoma finally steps out, recalibrating, mind tracing the beat.

Elliot’s movement still flows, constant, fluid, throwing jabs even from too far to land. As if saying, this is the rhythm. Read it, if you can.

Like a dancer with his own music: One, and jab. Two, and jab. Three, and jab.

***

Ryoma reads Elliot’s movements, absorbs it, every step, every beat. The rhythm is so steady it almost sounds like a drummer keeping perfect time. It’s too clean, too constant, too easy to memorize.

If this were music, Ryoma could’ve danced to it. His head would nod to the tempo, like a jazz listener caught in the groove.

And maybe he does.

As he watches Elliot glide back and forth, that subtle pendulum motion pulling the air with it.

Ryoma’s head starts moving too, nodding, small, up and down, unconscious, matching the same pattern and beat.

Then Elliot steps in deeper, throwing his jabs. Still short of range, but close enough that the air between them snaps.

Ryoma’s eyes follow, and without realizing it, his reactions begin to match the rhythm, his weight shift, his shoulder twitch, his guard motion.

He’s only observing, not engaging. But to the ones watching from ringside, it looks like the two are already moving in sync.

“This isn’t good,” Sera mutters under his breath, face still calm. “He said he knew the Soviet style… but look at him. He’s already caught in Elliot’s rhythm.”

Thinking he’s finally mapped out Elliot’s timing, Ryoma pivots, leaning forward to launch a few flickers.

Then he steps deeper, moving perfectly in sync with Elliot’s rhythm, already predicting where the Brit will bounce back and throw that light slapping jab.

He ducks the slapping jab cleanly, eyes sharp, already waiting for the next jab. The rhythm is perfect now, predictable. Ryoma sees it, times it, breathes with it.

The perfect opening.

And just as he predicts, Elliot throws it. The slapping jab cuts through the air exactly when Ryoma expects it.

But before Ryoma can fire his right, Elliot breaks the rhythm. The pendulum beat stops, and in that instant, a burst of sharp hooks comes flying in tight space.

The first one snaps Ryoma’s head to the side, freezing his counter mid-motion. The headgear softens the blow, but the impact still rattles him.

He snaps his guard up fast, lead shoulder lifted, his rear foot dragged back. His instincts kick in as he rolls and blocks.

BUG! BUG! BUG! BUG!

Four more hooks slam into his shoulder and arm guard, each heavier than the last.

Ryoma manages to absorb them all and fires back out of reflex. But Elliot is already gone, bouncing out of range with that seamless backward glide.

And once Elliot’s rear foot lands…

Dsh!

Another slapping jab hits Ryoma’s headgear, a mocking punctuation mark to the exchange.

Elliot’s rhythm returns, smooth and steady, as if nothing happened.

He bounces forward again, but…

Ding!

The bell saves the round.

Elliot exhales, steady and calm, and walks back to his corner.

Ryoma’s chest heaves as he follows, the confusion heavier than fatigue. He’d memorized the rhythm, mapped every beat. But the moment he thought he had control, Elliot tore it apart.

As he walks to the corner, Sera greets him with a dry jeer. “Good job. You actually avoided the worst. But without the headgear, that first hook would’ve stunned you harder. And you wouldn’t have stopped the other four.”

Ryoma looks annoyed, but doesn’t argue back.

Now he understands why the Soviet style is such a bad matchup for him. His counter-puncher’s mindset, his greatest weapon, is the very thing that’s betraying him.