VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The gym falls into low murmurs. Every voice carries that uncertain weight that comes when something unexpected just happened.

Reporters hover near the ring, cameras hanging useless around their necks.

“…he didn’t land a clean hit,” one whispers.

“Yeah, Ryoma couldn’t even find the rhythm,” another adds, flipping through his notes. “That’s rare. He’s usually the one reading everyone else.”

“I’ve covered him since his debut,” a third mutters. “Never seen him look like that.”

From the other side of the ring, Shoji lets out a dry laugh. “So this is the guy Elliot picked over me? Couldn’t even tag him once. Just hype… no bone.”

A few of the younger fighters chuckle quietly, though none sound convinced.

Narisawa, still by the ropes, doesn’t join in. His eyes stay on the ring, where Ryoma sits on the stool, head bowed, breathing measured.

“Don’t be too quick,” he says.

Shoji turns. “What, you think he did good?”

Narisawa crosses his arms. “You didn’t watch close enough.”

Then he nods toward the ring.

“That hook Elliot landed should’ve rattled him,” he says. “Most boxers lose their form after that, flinch, swing wild, anything. But he didn’t. He stayed calm, blocked the next four crosses clean, perfectly timed. He was still reading Elliot, even after taking the hit.”

Shoji frowns, saying nothing.

In the ring, Elliot sits in the corner, head tilted down as Sergei holds an ice pack against his shoulder.

“He’s got a good pair of eyes.” He exhales through his nose, faintly smiling. “Within seconds, he’d already figured out my range and timing.”

Sergei nods, expression still composed. “Good eyes, yes. But that’s also what makes him vulnerable to you. The more he reads, the more he relies on prediction. Against your kind of rhythm, his own perception will turn against him.”

Elliot nods slowly, thoughtful. He falls quiet for a moment, staring across the gym where Ryoma sits in his own corner.

“About his old fight,” he says, “the one that gone viral…. he didn’t fight like this then. Completely different rhythm, different stance.

“He’s helping you prepare for Renji,” Sergei replies.

“I know. But still…” Elliot’s voice lowers, wistful. “I’d rather fight him, the real him, in an official match. Not like this. Not when he’s borrowing someone else’s style just for a spar.”

Sergei pats his shoulder once. “Don’t get greedy. He’s doing this out of respect. You should be grateful. We’ve brought plenty of boxers to mimic Renji before, but none of them got this close.”

Elliot’s eyes linger on Ryoma’s corner a moment longer, that faint smile still on his lips.

“Too bad, then. I didn’t call him here for that, to be honest.”

***

When the bell rings, Nakahara still doesn’t let his fighter go. He’s been arguing with Ryoma for a while now, voice low but tense.

“Stop treating this spar like a joke,” Nakahara says, gripping Ryoma’s arm from behind. His tone is restrained, but his patience is thin. “Drop the act already. You don’t need to be Renji. Just fight your own style.”

“My own style?” Ryoma lifts an eyebrow. “Which one? You know I never stick to just one.”

“Then pick anyone else’s but his,” Nakahara snaps. “Stop waiting for an opening to counter. He’s a world contender. He won’t fall for that so easily. At best, you’ll waste the round. At worst, you’ll break something. Remember, you still have your own fight with Sekino soon.”

The referee clears his throat. “Excuse me. Are we continuing the spar, or not?”

Nakahara exhales sharply, gives Ryoma one last glare, and finally lets go of his arm.

Ryoma steps toward the center, raising a glove lazily in apology to Elliot.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says in English, calm and polite. “Coach just worries I’ll get hurt. But please… don’t hold back.

“

Elliot touches gloves. “Of course. I wasn’t planning to.”

“That’s good, then.” Ryoma takes a few light steps backward, his voice almost playful. “Because if you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll be the one too hurt to fight Renji.”

Elliot’s expression tightens. The words sound like a warning, but it isn’t what Ryoma says that feels dangerous now. It’s the way he moves.

Ryoma starts to circle him, bouncing lightly on his toes, his weight shifting from heel to toe in a smooth, fluid dance.

His hands stay low at his sides, relaxed, almost careless, the picture of confidence. The movement looks effortless, too effortless, until Elliot sees how steady his eyes are, locked on him, watching his every twitch and breath.

Ryoma moves like he’s playing, but every step, every sway of his shoulders, carries purpose. The rhythm in his footwork isn’t showmanship, but control.

Elliot can tell, this isn’t just lightness. It’s pressure disguised as grace, the kind of elegance that made Muhammad Ali adored, respected, and feared.

Ryoma isn’t just copying a legend. Elliot can feel it, the air around him tightening, charged with something real.

***

Elliot raises his gloves. The pendulum rhythm returns; forward-back-forward, each bounce whispering against the canvas. He stays at the center, composed, waiting for Ryoma to come to him.

Ryoma, meanwhile, circles near the ropes, steps light and soundless, his body swaying in tempo with his own rhythm.

From afar, the two look less like fighters and more like dancers testing each other’s music, two beats, two melodies, overlapping but never merging.

Then the air tightens.

Elliot jabs first, a slapping left through the air, sharp but short.

Ryoma tilts his head aside, shoulders rolling with the motion, letting the punch slightly brushing his headgear.

He then answers with his own jab, snapping in fast from his low guard, shoulder turning just enough to add sting.

But Elliot is already gliding back, weight shifting to his rear foot as his own jab shoots forward again.

No punches land, but the rhythm between them grows faster, more tangled.

Elliot’s pendulum carries him in and out like a tide, while Ryoma darts around him, stepping in at sharp angles, slipping through gaps, and leaping away again before the counter comes.

Jabs clash midair, parried, deflected, brushed off shoulders.

Dsh! Dep! Dsh! Dsh! Dsh! Thup!

Each man throws, withdraws, throws again.

Elliot’s sequence is constant: three light jabs, bounce back, three light jabs, with his motion exact and economical.

Ryoma’s rhythm is more alive, elastic, sometimes he throws single jabs, sometimes doubles, sometimes fakes and retreats without firing at all.

“Damn, they’re just using jabs, but it feels like a storm,” one of the journalists murmurs.

“And look at Graves…” another says. “He’s grinning.”

To the crowd, it feels like a whirlwind of lefts, the sound of punches cutting through air more than the impact itself.

And Elliot looks like he’s enjoying it now, because this is exactly the kind of fight he expected from Ryoma.

“This is it…”

His grin widens between breaths, eyes locked on his opponent.

He slips another jab, then snaps out his own slapping left, only for Ryoma’s right hand to flick it aside, quick and clean, before Ryoma fires one back.

Elliot tilts, weaving with the rhythm.

“Guess coming to this country wasn’t a mistake after all.”

His eyes glint, wide, wild, and alive.

“Finally… a fighter worth the flight.”