VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Across the ring, Elliot finds his rhythm, the same sway Ryoma has already memorized. Before Ryoma even gets into range, Elliot starts probing with jabs.

But, as Sera warned, the tempo isn’t constant this time. From the steady slow beat Elliot nudges the speed up a notch: not a flurry, just a slightly quicker repeat of the first jab.

Ryoma lets the punches hit his guard, letting his body memorize them.

Pak, pak, pak.

His Vision Grid records the beat pattern, slower this time: 531 ms, 537 ms, 535 ms.

The slow cycle holds for a moment, then snaps back to the familiar 441 ms, 443 ms, 445 ms, the rhythm Elliot favored in the first round.

Later the tempo fractures into a messier sequence: 443 ms, then a slow 510 ms, then back to 440 ms.

Ryoma still doesn’t throw a punch. He just bops his head, inches forward carefully, letting the Grid catalog every subtle shift in Elliot’s timing.

After half a minute of taking lefts, Ryoma reaches a conclusion: Elliot constantly varies his tempo, but it circles three patterns; a slow cluster around 530 ms, a faster one around 440 ms, and a chaotic pattern that slides from fast to slow to fast again.

Then he steps back beyond range, slips onto his toes, and resumes the smooth out-boxer footwork.

>

“I know, I know. No need to tell me.”

He drops the out-boxer stance and returns to an in-fighter posture, gloves up. Then he pivots his lead foot and fires two jabs

Dug, dug!

…both blocked.

And he pulls his lead foot again, resetting.

Elliot answers with two cycles of three slapping jabs: the slow pattern, then the chaotic.

Pak, pak, pak.

Pak, pak-pak.

He layers something heavier onto the last sequence.

But Ryoma reads the cue, a heavy shot is coming.

He slides back just enough for the hook to skim his chest by a hair. The punch looks sharp; even from a miss, it makes the crowd flinch.

“Woah, that was dangerous,” someone breathes.

“It would’ve been, if it landed,” another says.

“But it didn’t. Ryoma saw it coming.”

Elliot’s jaw tightens. It’s almost a minute and he hasn’t trapped Ryoma into any rhythm.

He returns to the steady 440 ms beat and sticks with it longer now, trying to lure Ryoma into the groove.

And now Ryoma’s second test begins.

He follows the rhythm, times a step forward, but not too far. When the cue appears he immediately bounces back.

Zrrff…

Elliot’s right slices through air.

No flurry this time, just a single strike because Ryoma is already out of range.

But the next time Elliot begins his steady rhythm again, Ryoma suddenly steps forward, times it with a one-two before Elliot’s left reaches him

DSH! DSH!

Elliot flinches and staggers.

But Ryoma doesn’t press the advantage. He steps back again, resumes bouncing on his toes, and folds into the out-boxer footwork he used earlier.

The second test is done; the result is plain: If Elliot shows no cues, he has no intention of breaking the rhythm with a flurry, and that steady window is the safest place to land a counter, a decisive one.

“Okay… let’s test it again.”

>

The risk remains: misread the cue, mis-time the step, or fall into a trap if Elliot has been baiting him all along.

But Ryoma doesn’t shy from risk. If anything, he leans into the challenge with tightened focus.

***

He lets Elliot keep his rhythm, steady, probing jabs coming one after another with mechanical precision.

Ryoma doesn’t interrupt. He watches, eyes narrow, matching the beat and tempo in his head, feeling the subtle shifts in timing that hint at what’s coming next.

And then, before Elliot even gets the chance to break his pattern…

“There are still no cues…”

Ryoma moves, a sudden forward step, deeper than before. He brushes aside Elliot’s left mid-flight, parries it clean with his right, and fires back.

Sharp left, then a cross…

Dsh! BAM!

The ringside gasps as both punches land flush, snapping Elliot’s head backward.

Pain and confusion flash across Elliot’s face.

“Again…? Another one-two counter?”

Elliot tries to reset, but before his guard fully seals in front of his face, Ryoma slips inside and clips him with a compact left uppercut…

Dhuak!

…snapping his head toward open air.

For an instant, Ryoma has the perfect opening to drive a heavy right straight to the face, an easy finish.

But he halts mid-motion, turns the punch into a light body shot instead, and then steps away.

The spectators can’t hide their confusion. They murmur among themselves, unsure why he’s backing off even though Elliot hasn’t thrown anything in return.

“Why’d he stop?”

“He had a clean chance there.”

“Looked like he… pulled his punch?”

Ryoma keeps his distance. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Elliot’s scheduled to fight Renji soon. This is just a sparring session. He won’t risk injuring him here.

Elliot, though, doesn’t seem to realize it. He just breathes hard, shoulders heaving, guard trembling in front of his face.

His stance still steady, knees just slightly shaking from the impact, but it isn’t the first time he’s been beaten this badly.

Ryoma recognizes the flicker in Elliot’s eyes when his guard dips; anger taking over, he’s lost it.

Elliot sinks lower this time, trying to find his pendulum rhythm, but it’s no longer smooth or loose.

His movements are rigid, forced; the easy sway replaced with stiff rolls of his torso. Both gloves stay high, jaw clenched.

Ryoma smirks.

“What?”

He flicks out a light jab, almost teasing.

Dsh!

Elliot catches it in his glove. For a split second his motion freezes, then he starts rolling again, short, jerky movements, breath uneven.

The pendulum rhythm is still there, but it’s smaller now, tense. Ryoma can see the strain in Elliot’s forearms, the bulging muscles under compression.

He’s mad, trying to fight his way out through brute aggression. Elliot dives in from the crouch, throwing a quick flurry.

Left, cross, left uppercut, right cross.

DUG! DUG! DUG! DUG!

Ryoma blocks every one, disrupts the flow with a jab, and glides out of range.

He reads the shift instantly: Elliot has changed his fighting style, adopting a more direct, pressure-heavy stance.

Compared to the Soviet-style earlier, this is a rhythm Ryoma knows well

He exhales softly, rolls his shoulders, bumps his gloves together, and begins circling sideways.

“There’s still one minute left. Why don’t I try it too?”

He steps in again, snapping a few lefts…

Dug! Dug!

…then drifts away.

Elliot fires right back, still using his pendulum footwork, but his jabs come out cleaner now, no more slapping left, each one straight and sharp.

The exchange resumes, an attrition of lefts.

Elliot holds center ring while Ryoma circles around him, adjusting angles, keeping the distance exact.

Then Ryoma shifts again, his tempo, his stance, even the beat of his punches.

Pak, pak, pak!

Pak, pak-pak! Pak!

He bounces lightly on his toes, forward and back, throwing jabs in the exact rhythm Elliot used earlier, but steadier, more constant.

His rhythm locks perfectly, alternating between a 440-millisecond beat and a slower 510-millisecond one.

Each shift is seamless, exact, every beat measured by his Vision Grid.

>

“Naah… I just found the rhythm interesting. So why not steal it?”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. A few journalists lean closer, some raise their phones to record the spar. Shutters click, flashes blink.

At one corner of the ring, Sergei watches sharply, arms crossed, expression dark. He looks almost offended by Ryoma’s composure, by the way he toys with the rhythm so effortlessly.