VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the blue corner moves with quiet precision. Hiroshi presses a chilled end-swell against the faint puff beneath Ryoma’s eye and the right corner of his mouth; the metal is cool and steady.

Beside him, Kenta works Ryoma’s legs with light, measured strokes, just enough to keep the muscles loose, not tired.

“Damn,” Ryoma mutters. “I cracked his first trick, and he immediately layered another one on… even blended it into the same rhythm.”

Sera’s voice cuts in, cool and flat. “If you hang on to that anger, you’ll just exhaust yourself faster, and cloud your head.”

Ryoma flicks a glance at him, still irritated. But after a moment, he lowers his gaze, closes his eyes, and pulls his breathing down until it’s even.

Only then does he replay the round in his head and pick it apart, calm and precise. Once he opens his eyes again, he looks a bit calmer now.

“I cracked his slapping left,” he says. “But then he used it as misdirection, and hit me with a Detroit shotgun jab. Two simple tricks, blending them well with reversal misdirection, and he broke my rhythm. The slapping jab’s light. But that Detroit jab lands with real weight.”

“Can’t you just slip away?” Hiroshi asks.

“Of course I can,” Ryoma answers.

“Then just get away.”

“Sadly, he has to stay in range,” Nakahara cuts in. “We’re behind on points now. We can’t run away. They’ve forced us to chase.”

“Or Ryoma goes hit-and-run,” Kenta suggests. “Use the legs, pick and move. Sure he’ll burn more, but we can’t let Sekino control the fight forever.”

Nakahara and Sera exchange a look; neither objects.

“What do you think, kid?” Nakahara asks. “Eight rounds left. Think you can keep using your legs that long?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer at once. He measures himself, and does the math.

If everything stays clean he figures he can keep using his legs at fullest until the eighth, maybe the seventh round if Sekino lands just once or twice on the body.

But he’s not banking on Sekino being generous.

He breathes in, lets the plan settle. “Let me keep this pace a little longer,” he says. “If it still isn’t working, I’ll change it mid-round.”

With that settled, Nakahara crouches, putting his palm on his tight.

“Then let’s solve this puzzle first,” he says. “Both the slapping left and the stiff Detroit jab come from a forward stance. He sets them up with a jab for misdirection, then, without pulling the arm back, fires again, a two-beat flicker. But if you can break the setup…”

“Yeah,” Ryoma says. “I already cracked the setup for his first trick. Now I need a way to shut down the reverse one.”

***

The arena is still alive. The air is thick with noise, hot and electric.

From somewhere near the upper stands, the Cruel King’s Army roars their anthem into the din:

“Long live the Chameleon King… Cla-clap-clap!

Crown of the cruel, rule of the ring! Cla-clap-clap!”

The chant ripples outward, catching rhythm, until half the hall is shouting the words in unison.

“Sekino still holds control,” one commentator says over the noise. “The veteran’s timing and tempo are flawless so far.”

“But look at the stands!” the other shouts. “Ryoma’s supporters are going wild. if he wants to keep his crown as Korakuen’s Cruel King, he’d better answer them soon!”

The referee’s voice finally cuts through the noise.

“Seconds out!”

The corners move with practiced efficiency, slipping through the ropes as both fighters roll their shoulders, loosening the tension one last time.

And then…

Ding!

“Round three begins, two master technicians back in motion. Let’s see whose rhythm breaks first.”

Both fighters rush to the center, moving almost in sync. Ryoma doesn’t circle this time; no patience, no testing steps.

Sekino also abandons his Philly Shell guard. His rear foot stays slightly behind, but his shoulders are squared now, a stance that says he’s not waiting for Ryoma to start anything.

Then comes the opening.

Sekino pivots his lead foot forward, widening his stance, and in the same breath whips his left hand twice. Two flickers snap out like lashes.

Ryoma’s gloves rise instantly, catching both.

Thic! Thic!

Then Sekino drags his rear foot a half-step forward, resetting his base to square again, and fires a string of textbook jabs and one cross; clean, crisp, and piston-fast.

Dsh!

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

All are blocked, but he’s dictating now; the rhythm, the range, the space.

Ryoma’s already reacting, forced into the role of responder. He doesn’t strike back yet. His eyes track every motion, wary of the shifts, the double-beat flicker and the sudden reverse shotgun jab, the trap hidden inside the pattern.

He can’t afford to bite too early. So he keeps his defense rhythm fluid; blocking, slipping, stepping off-line.

His shoulders roll with the rhythm, his feet slide diagonally, never staying where Sekino expects him to be.

Sekino advances with calm precision, left hand twitching, right shoulder coiled. Each flicker probes, testing distance, waiting for Ryoma’s counter.

No big swings yet, not even one clean hit. Even so, the sheer precision on display, offense and defense woven together at high level, drives the crowd into a higher roar.

And the commentators speak low over the swelling noise:

“They’re reading each other in real time now.”

“One mistake here, and the punishment’s coming.”

Nearly a minute passes before Sekino changes the rhythm. He starts with stiff textbook jabs, snapping them in quick succession and forcing Ryoma’s guard high.

Dsh!

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

Then, after the last one meets Ryoma’s gloves, Sekino widens the next arc, the two-beat flicker.

Ryoma sees it clearly. He ducks, letting the left carve the air above his head, and dives in with his right cocked for a counter.

But Sekino doesn’t repeat the same mistake.

“You read me. But I can read you too…”

He cuts across with a chopping right.

Ryoma halts, canceling his body shot just in time as the punch whistles past his face.

He finally fires back, but Sekino’s already shifted into a compact Philly Shell, his left forearm guarding his ribs.

Dug!

Ryoma’s glove smacks the guard, and Sekino slides away before the follow-up hook can reach.

“Tch… he never lets his defense drop.”

>

Sekino steps back in, his left flickering again.

Whsst!

Whsst! Whsst!

Ryoma rolls under the first two, but the third comes wider, faster, aiming at his temple.

He raises his right glove to cover the right side of his head…

Dug!

…blocked.

Sekino doesn’t fully pull the hand back. He slides his lead foot deeper and fires a shotgun jab.

But Ryoma’s ready this time, shifting his guard to the front, covering his face.

“Not going to work on me anymore.”

Dug!

…blocked again.

But suddenly…

Dsh!

A slap catches his right cheek from the side.

“What the…?”

And Sekino doesn’t let him breathe. He steps in closer, slamming a right into Ryoma’s guard…

Dug!

…then slips his glove against Ryoma’s elbow before snapping it back, prying open the side.

Ryoma’s breath catches. His ribs are exposed, and…

Thud!

Sekino digs a left hook into the opening.

“Whoa! Did you see that?” one commentator shouts.

“And Ryoma tries to answer…”

“But no, Sekino’s already gone! He’s piling up points, landing clean and slipping away again!”

“Yeah… it’s the third round already, and Ryoma still hasn’t found his rhythm.”

“For the first time, he’s up against someone so good, it’s like he’s forgotten how to box.”