VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the red corner is a rush of controlled urgency. The cutmen work over Sekino with efficient motions; pressing the enswell to the swelling on his left temple, wiping the sweat that keeps streaking down his face, smoothing a fresh layer of Vaseline over his brow and cheekbone.

His breathing still hasn’t settled. Before, after the third round, he calmed within seconds. Now, even halfway through the break, his chest is still rising and falling unevenly.

Yuichi stands close, eyes locked on Sekino with a tightening frustration. This wasn’t how the fight was supposed to look, not at the fourth round.

He glances across the ring at Ryoma’s corner, at the calm movements, at the ease in the kid’s posture.

And Yuichi’s frustration sharpens. “Damn it… look at him. He’s barely even breathing hard. Meanwhile…”

His eyes drop to Sekino’s shoulders, rising and falling heavier than before.

“…you’re taking more damage than he is.”

Yuichi drags a hand through his hair, the irritation boiling through every word.

“We planned to drain him. Break his rhythm, break his legs, break his stamina… but right now it feels like we’re the ones getting drained.”

He shakes his head, voice tightening as if trying to force control back into a fight slipping from his grasp.

“I can’t even see the next adjustment. Every time we try something, he’s already a step ahead.”

Shiki watches it all unfolded, the doubt clawing at Yuichi, the fatigue dragging on Sekino. Then he cuts in before the corner breaks apart.

“Don’t start panicking now,” he finally says, steady and clear.

Yuichi stiffens but doesn’t speak.

Shiki continues, firmer. “Everything’s still in play. Sekino doesn’t rely on smooth footwork, so those body shots aren’t killing his pace. We knew a fight against that kid meant getting hurt. That’s why we trained him to take punishment.”

Sekino’s breath finally steadies a little, still rough, but more controlled. Shiki leans closer, making sure his words land.

“Stick with the plan. The work you put into his core, every punch you’ve driven in, and all the stamina he spent, it will show eventually. Don’t doubt it now.”

Sekino lifts his chin slightly, meeting Shiki’s eyes with a flicker of renewed focus.

And Shiki nods. “Stay with it. Trust what we came here to do.”

***

The corners clear, stools pulled away, and the arena seems to inhale as both fighters rise for the coming round.

Sekino stands still in his place, feet set, shoulders squared, posture steady and composed. There’s no wasted motion, no bounce, no show.

Ryoma, on the other side, is already moving. Light on his toes. Loose shoulders. A soft, rhythmic dance as if shaking off tension, warming his engine, or letting the rhythm carry him before the bell even rings.

And the crowd senses it instantly. The energy in the arena tightens, ready to snap.

A wave of cheers surges from the stands. Some rise to their feet, expecting the same fireworks they saw in the fourth round.

From ringside, the commentators pick up the contrast like a gift.

“Look at this… Ryoma’s already bouncing. He hasn’t even waited for the bell.”

“And Sekino… standing perfectly still. No shift, no warm-up steps. That’s a huge difference in energy.”

“One man keeping the rhythm alive, one man conserving everything he has. You have to wonder which approach wins out in this round.”

Every step Ryoma takes draws eyes, effortless, confident, and looks almost playful.

And why wouldn’t he be? He’d watched Yuichi’s gestures and lips during the break, read their mood with cold clarity.

“They’re desperate…”

>

The bell for the fifth round finally rings.

Ding!

Sekino claims the center again, left hand hanging low, shoulders squared, a posture that screams offense.

Ryoma circles sideways, footwork loosening even further, his movement smoothing into a light flowing dance.

After a few seconds of probing, the attrition of lefts sparks the air: Sekino’s flickers anchored in the center versus Ryoma’s textbook jabs orbiting around him.

For nearly half a minute, nothing lands clean, just gloves cutting air, leather brushing leather, blocks, rolls, and slips.

Sekino holds his ground behind the Philly Shell. And Ryoma slips in and out with effortless speed.

Then, after shifting his stance and tossing out a few stiff jabs, Sekino begins to pour on the pressure, stepping in deeper, narrowing the distance, mixing sharp crosses and hooks.

Ryoma could run with his legs… but he doesn’t.

He raises his guard instead, lets the punches crash onto his arms, angling each block to deflect to the side while taking a step away.

To the crowd, it looks brutal.

Ryoma’s arms jolt with every impact, and Sekino’s fans erupt at the force behind each blow. The noise swells into a wave of raw voices:

“Keep the pressure on him!”

“Break that cocky brat!”

“Don’t let him run… make that coward remember who you are, Sekino!”

Even the commentators chime in, carried by the surge:

“What a sharp hook… One clean punch from Sekino could fold anyone in this division!”

“And he’s letting his hands go now. Ryoma can’t afford to stay there!”

To the crowd, it looks like Sekino is finally breaking through.

But none of them realize Ryoma is letting this happen. He redirects every punch, never taking them head-on.

It’s a lure, a crafted illusion to make Sekino feel he’s breaking through, inching closer with each heavy shot. It’s a fake sense of progress, engineered just to keep him throwing.

And then, at one moment, Ryoma lets a hook only brush his glove, before pulling his arm back as he steps away.

Sekino surges forward on his own momentum, his glove slicing empty air, balance faltering.

Ryoma shifts his lead foot forward and…

Dsh! Dsh!

A razor one-two snaps flush into Sekino’s face, sharp and sudden. And the entire crowd sucks in a collective gasp.

Sekino fires a cross in anger, but Ryoma is already gone, sliding sideways, circling effortlessly to the other end of the ring.

Sekino wheels around, fury blazing in his eyes. And the same rhythm loops again, almost deceptively identical.

He charges in with heavy pressure. Ryoma cuts him in the center with a few jabs. And Sekino starts mixing the “devastating” crosses and hooks in, eager to weaken his opponent.

Again, Ryoma absorbs them on angled blocks, lets the punches glance off, gives just enough resistance to feel real… then slips the leash.

Dsh, dhs!

Another razor one-two snaps across Sekino’s face, sharp and clean.

By the time Sekino fires another body blow, Ryoma is already gone, sliding to the opposite side of the ring, light on his toes, untouched.

Yuichi looks even more furious than Sekino, shouting over the ropes with raw frustration.

“Don’t let him breathe! Don’t let that brat run!”

But beside him, Mita Shiki has already pieced together what everyone else misses. He’s seen the shifts, the angles, the bait.

Sekino isn’t hunting. He is being led.

But Shiki keeps quiet out of respect for Yuichi’s lead… until he sees the rage twisting Sekino’s face, the reckless chase about to begin again.

“Sekino!” He finally calls out, sharp and controlled. “Calm down! Don’t chase blindly!”

Sekino hesitates.

“You’re letting him fool you,” Shiki warns. “Stop playing into his hands. You are not landing anything. He’s making you waste your punches by directing them away.”

And that’s when it hits. A collective snap of realization floods the arena; a gasp, a murmur, a ripple of disbelief.

“Hold on… HOLD ON,” a commentator exclaims, half laughing, half stunned. “Could it be… Ah, man… This isn’t Sekino cornering him. This is Ryoma baiting him! He’s making him charge!”

“Exactly… He turned him into a bull,” the other says, breathless. “And the kid’s playing the damn matador. We all fell for it!”

The crowd erupts in a confused electric mix of awe and shock, realizing they’ve been watching a carefully crafted illusion.