VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Unfortunately, things inside Korakueh Hall are far from the confident picture Kenta had painted.

Sure, they still have Sera, a man who studied sport science in England, who can talk biomechanics in three languages, who knows more about fighting angles and weight transfer than Nakahara ever pretended to.

He can dissect a brawl with a single glance. He can sketch out a plan so clean and simple that even a mid-tier fighter like Okabe should, in theory, be able to execute it.

But knowledge means nothing when the fighter on the stool won’t absorb the words thrown at him.

They’re past round three now, and Okabe still hasn’t shifted the momentum. He’s getting dragged around by someone he should, on paper, dismantle.

“Haven’t I told you,” Sera begins, his voice tight but still controlled, “there’s always a gap when he throws that three-jab sequence. Every time. He pulls his left back slower on the last one. That’s your window. Step in on that timing.”

Okabe nods, shoulders heaving. “I noticed it too,” he replies between breaths. “I was… I wasn’t sure if it was real. But next round, I’ll go for it. I’ll take the chance.”

“Good.” Sera pats his thigh as if grounding him. “Slow your breathing. There are plenty of rounds left. You still have the edge tonight.”

Okabe inhales deeply, trying to force calm back into his lungs.

And then Ryoma speaks. “Just remember to keep it compact when you move in.”

Okabe’s jaw tightens. His face twitches, small, but sharp enough for Sera to catch.

“Quit swinging for the knockout every damn time,” Ryoma continues. “You’re practically inviting a counter. The only reason you haven’t been clipped is because your opponent’s too timid to capitalize. But you’re handing him chances.”

Okabe doesn’t respond, yet the rejection in him is immediate, instinctive. Whatever composure he was trying to build collapses entirely.

He stares across the ring at his opponent, eyes burning, not with focus, but with something reckless, a rush of fury that doesn’t belong to strategy.

What truly unsettles him isn’t the opponent waiting for him in the next round. It’s Ryoma standing at his side.

***

The bell for the fourth round snaps through the hall, but the moment Okabe steps off the stool, every bit of Sera’s plan disintegrates. The timing cue, the gap in the jab sequence, the reminder to keep things compact, is all gone, as though none of it was ever spoken.

Across the ring, Fukui Yudo lifts his gloves. He’s a year younger, and he genuinely looks timid; cheeks soft, eyes unsure, the type who would shrink back in a crowded train.

His boxing reflects that same mildness. His footwork lacks the polish to be an out-boxer; his left hand doesn’t have the variety to set traps; his combos don’t snap fast enough for inside work. Even at mid-range, where fighters like him usually settle, his sense of distance is unreliable.

He is, in almost every category, plainly average, sub-par, even. And yet he’s dominated the fight so far.

But Fukui isn’t outclassing Okabe with skill. He’s simply taking what Okabe keeps handing over.

As the round officially begins and both fighters inch forward, the commentators jump in with their usual energy.

“Round four underway here at Korakueh Hall!”

“And Okabe really needs to settle down. He’s losing to punches he shouldn’t even be getting touched by.”

Okabe’s shoulders stay rigid, his movement cramped, his chin high with stubborn pride. He’s still chasing the one big punch, trying to end everything in a single burst.

He’s still trying to prove, to himself more than anyone, that he doesn’t need guidance against a timid guy like Fukui. Especially not from a cocky brat like Ryoma.

He waves his gloves and rolls his head, inching forward to close the short distance between them.

Fukui flicks out two jabs, nothing sharp, but quick and weightless.

And Okabe blocks both cleanly.

Dug, dug.

Then he cocks his right hand, sliding his left foot forward to load up. But the motion telegraphs itself from a mile away.

Fukui reads it and fires first.

Dsh!

A hook cracks against Okabe’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. He absorbs it and resets, more annoyed than hurt.

Luckily for him, Fukui’s punch had hesitation in it, thrown from surprise, not conviction. If it had carried intent, Okabe might’ve been in real trouble.

Fukui throws more jabs, keeping the space cluttered. A three-jab pattern comes alive again. Just as Sera said, the third pullback is always sluggish, like the arm moves out of obligation, not discipline.

But Okabe doesn’t see it. He isn’t looking for rhythm. He’s looking for the one opening to smash with a big shot.

Then he spots a sliver of exposed ribs. He lunges in, winding his right hand back again, clearly preparing another full-force swing.

Fukui flinches, eyes widening, and jumps out of range. And Okabe’s punch slices through empty air.

But the momentary fear on Fukui’s face fills him with satisfaction. In his mind, it’s as good as winning a round.

“What an idiot…” Ryoma mutters, jaw set in irritation.

Fukui slips back into his pattern, peppering out another three-jab sequence, looking less like a boxer and more like a trapped cat fending off a dog.

Okabe tries to weave and block, but a few jabs still clip his face, knocking his timing off and feeding his frustration.

“What are you doing, Okabe?!” Sera shouts from the corner. “You’re not getting anywhere like this!”

Okabe hears him clearly. But his eyes are too narrowed, too hungry for a single target, to bother reading his opponent’s rhythm.

The round ends in predictable fashion. Fukui returns to his corner greeted by cheers and pats on the shoulder. Okabe returns with excuses.

He insists he saw the opening. He insists he’ll take it in the next round. But he never does. And his face only swells more with each passing minute.

“There it is… another left,” one commentator calls. “Okabe’s eating jab after jab tonight.”

“They may not be heavy,” the other replies, “but they’re doing the job.”

By the end of round eight, he comes back with his right eye nearly shut. Sera has already given up on salvaging anything. Strategy is pointless when the fighter won’t listen.

“Just sit,” Sera says quietly. “Calm your breathing. Drink as much water as you need. We can’t save this fight anymore.”

Okabe slumps onto the stool, the resignation visible in the slope of his shoulders.

In fact, there was still a flicker of determination when he returned. But Sera’s words snuff even that out. He stops thinking about winning already.

“There’s nothing else we can do now,” Sera adds. “Just… try to hold on until the final bell. At least make it look a little less ugly.”

“…Sorry,” Okabe mutters, barely above a whisper. “I could have done better. I know should.”

“Tch. What a pathetic excuse,” Ryoma clicks his tongue. “This is the kind of opponent you should’ve dropped in four rounds.”

“Shut up,” Okabe mutters, but the voice is weak, hollow.

“Watch the replay later,” Ryoma scoffs. “You’ll see how pathetic this is.”

Sera’s sees the flicker of anger in Okabe’s face again. For a while, he knows his bad performance has something to do with Ryoma.

“That’s enough Ryoma,” he finally cuts in. “You are not making his situation any better.”

But Ryoma doesn’t stop. “I bet even Satoru could’ve done better.”

“Shut up!”

Okabe finally snaps, rising from the stool and glaring down at Ryoma, breath ragged.

“I don’t need your advice… If you’d just shut your damn mouth, I would’ve ended this fight already.”