VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Moments later, the referee’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and clear.

“Seconds out!”

Park Hyun-seok rises immediately, confidence rolling off him in waves. His coach, Yun Tae-Hwan, leans over the apron and whispers:

“Don’t let him breathe! Keep the pressure on him every second!”

Park nods once, eyes locked on Kenta.

The first round told him everything he wanted to know, or so he believes.

“He’s hittable. He’s slow to start. I have to overwhelm him now.”

The brief hesitation he felt near the end of the round has gone. This time, he intends to take the fight by force.

The bell cracks open the second round.

DING!

Park rushes toward the center, eager to smother Kenta under volume. But Kenta stops him before he can even build momentum.

A jab taps out from Kenta’s left hand. Not fast, not heavy, just perfectly measured.

Park slips it with ease, but when he shifts his lead foot forward…

Dsh!

A second jab clips him right on the cheek, light, barely more than a tap.

But Kenta is already gone, sliding to the side, angling out with calm footsteps. Then he sends another string of jabs from a new direction; still not heavy, still not hurried, just constant and steady.

Park grits his teeth. “These are nothing. He’s just poking.”

But every time he tries to step in, another jab meets him. Every time he lifts his own left hand, Kenta adds a cross down the middle.

Dsh!

Blocked!

But Kenta’s already circling away, taking an easy L-step, drifting like he’s strolling through a park.

Thirty seconds pass this way, then another ten seconds, a whole stretch of the round where Park realizes he isn’t pressing anymore. He’s responding, keeps reacting, trying to get into range, and never quite managing it.

Kenta controls the fight like a distant satellite, orbiting just outside Park’s reach, dictating every beat of the pace with emotionless, perfectly neutral punches.

One commentator finally voices what the others are seeing. “Kenta doesn’t look explosive… but look at this. He’s completely dictating the rhythm now.”

Another adds, “Calm, measured… he’s turning the fight into his terms.”

Park feels it too; that quiet shift, and the subtle edge.

And his face tightens. “Tch… why does he look so relaxed now?”

After pulling Park into that slow, steady rhythm, Kenta suddenly shifts gears in the final minute.

He shoots out a one–two…

Dsh, dsh!

…straight into Park’s gloves.

But before Park can answer, Kenta steps in sharply and unloads a short flurry: a lead hook, followed by two digging shots to the body on both sides.

Dug, dug… BUG!

Two strikes thud into Park’s arms; one sneaks into the ribs at an awkward angle.

Park tries to fire back, but Kenta has already slipped out of range. Not for long, though. The moment his rear foot touches down, he springs forward again, not deep, just close enough to clip Park with another tight lead hook.

Pak!

And again he’s out, a half-step retreat before Park can launch anything meaningful.

It isn’t exactly hit-and-run. Kenta’s tempo isn’t fast, just steady, precise, almost pendulum-like, bouncing in and out with unnerving consistency.

The rhythm becomes lulling. The angles keep changing. And with each shift in timing, Park finds himself reacting late, busy trying to read the beat and distance between them.

One commentator finally mutters, puzzled:

“What is this? He looks slow… but somehow he’s dictating everything. I can’t tell what rhythm Kenta’s fighting on.”

Not long after the commentary about his sluggish pace, Kenta shifts tempo again; clean, sudden, almost without warning.

He fires another one–two into Park’s guard…

Dsh, dsh!

…and steps in immediately, unleashing a trio of digging body shots.

The first lands clean, light but sharply precise. The second and third thud harmlessly against Park’s lowered elbows as he clamps down to guard his ribs.

And that’s exactly when Kenta sneaks a compact hook upstairs the next instant.

Dsh!

He’s already stepping out as it lands, refusing to stay long enough for Park to counter.

Park’s irritation spikes. He snaps forward, bulldozing his way in, finally catching Kenta and forcing him into a close-range exchange.

The crowd stirs, expecting violence, but Kenta doesn’t engage.

He brings his guard tight, absorbs the first punch on his forearms.

And right then…

Ding!

The bell cuts the action short.

Park exhales sharply, eyes narrowed in frustration. Kenta simply pats him lightly on the shoulder before turning away, a calm, almost polite gesture that only makes Park bristle even more.

The hall buzzes with confusion. Even the commentators still try to make sense of the bizarre shift.

“This is nothing like round one. Kenta’s slowing everything down… almost forcing Park to fight on his terms.”

“It’s strange… he doesn’t look fast, he doesn’t look explosive, but he’s dictating the entire rhythm. I can’t tell if this is strategy or instinct.”

Even the crowd seems unsure too. It’s as if the fight has slipped into the pace of a light sparring session.

***

In the third round, nothing really changes. Kenta still control the fight and the space with steady rhythm. Every time Park tries to engage and turn it into a slugfest, Kenta always finds a way to break it.

When there’s enough space, he glides out. If not, he clinches, and ignores Park’s sneaky little punches.

The round drifts by like a dull looping dance. As a result, the crowd’s energy drops, cheers thinning into scattered murmurs.

But not everyone in the hall shares that boredom. In the VIP section, the two foreign guests Logan invited finally lean forward with interest.

“He’s quite good,” Marcus Hale remarks, glancing at Logan. “Not flashy at all… but damn effective.”

Logan turns to him, surprised. “This is what catches your eye? Not that madness from Aramaki earlier?”

Marcus shrugs, still studying Kenta. “Chaos is easy to cheer for. Control is harder to appreciate.”

Marcus smirks and turns toward the older man beside him.

“What about you, Frank?” he teases. “Been awfully quiet. Don’t tell me nothing in that ring speaks to you?”

Frank Donovan finally lifts his gaze from the canvas, expression unreadable.

“It speaks,” he says simply. “Just softly.”

Marcus cocks an eyebrow, and Logan shifts closer, curious.

Then Donovan nods toward Kenta. “His footwork… it has a trace of the old Soviet rhythm. Not the textbook pendulum, but the intuition of it, borrowing the sway, the timing, the little disappearances between steps.”

“The Soviet style?” Logan leans in, interest sharpening. “You talk like it’s some relic dug out of history.”

Frank Donovan nods. “Most people think the Soviet style vanished. But it didn’t. It seeped quietly into modern fundamentals. Into pacing, into angle shifts, into the idea that movement isn’t escape, but… conversation, a song with swaying beat.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying Kenta’s relaxed bounce.

“He’s not abusing the rhythm the way the old masters did. But he knows when to let it appear… when the moment asks for a breath rather than a step. That’s rare.”

Marcus whistles softly. “So what you’re saying is… he’s good?”

Frank gives a faint, almost philosophical shrug. “He listens to the ring. That alone makes him better than most.”

Then his gaze drifts toward the red corner, searching for the trainer behind Kenta’s polish, and finding only confusion.

Logan invited him to evaluate Ryoma, the supposed prodigy trapped under low class management. Yet watching Kenta move, all Frank sees is the unmistakable imprint of a strong team of trainers.

It doesn’t match Logan’s story.