VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Hiroshi drops to one knee, his hands already working along the calves and shins, trying to pump life back into his legs. Kenta’s muscles twitch under the pressure, no pain, just dull heaviness.

Nakahara and Sera stand before him, silent for a moment, both thinking, both worried.

“He’s taken the last five rounds clean,” Sera speaks first. “Even if Park goes wild from here on, as long as Kenta stays on his feet, he still wins.”

Nakahara nods, arms folded. “He just can’t let it get too one-sided. Throw something here and there, clean shots, controlled pace. Don’t chase anything big.”

Sera crouches down to face Kenta directly. “You only punch when it matters. Don’t waste energy. Stay tight. Stay compact. You haven’t been hurt bad. Just… survive until the bell. Can you do that?”

Kenta doesn’t answer immediately. He closes his eyes for a breath, assessing his own condition; shoulders stiff, arms heavy, legs half numb.

Then he opens his eyes again with a faint smile.

“There’s something Ryoma did once,” he says. “When he was completely drained like this in sparring session with me. I want to try it.”

Both Sera and Nakahara freeze.

“You’re talking counters?” Sera snaps. “Forget it. If your arms are dead, you can’t hurt him. And you’ll get knocked out doing it.”

Kenta shakes his head. “It’s not counter. It’s…”

Suddenly, the referee shouts.

“Seconds out!”

Hiroshi ends the massage. Kenta stands, legs trembling but usable, and gives a small tired grin.

“Sorry. Hard to explain fast. But I’ll take Sera’s plan. I’ll buy time.”

***

The bell for the next round sounds.

Ding!

Round seven begins with Park exploding out of his corner, eyes burning with desperation.

I just need one down. Knock him down and I win.

Across the canvas, Kenta feels circulation returning to his legs from Hiroshi’s work, but he doesn’t use them to run.

He plants himself, guard tight, watching Park rush in like a storm.

A right hand flies in. Kenta blocks, stepping just a half-inch inward, jamming the angle, killing the momentum.

One commentator jumps in, almost shouting, “Park’s going for the finish. He wants a knockdown now!”

A left follows. Kenta leans and nudges again. It’s not countering, just breaking rhythm.

Park tries to build combinations, but each one crumbles as Kenta steals the space, smothers the angle, refuses to give him the distance needed for power.

Gradually, carefully, Kenta backs toward the ropes.

And the commentators stir:

“Kenta’s putting himself in danger here… backing straight into the ropes!”

Frank Donovan leans back, smiling. “No… he’s saving energy. Letting Park punch himself out.”

Park presses in with renewed fury as Kenta’s back touches the ropes. Hooks crash into arms and ribs.

DUG! DUG! BUG!

But the ropes bend, softening the blows, eating the force Kenta can’t absorb with his legs. He leans, breathes, and lets the elasticity carry him.

This is fine… this saves me. I can endure this much.

Back on the red-corner apron, Sera and Nakahara exchange a look as the pattern becomes obvious.

“So this is what he meant,” Nakahara mutters.

Sera lets out a short, amused breath. “Yeah. Ryoma pulled the same trick back when you pushed him into that twelve-round sparring marathon.” He nods toward Kenta riding the ropes. “When your legs can’t take the shock anymore… let the ropes take it for you.”

Park unloads everything he has; wide hooks, straight rights, wild overhands. The crowd wakes up, finally hearing violence again.

Then Kenta spots it, a tiny gasp in Park’s breathing.

He fires a compact jab-cross, short and economical.

Dsh, dsh!

Not to hurt, just to score, just to interrupt. Just to keep the judges honest.

Then he walks away, luring Park to keep the chase. But once the storm comes, Kenta leans back to the ropes.

Park growls and crashes forward again. Kenta leans on the ropes, absorbs, blocks, smothers, and then flicks another compact jab and one body tap. Not a blow, just a tap.

Dsh! Pat!

Time trickles away.

Round eight passes in similar fashion; Park smashing, Kenta absorbing, nudging, stealing breath and seconds.

When Park slows, Kenta steals two or three clean shots. When Park surges, Kenta shells up and lets the ropes cushion him.

Sera and Nakahara watch with held breath. Hiroshi’s fingers twitch with every shot.

And back in the VIP row, Frank Donovan watches with an amused, almost nostalgic smile.

“That’s real ring IQ… he’s running on instinct and craft alone. Letting the ropes drink the impact for him.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Feels like a tiny echo of what Ali did to Foreman… smart, simple, and born from desperation.”

***

Round Ten.

Kenta’s legs feel halfway alive now, arms still heavy but no longer numb. Park, on the other hand, enters the round battered, ribs red, arms sluggish, guard leaking.

Thirty seconds in, Kenta sees Park’s combinations have lost all snap. And this is exactly the moment he’s saved his arms for.

The plan finally pays off. Kenta is sagging from pure fatigue, and Park is no better—worn down by exhaustion and the accumulation of every clean shot he’s taken from round two.

Finally, Kenta steps off the ropes, plants his feet, and rips a sharp one-two.

Dsh! DSH!!

Park’s head snaps back twice. The arena erupts, finally, a burst of violence they can understand.

Park stumbles but refuses to fall. He roars and charges again. Kenta meets him in the center, shoulder to shoulder, both leaning forward, almost propping each other up.

Small punches trade between their gloves, barely more than taps, but neither man has strength left to do more.

Park digs tiny hooks. Kenta answers with small crosses. Their foreheads almost touch. Their gloves stay high, pressed together.

They don’t run anymore, no more footwork, just stubbornness keeping them upright.

***

The crowd rises to their feet, a roar swelling through the arena as the two battered fighters push into the final seconds.

Kenta slips away again, edging toward the ropes. Park, desperate, forces himself to chase. He swings, just one punch, but his legs give out beneath him and he stumbles forward, collapsing to his knees.

The referee waves his arms.

“Slip!”

Kenta doesn’t even react. He just stays by the ropes, one glove hooked lazily against the strand, waiting for Park to come again.

But Park takes too long to stand. He pushes himself up with trembling arms, chest heaving, head tilted back just to drag in air.

When he finally reaches Kenta, he can only muster three tired body blows, soft, muffled thuds against Kenta’s guard.

And then…

DING!

The bell ends it.

There’s no explosion, just a wave of applause sweeping the hall, a tired admiring ovation for two men who refused to fall.

One commentator exhales, voice thick with awe. “What a finish… neither man had anything left, but neither would quit.”

“That’s pure stubbornness,” another adds. “Pure will. You can’t teach that.”

Park trudges back to his corner, completely spent, chin lifted toward the ceiling as he fights for breath.

Kenta turns the other way, one hand gripping the ropes for support. His legs tremble, his shoulders hang low, but he’s still upright, still walking.

His team meets him with quiet satisfied nods. His plan worked. Now all that’s left is the verdict.

The arena holds its breath as the announcer steps in.

“After a long, grueling war… we now go to the judges’ scorecards.”

A pause, and then…

“Judge A scores the bout: 98–92.

Judge B: 97–93.

Judge C: 98–92.

Winner by unanimous decision… Kenta Moriyama!”

A swell of applause fills the hall, warm and appreciative.

Kenta doesn’t raise his arms. He simply exhales, relief washing over exhaustion. For the first time, after a morning spent working himself raw, he makes it to the end… and he isn’t defeated.

Park, standing by leaning on the corner pole, receives his own respectful cheer.

In the stands, Izumi leaps to her feet, cheering with bright, unfiltered joy. “He did it! Mom… I knew it! I told you he’d win! He finally made it all the way!”

Beside her, Kenta’s mother claps with a trembling smile. “Thank goodness… he’s safe. That’s all I wanted.”

But his father… his expression stays flat, sour, unmoved, still refusing to acknowledge the fight his son just survived.