VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After throwing a few flicker jabs, Ryoma shifts again, drawing his rear foot forward out of the flicker stance, letting the motion carry him neatly back into orthodox.

The switch trims the distance between them almost effortlessly, as if he’s gliding rather than stepping.

His pendulum rhythm starts up the moment his feet settle, an easy sway forward and back, shoulders loose, left hand peppering Masuda with those light, slapping touches that keep the older fighter guessing.

Pak, pak… pak.

Pak… pak, pak.

“Here we go again!” one of the commentators exclaims. “Ryoma’s replaying the entire opening round. Same rhythm, same pressure, and Masuda still can’t get out of it!”

Masuda reads the pattern, but reading it does nothing to stop it. He’s trapped in the same routine: block, flinch, try to retaliate and miss, and then give ground.

Ryoma tracks him step for step, never overreaching, never disrupting his own pendulum tempo. He bounces forward twice, and then slides his lead foot in.

His lead shoulder dips just enough, and then the flickers whip out again.

Snap, snap.

Snap, pap, snap.

Masuda turtles up at once, forearms clamped tight against his cheeks.

Ryoma sees the posture he wants and wastes no time, shifting once more. A small tug of the rear foot brings him directly into orthodox again, this time already inside Masuda’s range.

Compact shots roll off his shoulders; short arcs, tight lines, nothing wasted. And Masuda can only keep his guard tight.

“It’s your chance, Masuda!” Kurose shouts from the apron. “Fight him back! Throw something.”

Masuda responds in kind. He snaps a hook toward Ryoma’s cheek, sharp enough to make the crowd jolt,

But Ryoma has already read it. His weight slides backward, his rear foot settling, and the pendulum rhythm sparks back to life as soon as it touches down.

Pak, pak… pak.

Pak, pak…

Then the rhythm breaks without warning.

Ryoma steps in, fast and sharp, unleashing a sudden string of stiff jabs and a clean cross, followed by a cascade of hooks, left-right-left, each one fired with tight, relentless timing.

Dug, dug, dug.

Bug, bug, dug, dug, dug.

Masuda lifts his guard, trying desperately to absorb the storm. Two shots still sneak through, biting into his ribs and flank.

Then he grits his teeth, knowing this is his only window to push back.

“You’re in my zone…”

He turns his hip and drives a compact hook into Ryoma’s ribs, the first solid body shot he’s landed all fight.

Bug.

Ryoma endures it, doesn’t even blink. And a right hand answers instantly.

Dsh.

A one-two follows, fast enough to force Masuda’s guard shut again.

Dug, dug.

And then Ryoma pulls out the borrowed trick, the one he stole from Sekino.

After slamming his right on the guard, he tucks the glove against Masuda’s elbow, pins it just long enough to pry his ribs open, and leans his body off-angle, left fist coiling.

Bug, bug, bug.

Three brutal body blows dig into Masuda’s side, folding him inward.

A ripple of shock rolls through the arena.

From the commentary desk, one voice cracks out, half-horrified, half-thrilled: “That’s filthy! He pried him open like a door and walked a sledgehammer right into the ribs!”

Masuda tries to counter with a left hook, but Ryoma merely tilts his right glove beside his head, catching it on the forearm…

Dug.

…and digs another left hook into the same spot.

Bug.

“And another one!” the first commentator yells over the noise.

“The God of Destruction is getting carved up,” the second says. “Ryoma’s doing whatever he wants in there.”

Masuda’s ribs scream for protection. His right arm drops by instinct, and that’s all Ryoma needs.

His signature low–high pairing flashes out: the first shot smacks against Masuda’s lowered arm, the second whips upward, clipping his jaw and snapping his head to the side.

The next instant, a right hook crashes in from the opposite angle, slamming Masuda across the temple as he fails to bring his left guard up in time.

BAM!!!

Three hooks in a heartbeat, two landing flush on the skull.

“Did you catch that?”

“That was a disgusting setup. Absolutely brutal.”

Masuda’s head jerks violently, his balance slipping out from under him.

Blug.

His knee hits the mat. Gravity tugs him sideways, his vision spiraling, his right glove searching the canvas for an anchor that simply isn’t there.

Eventually, his body tips, and finally collapses onto his right side.

“And down he goes.”

“After taking that barrage for just a few seconds, Masuda finally hits the canvas.”

“The Cruel King is showing absolutely no mercy tonight.”

***

A shockwave ripples through the arena the moment Masuda hits the canvas. Gasps burst out first, sharp, scattered, and instinctive, followed by a rising swell of noise as thousands scramble to their feet.

And then, beneath the chaos, another sound stirs, deep, guttural, and heavy. Ryoma’s die-hard loyalists, the Cruel King’s army, who had been silent like carved statues until now, suddenly erupt.

Their war cry starts as scattered throats growling from the back rows, then spreads like fire through brush.

Flags and pole banners rise high, lifted in stubborn, violent rhythm to each thunderous chant:

“Uuugh! … Uuugh! … Uuugh!”

Less like cheering and more like an army being roused for blood.

And just as suddenly as they erupted, they go dead quiet, thousands holding their breath, waiting for whatever signal their king gives next.

***

The referee steps in, raising a hand and telling Ryoma to head to the neutral corner.

But Ryoma lingers just a heartbeat longer, long enough for his Vision Grid system to sweep over Masuda.

>

Ryoma exhales through his nose, then turns and walks toward the neutral corner.

By the time the referee starts the count, Ryoma is already loosening his shoulders, rolling his arms out, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

His calmness, the readiness… it draws a murmur from the crowd. Some cheer, some whisper, others simply stare, caught between awe, disbelief, and curiosity.

From the commentary desk, the voices pick up instantly.

“Masuda took those hooks clean. I don’t know if he can get up from that,” one says, breath tight with concern.

“He should be done,” the other replies. “But look at Ryoma… He looks like he expects the fight to continue. It’s strange… like he doesn’t trust his own knuckles, but we saw those shots. Those were brutally clean.”

In the VIP section, Frank finally finds his opening to needle his champion. He leans back in his seat and turns to Marcus with a slow, taunting grin.

“You saw that?” he murmurs. “Still think the kid’s a rookie?”

Marcus doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. His jaw tightens slightly, his eyes fixed on the ring with a strange tension.

It’s like a carnivore that suddenly realizes something bigger, colder, and more ruthless is prowling the same territory.

He refuses to nod, refuses to concede, but the truth flickers across his face anyway: whatever Ryoma is becoming, it isn’t something he can ignore.

Frank watches him for a moment and chuckles under his breath. Then his eyes shift to the giant screen overhead as the arena replays the exchange leading to the knockdown.

“It’s not just the technique,” he goes on. “Look at the composure. He took Masuda’s punch clean, didn’t lose an ounce of momentum. Just kept working, kept picking his spots, setting traps while mixing everything together.”