VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Back in the blue corner, Kurose is still fuming, slamming his palm against the apron, over and over.

“Masuda! Wake up! Get up!” he shouts, leaning so far forward the officials have to drag him back. “It’s too damn early to end it! You haven’t shown anything yet! You hear me? Get up!”

The referee reaches five.

And Masuda stirs, breath hitching, eyes blinking against the spinning world. At six, he plants a glove on the canvas. At seven he forces himself upright, wobbling, swaying, but standing.

The referee leans in, hands up. “Can you still fight?”

Masuda nods, jaw clenched. “Yes. I can still go.”

He raises his gloves, guard tight but trembling. His stance is narrow, his balance unreliable, his breathing ragged.

The ref steps aside and resumes the fight.

“Box!”

Ryoma approaches with an unhurried calm, eyes sharp and unblinking as he studies Masuda’s posture. The Vision Grid flickers, and its voice slips into his head.

>

>

Ryoma glances at the system’s timer: 34 seconds left in the round.

He inhales once, deep, and steps into range. The system overlay highlights his target areas: the right ribs, the lowered right guard, the trembling right leg.

>

Ryoma shifts his left foot forward and fires a left hook to the ribs. Masuda is ready, drops his elbow and catches it.

Dug!

But the force still jolts him, knocking him slightly left while his torso curls right in pain.

He fires back with a left hook. But Ryoma slips under it, sliding to the opposite side, coiling his body, and then hammering two quick rights into the other ribs.

Bug! Bug!

“Here comes the punishment!” a commentator shouts.

A third right, this one fully loaded, comes crashing in. Masuda times it, blocks…

Dug!

…but he still stumbles back, buckling, legs trembling so violently they look ready to collapse.

“Hold on, Masuda!” Kurose slams the apron again. “Just hold! Twenty seconds left. Don’t throw anything! Just survive!”

Ryoma closes the distance and launches a heavy cross at Masuda’s face. Masuda raises his guard and…

BAM!

…even through the block he’s blasted backward, smashing into the ropes.

Ryoma starts the torment there, unloading hooks from both sides, making Masuda sway left and right like a metronome.

Some shots thud harmlessly against forearms. Others land clean on the side of his head, his ribs, his hip.

But Masuda endures it all. And for the first time, Ryoma’s composure cracks, anger slipping through.

“Stop wasting my time.”

He keeps pounding, each blow swelling the roar of the crowd. They’re riled up, hungry. But the system in Ryoma’s head isn’t impressed.

>

Ryoma resets, one exhale, and shifts his approach.

“Fine. Don’t blame me if this ends your career.”

Masuda blinks.

Through the gap in his guard he sees Ryoma flicking a left at his face. He blocks it, but the punch feels too light, too soft.

“A setup? I know the hard one is coming.”

But no, Ryoma uses that same left to hook Masuda’s right elbow in the middle, prying it open.

Masuda’s guard splits just enough for Ryoma to drive a full-force right hand straight into his gut.

BAM!

Masuda buckles, posture collapsing, jaw hanging behind his guard.

Ryoma slides his rear foot forward, switching stance in one smooth glide, his right hand dropping low.

Coiling like a spring, he then launches it upward, almost like exploding out of a squat, a brutal uppercut rising from the floor itself.

Masuda sees it coming and snaps his left glove under his chin…

Dhuack!

He smothers the blow, but the impact still hurls his head… no, his entire body, upward. Only the tips of his shoes cling to the canvas.

His vision washes white for a heartbeat. When it clears, everything is gone; his guard, his footwork, his balance.

Both arms hang heavy. His legs offer nothing. He’s falling like a marionette with the strings cut. And in front of him, Ryoma is already firing a straight left, aimed squarely at his face.

“Stop wasting my time.”

BAM!!!

Sweat, spit, and a thin spray of blood from Masuda’s nose arc through the air in a perfect spiral.

The crowd’s roar snaps into a single, collective gasp. The arena falls dead silent as Masuda’s body begins its collapse.

And the bell rings.

Ding.

Masuda’s knees hit the canvas, and then his torso slumps back into the ropes.

Ryoma stares down at him, cold and detached. The Vision Grid delivers its verdict.

>

Masuda’s eyes are still open, but there’s nothing behind them. He’s completely out.

The commentators scramble for words, voices unsteady.

“What now…?”

“Is that a knockdown? Or did the bell save him?”

The referee steps in, hesitating, unsure whether to call it a down or let the bell overturn everything.

But Ryoma turns away, already done, already walking toward his corner.

“Stop it, ref. He’s out cold.”

The referee swallows, and then raises his hands high, ending the fight.

Ding, ding, ding!

The commentary booth erupts.

“He did it! He finally did it!”

“The Cruel King’s defiance knocks the God of Destruction off his throne!”

“And he does it in just two rounds!”

The arena explodes. The Cruel King’s Army unleashes a war cry that thunders through the rafters, long and chaotic, shaking the entire hall.

Nakahara and his team climb into the ring, greeting their fighter in triumph.

But Ryoma? He shows nothing. Still detached, emotionless, still wearing the mask of the Cruel King.

Then he raises his left hand, the same hand that ended the fight. Instantly, the entire Army falls silent.

Kenji Masuda, still in the crowd with his banner held high, begins the chant alone.

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

He repeats it, this time punctuated by drumbeats.

“Long live the Chameleon King!

Dum, dum-dum, dum!

Crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!

Dum, dum-dum… dum, dum, dum, dummm!!!”

Ryoma lowers his hand. Only then does the entire Army erupt into the chant, following Masuda’s lead.

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

***

The arena dissolves into chaos the moment the chant peaks. The floor trembles under thousands of stomping feet; banners whip like violent waves; hands reach out toward the ring as if trying to touch the myth they just witnessed.

People are no longer individuals. They’re a single roaring creature, bellowing Ryoma’s name, shaking the steel beams overhead.

Ryoma turns and catches a glimpse of his opponent, the so-called God of Destruction, now being carried away on a stretcher.

But he shows no sympathy, no worry for Masuda’s life, not a flicker of emotion. For him, this fight is nothing but another stone on the climb upward.

Nakahara, however, turns toward Masuda’s corner and bows, though no one in Kurose’s camp notices him.

“Amid the madness,” a commentator picks up. “Nakahara’s the only one remembering there’s a man hurting in that corner.”

“And look at Ryoma…” another one adds, “with all this noise, and he’s the only one in the building who feels nothing.”