VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The sparring shifts so naturally into instruction that none of them can pinpoint the exact moment the fight becomes a lesson. Now Ryoma is gesturing with his gloves, explaining angles with the same intensity most boxers reserve for a real match.

“Your problem,” he says, tapping Aramaki’s glove lightly, “isn’t the jab itself. It’s the fact you only have one version of it. Anyone with a brain will read it after the second try.”

Aramaki puffs out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. So what do I do? Jab with my soul instead?”

Ryoma ignores that and goes quiet again, mentally walking through the mechanics. His gaze drifts to Aramaki’s shoulders, then to his hips, then back to his stance. Two approaches form in his mind; one for baiting reactions, one for punishing them.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Try this first variation.”

He demonstrates slowly. “Start the spearing jab. Commit your shoulder, your weight. Really sell it. But right before it lands, cancel it and pull back. Make it look like you saw something you didn’t like.”

Aramaki watches the motion. Ryoma’s retraction is smooth, almost deceptive.

“If your opponent reacts,” Ryoma continues, “tightens his core, or shifting his guard like he’s trying to throw something, pulls back… whatever it is, you hit his reaction. Then you pull-back counter. Short and clean.”

Aramaki nods. “Alright… feint body jab, look for the bite, counter the bite. Got it.”

Ryoma pauses again, sorting through the second idea. His footwork shifts slightly as he tests the motion in his head, making sure it fits Aramaki’s natural rhythm.

“And the second variation,” he says. “Same start. Sell the body jab. If he drops his guard expecting it, change the line and go upstairs with a gazelle punch. Small rise in the legs, punch follows the arc.”

Aramaki’s face wrinkles, eyes widen a fraction. “…Bro, that’s not a simple adjustment. That’s improv. I need to read

what the guy is doing mid-fight. Maaan, I can’t pull off mind games like you.”

Ryoma falls silent. He actually listens, and after a moment, he nods weakly. “I know. And you’re right, this isn’t your style. But train it anyway. Even if you don’t use it like how I pictured it, having more options makes you harder to read. Harder to break. You know what I’m saying? Not improving, not adjusting to how your opponent reacts. But using different variations from the same initial stance.”

Aramaki takes a breath, and then nods back. “Okay. Let’s try it.”

Ryoma runs through both variations again, this time letting Aramaki mirror him; the approach, the fake commitment, the pull-back, the upward shift of weight.

Aramaki stumbles through it at first, but on the fourth attempt, the motion finally clicks. And even during this process alone, Ryoma’s already coming up with a new one.

“There’s still something else you can try,” he says.

Aramaki blinks. “Another variations? Dude, you are already confusing me with these two.”

“Okay, okay,” Ryoma waves a hand. “Now let’s try the two variations I’ve shown you, this time under pressure. Simulate a real exchange.”

They square up again, gloves raised, and the session turns into a controlled lab, Ryoma applying realistic reactions, Aramaki testing each new variation, sometimes landing clean, sometimes getting punished for sloppy cues.

Since this is only a simulation, not a real spar, Ryoma keeps himself on a leash. Every time Aramaki fails to sell the feint, Ryoma taps him with a sharp but deliberately light counter, just enough to mark the mistake.

Dsh!

“You missed the cue. Try again.”

They reset, circle, trade a pair of lefts like a normal exchange. Aramaki attempts the setup once more, but…

Dsh!

Ryoma flicks him again. “Still wrong.”

Aramaki groans, dragging his glove down his face. “How the hell is this supposed to work on you? You came up with this technique! My feint is fighting the guy who invented the damn thing!”

Ryoma doesn’t rise to the complaint. He just tilts his head slightly, calm, almost patient. “That’s exactly why you should keep practicing it. If you can make me bite, even once, then it’ll work even better on someone else.”

Aramaki exhales, half frustrated, half resigned.

“Come on,” Ryoma adds. “Think of me as your real opponent, someone who already knows all your habits, all your variations. Even then, you still have to find a way to make me doubt what I’m seeing.”

Aramaki lifts his gloves again, grumbling but determined. “Alright, alright. One more time.”

They square up, the lesson continuing, Aramaki reaching, missing, adjusting, and Ryoma marking each mistake with a precise and restrained reminder.

Dsh!

“Come on, Aramaki. You’ve got two adjustment variations, and you can still throw the real spearing jab on top of that. That gives you three possible outcomes. I shouldn’t know which one you’re going to use. Make me guess. Make me confused.”

Aramaki exhales through his nose. “Fine. Let’s try again.”

They reset. A pair of lefts trade like clockwork, then Aramaki shoots a spearing jab and immediately tries to convert it into a pull-back counter. Ryoma doesn’t fall for it, and simply holds his ground.

“You pulled back too fast,” Ryoma says, “but at least you didn’t walk into a punch this time. Again.”

“Okay, here I go,” Aramaki resets.

They close distance again. Aramaki sets up the same pattern, a spearing jab meant to sell the pull-back trap, and Ryoma leans in to test him.

But Aramaki’s thighs coil, pulse tightening, and he redirects his weight at the last second. Instead of retreating, he darts upward into a gazelle punch.

Still, Ryoma reads it, but only in time to raise his guard.

BAM!!!

The impact thuds into his gloves. He absorbs it cleanly, but the force knocks his stance loose for a moment. Aramaki doesn’t follow up. He’s stunned himself by amazement.

“See?” Ryoma grins. “You actually caught me off guard.”

Aramaki blinks, still processing. “Caught off guard… and you still blocked it.”

“You really want to land one on me that badly, huh?”

“No, I mean…”

“Look,” Ryoma cuts in, still calm. “Even if I blocked it, the force alone broke my form and put you inside your range. In a real fight, I’d be in trouble. So don’t get discouraged. Again.”

“Alright. Again.”

They run it back. Then again. And again. And again.

After landing that blocked gazelle punch, Aramaki starts slipping into the rhythm of his variations more naturally. Because once the opponent feels the weight of one, despite the block, the pressure rises, and pressure makes reading harder.

Finally, Aramaki draws him into the trap properly.

Ryoma lifts his right glove, expecting the gazelle punch. But Aramaki stays low, shooting for the solar plexus. Ryoma has a split-second choice: endure the hit or fire a chopping left.

Eventually, he chooses the latter. But Aramaki cancels the strike, pulls back just enough, and Ryoma’s left cuts empty air.

From ringside, Kenta’s eyes widen. “Oh… he actually made it.”

Aramaki sends a counter. But Ryoma still sees it coming and dives lower, letting the punch cuts through above his head.

At that moment, the system whispers something sinister into his mind.

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