VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ramos is already lounging in his corner, breathing steady as if the three rounds were nothing more than light pad work.

He chats with Reyes in an easy, rolling tone, gesturing casually between sips of water. Whatever he says makes Reyes sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose, while Salem stands beside them with arms folded, listening without a word.

Around them, the gym holds its breath. Yet inside that small corner, Ramos radiates a warm unbothered ease that makes it feel like a different world entirely.

Moments later, he calls at Shiki from his corner, voice bright and unbothered. “Ready?”

Shiki raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you want a little more rest?”

Ramos waves it off. “Nah. Normal break between rounds is enough. In a real fight, you don’t get excuses. Besides… after this, I still have another spar with the guy I brought from home.”

Shiki turns to Sekino. Sekino gives a single, steady nod and steps into the ring, composure tightening around him like armor.

The gym sinks into an electric hush.

Journalists exchange sharp looks. This is the moment, the real test. Whether the young champ can keep that impossible pace for three more rounds… or even ten, if pushed.

Everyone watches Ramos, waiting to see if the machine keeps running or finally shows a crack.

Sekino steps toward the center without noise, shoulders loose, chin tucked behind that familiar Philly shell. Ramos watches the veteran’s left hand sway, light, relaxed, and unpredictable.

“Nice stance,” Ramos says.

Sekino smirks. “Let’s see if you still say that after three rounds.”

Ramos lifts his brows. “Oh… finally, someone I can actually talk to. Anyway, I saw your fight with Ryoma Takeda, you know. Ten rounds of pure hell. So do me a favor… don’t hold back.”

Sekino’s gaze sharpens. “I don’t intend to.”

The bell snaps, and Sekino starts immediately with flickers, his lead hand whipping from odd angles, brushing against Ramos’ guard, tapping his forehead, nudging at his rhythm.

Ramos tries to slip inside, but…

THWACK!

A piston jab suddenly drills straight into his face.

Ramos’ head snaps back a fraction. He takes one step back, and resets.

“Oh?” he mutters, eyebrows rising. “You caught me by surprised with that one.”

Sekino doesn’t pause. He chains the reverse: flicker, flicker, and suddenly the piston jab. Ramos reads the first two but the third pins his guard high in the middle.

And suddenly…

DSH!

This time, a flicker slaps his headgear from a wide angle.

Well, it doesn’t take too long for Ramos to adjust. The gap in level is still obvious. His footwork is sharper; angling around with ease, landing crisp counters to the body.

But still, Sekino’s timing keeps stealing half-beats from him. Every time Ramos thinks he’s adjusting, Sekino simple change the course of his reverse two-beat flicker, sometime from flicker to stiff piston shot, sometime from orthodox jabs to slapping flicker left.

No matter how well Ramos reads and blocks the left, there’s always one that slip his guard, either the fast slapping left which he can ignore, or…

TWACK!

…the stiff piston shot, which actually heavier than normal jab.

Sekino doesn’t pause. He chains the reverse: flicker, flicker, then suddenly the piston jab. Ramos reads the first two, but the third snaps his guard tight in the center.

And then…

DSH!

A flicker slaps across his headgear from a wide angle.

Sekino keeps using his two-beat flicker and reverse piston shot. Just the left hand; flicker to piston, piston to flicker, but he shifts the rhythm every time Ramos adjusts.

Each jab hides a tiny reversal, mid-motion, forcing Ramos to rethink his approach again and again, never letting the champion settle into a clean read.

“Tricky old man,” Ramos grins through his mouthguard.

Sekino flicks a jab at his forehead without even blinking. “You’ll get used to it.”

Ramos finally stops trying to decode every feint and just lets his hands go, tight rapid-fire flurries cutting through the gaps.

This time, Sekino is forced into his Philly Shell, shoulder rolled high, catching and glancing most of the swarming shots.

Under the pressure he stays composed, barely giving Ramos anything clean. Then, clean as a needle, he coils and slips in a compact right counter.

Dsh!

A soft gasp ripples from the sidelines. The journalists exchange stunned looks; they expected Sekino to survive, not to trade with a Philippine champion and tag him this sharply.

Moments later…

Ding!

The bell rings, sharp and clean.

Sekino eases out of his stance and walks back to his corner, breath steady but eyes narrowed in thought. Shiki meets him with a towel and a small approving nod.

“Good timing on that last counter. Clean. You threaded it right through his rhythm.”

But Sekino doesn’t look satisfied. “Didn’t feel the feedback I expected. Noguchi was right… the kid never commits his weight. And if he’s not committing his weight, the counter won’t bite.”

He glances at the other corner, jaw clenched. “He steps in, sure… but his posture stays vertical. No forward lean, no overreach. His punches are like pistons: hard, sharp, and fast, but never heavy enough for a real recoil. He stays tight and discipline… even when he’s attacking.”

Shiki glances across the ring at Ramos, still bouncing lightly, posture loose but compact.

“That’d be a real problem for any counter-puncher,” he says. “A guy who can take a hit and still refuses to overcommit? That means he trusts his boxing completely. He won’t give you the openings desperate fighters give.”

***

Round Two

Sekino shifts gears the moment the bell rings.

No more probing flickers this time. He goes ortodox, snapping stiff jabs straight up the center, forcing Ramos’ guard high and tight.

Ramos parries the first, slips the second, steps in to swarm, but Sekino’s left suddenly whips out in a wide-angle flicker.

Pak!

It clips Ramos’ head clean, but still protected by the headgear.

And Ramos grins, shaking it off. “Damn. Annoying.”

Sekino doesn’t react. He just layers the rhythm again; flicker-piston-flicker, an elastic unpredictable chain that never gives Ramos a stable beat to read.

The champ tries to slip inside, looking to drown him in short hooks, but every time he closes the distance, Sekino’s left changes shape mid-motion.

A tap from the side.

DSH!

A stiff jab down the middle.

DSH!

A slapping flicker that forces Ramos’ guard wide…

DEP!

…but reversed again to the piston jab.

TWACK!

The patterns flip between soft and hard without warning.

Ramos shifts up a gear, using his footwork and fast hand to its full speed, and finally traps Sekino near the ropes, but only for a heartbeat.

Sekino fires a right cross. Ramos blocks, but Sekino steps in with the block, tucking his glove under Ramos’ right elbow.

With a small twist, he pries the guard open, and drives a compact right into Ramos’ ribs.

BUG!

The shot forces Ramos a half-step back. It stings, sure, but nothing that rattles him. He exhales through his teeth, eyes narrowing with genuine interest.

“Okay… respect,” he says, tapping his own gloves together. “That trick’s a nasty one.”

Sekino just resets, and controls the fight once more with his left. But as the minutes creep by, the cost begins to show.

Ramos keeps the pace hot, footwork sharp, hands busier. He starts touching Sekino more consistently, lefts to the body, right hooks around the guard, small pivots that force the veteran to turn again and again.

Sekino’s still answering, still slipping, still tricking, but Ramos is starting to pull ahead through sheer tempo.

***

Round Three

Sekino enters the last round still composed, but the tempo now belongs entirely to Ramos.

Every flicker disguised behind a piston, but Ramos parries and counters with a straight left to the solar plexus.

BUG!

Every time Sekino tries to steal the control back, he’s punished by a quick swarm before he can anchor his feet.

Still, Sekino refuses to let the fight flatten. He keeps mixing the patterns: wide-angle flickers, sudden pistons, broken rhythms that force Ramos to stay sharp.

Twice more he sneaks in that guard-prying trick, digging short blows into Ramos’ body that echo through the ring and earn quiet nods from the watching journalists.

But Ramos stays ahead, as if the body blows don’t affect him. His feet stay electric, his angles stay tight.

And when Sekino tries to roll the pressure, Ramos answers with a burst; a six-punch combination that forces the older man into a full Philly Shell, absorbing shots on shoulder, glove, and forearm as the bell finally rings.

Ding!

Sekino exhales and turns away, walking back to his corner.

“Fast kid,” he mutters.

Again, Shiki greets him with a nod of approval. “Good work. You stayed in there the whole way.”

But Sekino doesn’t look convinced. “I started fresh. And that damn kid already fought Noguchi before me. And look at him…”

He glances across the ring, watching Ramos still lightly chatting, smiling, not even breathing hard.

Sekino sighs. “And he said he’s still going to have another spar after this.”