VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the blue corner doesn’t erupt. There’s noise all around them; but inside the corner, everything feels contained, purposeful, almost quiet.

Nakahara crouches in front of Aramaki, eyes level, studying him first before saying anything.

Then he nods once. “Good job,” he says simply. “You picked the best moment to use that cobra shot. And you landed it.”

Aramaki meets his gaze and nods back. There’s a spark in his eyes now, bright but held in check. He takes the bottle, lifts it, and swishes the water in his mouth. The sound is wet, thick.

He leans forward and spits. The stream hits the canvas edge, tinged faintly red. He gurgles again, slower, then spits into the bucket. It’s clear this time.

The cut inside his mouth isn’t deep, and it’s already settling.

Nakahara taps his knee lightly. “You had that round. But don’t let that get to your head.”

Aramaki straightens a fraction. “I won’t.”

“You’re fighting a veteran,” Nakahara continues, voice steady. “He’s not done. And he’ll try to drag you back into his kind of fight.”

He gestures low with his hand. “Stay low. Not just up here.” He taps his own temple. “In your body too. Keep your posture lower than his.”

Aramaki listens without blinking.

“When he clinches, when he crowds you,” Nakahara says, “you make sure you’re under him. Lower hips. Wider stance. That gives you angles. That gives you room. And from there, you can hit harder than he expects.”

Aramaki nods once more. “I get it.”

Around them, the crowd hasn’t settled. If anything, the energy has sharpened; voices louder, reactions quicker, the sense that something dangerous has been unlocked.

A few rows up in the stands, tucked among familiar colors and familiar faces, two men are grinning like idiots.

“He actually used it,” Ryohei says, disbelief and pride knotted together.

Okabe lets out a sharp laugh. “Damn right he did.”

He leans back, arms crossed, grin stretching wide. “All those nights. All that drilling. Guess it wasn’t for nothing.”

Ryohei snorts. “Easy for you to say.”

Okabe’s grin turns feral. “Hey. I took the worst of it. Kid’s cobra almost took my soul in camp.”

Ryohei shakes his head, eyes still locked on the ring. “And he landed it on a veteran. In the fight.”

Okabe’s smile doesn’t fade. “Yeah.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Now let’s see what happens when the old man really comes after him.”

In the press row, Tanaka lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as he watches the corners work.

“Did you ever imagine Aramaki fighting like that?” he says. “Mid-range control. And to actually use a cobra shot of all things.”

Sato exhales slowly, eyes still on the ring. “No. I didn’t think he’d commit to it. Not this cleanly.”

Tanaka grins. “Neither did I. That wasn’t a lucky punch.”

But the grin doesn’t stay on Sato’s face for long. He folds his arms, expression tightening.

“Still,” he says, measured as ever, “he can’t let that get to his head. Hanazawa’s a veteran. He won’t let the same trick work twice.”

Tanaka nods. “At worst, they’re already cooking up a counter. Turn that weapon against him.”

“That’s true,” a younger voice suddenly cuts in.

They both turn.

Aki is leaning forward now, eyes bright, excitement barely contained. “But you don’t need to worry about that.”

Sato raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“They’ve perfected that technique,” she continues.

Both veterans blink.

Tanaka squints at her. “Don’t tell me you knew about this all along.”

Aki nods, unable to stop herself from smiling. “I’ve been following their closed training sessions. The cobra shot was Ryoma’s idea at first. And you know how he is. Once he comes up with something, he never leaves it half-finished.”

Tanaka chuckles softly. “Of course it was.”

“But Coach Nakahara polished it,” Aki continues. “Not just the technique. He rebuilt Aramaki’s body mechanics for it; legs, posture, timing. Everything.”

Sato listens closely now.

“And the funny part?” Aki adds. “All of his new weapons branch off that simple spearing jab. It started as a cheap idea, just something to help him fight at mid-range. But it had flaws. So Ryoma added variations. Angles. Transitions.”

Tanaka laughs under his breath. “Yeah, right. That kid never leaves an idea half-finished.”

Sato nods slowly. “Having one sharp mind like that in the gym does raise everyone’s level.”

“But don’t forget the trainers,” Aki says quietly.

Both men turn their eyes back to the ring, where Nakahara stands in the blue corner, calm, unreadable.

Tanaka hums. “I’ve always believed that old man isn’t just another trainer.”

“Yeah,” Sato agrees. “He’s been unlucky for a long time. But this past year…”

He trails off, watching closely.

“He’s building momentum. And he knows exactly how to ride it.”

***

The break stretches thin.

As the stool is pulled away, the arena never quite settles. It buzzes instead, low and restless, threaded with unfinished arguments and half-swallowed gasps.

The canvas is cleared. The corners empty. Only the fighters remain.

In the booth, the commentators fill the space the bell hasn’t yet claimed.

“Well,” one of them says, voice steady but charged, “after two rounds, this fight looks nothing like what we expected.”

“Not even close,” the other agrees. “Hanazawa dominated the first round, controlled most of the second… then one opening changed everything.”

“And that opening came from Aramaki,” the first continues. “A fighter we thought we knew.”

“Just months ago, we were talking about Aramaki’s evolution as an in-fighter. Strong. Relentless. Simple.”

He lets out a breath. “Tonight, he’s something else. Mid-range control. Discipline. And a cobra shot that caught a seasoned veteran cold.”

The second commentator chuckles softly. “You know what the scary part is?”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t feel like the end of his growth. It feels like we’re watching it happen in real time.”

The murmur in the arena rises again, threaded now with anticipation instead of doubt.

The bell rings. Both fighters push off their corners immediately, feet planting, guards lifting as they fall into stance without hesitation.

“If Hanazawa adjusts, and he will…” one commentator says. “This round three will becomes a chess match with consequences.”

“And if Aramaki keeps evolving?” the first adds. “Then, ladies and gentlemen… you might want to keep your eyes open. Because this kid may not be done surprising us yet.”

***

Hanazawa steps out slower this time. His legs are still heavy, the canvas feeling thicker beneath his boots. There’s a dull haze behind his eyes, a lingering echo from the punishment he took at the end of the second.

He blinks once, hard, as if trying to shake it loose. But the look in his eyes hasn’t softened. They stay sharp, patient, and predatory, a hunter that knows better than to rush while the prey thinks it’s in control.

Across from him, Aramaki settles first. His stance breathes, knees loose, shoulders relaxed. He doesn’t bounce, doesn’t chase.

The pendulum rhythm is there, subtle now, just enough to keep the distance honest.

He lets his hands work. The jab snaps out, and a right follows, clean and straight.

Dug. Dug.

Hanazawa shifts, gloves high, absorbing, yielding half-steps as he circles. He doesn’t answer yet. He’s watching Aramaki’s shoulders, his hips, the timing between the step and the punch.

Then he inches forward, testing.

Aramaki answers with another jab, then a hook that skims the guard. He doesn’t force it, he’s not greedy. He just keeps the textbook mid-range work, steady and patient.

“Aramaki’s controlling this round so far,” a commentator notes. “He’s not rushing… he’s making Hanazawa come to him.”

Hanazawa tries to create the look of an opening, letting his guard loosen just enough, posture inviting. A lie, a hunter’s bait. He wants the spear.

Aramaki keeps him out with his fists alone for now.

Jab. Reset. One-two. Step off.

He doesn’t bite, not yet.

Hanazawa presses again, crowding the space near the ropes. And finally, Aramaki yields ground, pendulum shifting just a notch wider and the ropes brush his back.

Hanazawa steps in. This time, Aramaki drops his level and shoots the spearing jab to the body.

Thud!

Hanazawa sees it early. He braces, tightens his core, and steps back with the impact instead of into it.

The punch lands, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue, lips curling into a grin. “Still trying that?”

He changes angle, flicks a probing jab, light and teasing, then steps in again. But this time, he is ready.

Aramaki throws it once more, the spearing jab. And Hanazawa knocks it down with his right, clean and sharp, already retreating.

“Not gonna work anymore, kid.”

Aramaki doesn’t answer. He keeps pressing, clean and disciplined, snapping a jab upstairs, slipping off-line, landing a short right that scores without flash.

Dug. Dug. Bug! Dug.

Hanazawa absorbs it, then edges forward again. And this time, he commits.

Aramaki steps back, then slides his lead foot forward, knees bending low, the motion familiar now, practiced.

The spearing jab shoots out.

Hanazawa swats it aside with his right. And this time, his left arm coils. He doesn’t swing it yet. He waits, eyes locked, chin tucked, ready for the snap he knows is coming next.

Ready to catch the cobra as it bares its fangs again.

“Come, kid! Show me your fangs!”