VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Aramaki’s weight has settled.

The right heel has dug into the canvas, calf tightening, the thigh too, muscle winding like a compressed spring. His knee dips just a fraction, not a crouch, not a tell, only enough to load what’s coming next.

And then it releases.

The right hand snaps up from low angle, viciously compact, driven by the uncoiling of his leg and the twist of his hips rather than the shoulder.

It’s not swung. It’s fired like a bullet exploded by the trigger.

For the first time, Hanazawa sees it. But he hesitates.

The counter he’d prepared never leaves his shoulder. Instead, instinct takes over. His left glove shoots up to catch the punch.

Even that he can’t fully hold it. The impact still drives Aramaki’s knuckles through the guard, smashing Hanazawa’s own glove into his cheek.

Leather thuds against bone, and his head snaps violently to the right.

Dhuack!

Hanazawa grunts, boots skidding as he braces. Anger flashes through the pain, and he rips a sharp right hook in return, cutting across where Aramaki’s head is.

But he completely misses the timing.

Aramaki is already gone, ducks under the hook smoothly, knees bending as his lead foot slides wider.

His weight pours left, clean and deliberate, spine twisting as the left leg coils in turn; calf, thigh, hip, all of it drawing tight in a single breath.

Then he detonates.

BOOM!

Deep. Wet. Evil.

The left hook rips into Hanazawa’s body.

Hanazawa’s breath explodes out of him. His spine bows grotesquely, torso folding as if struck by a hammer.

For a split second, both feet look almost leave the canvas, balance stolen outright.

Agony tears through him. His legs give way, not collapsing so much as surrendering, and he drops to his knees hard.

“Down!” a commentator erupts. “He did it… Aramaki finally puts him down!”

“What a vicious body shot!” the second voice cuts in, almost breathless. “Two minutes into the third round, and Aramaki drops Hanazawa with a devastating sequence!”

“First the cobra shot upstairs, then the hook to the body!”

“And once this kid’s engine really kicks in… there’s almost nothing you can do to stop it.”

Hanazawa’s left hand claws at his stomach, fingers digging into flesh as he gasps, mouth open but soundless.

The hunter has finally walked into the strike. And the cobra has sunk its fangs all the way in.

The result?

Hanazawa can’t even breathe.

His face flushes red, part fury, part pain. Then it slowly darkens as air refuses to come. His lips quiver. His whole body follows, trembling as he fights for oxygen that won’t arrive.

“Neutral corner!” the referee barks, ushering Aramaki away.

In the red corner, Masahiro clutches his head, disbelief freezing his features, fear bleeding through the discipline he’s trying to hold.

“What are you doing, Hanazawa…?” he mutters, voice cracking. “How could you miss that?”

Up in the journalists’ row, the mood is grim. They know the danger Aramaki stepped into, but also the consequence of a counter, the double-edged sword.

“That was the danger,” Tanaka mutters. “Aiming for a counter.”

Sato nods. “He saw it… but hesitated.”

“A failed counter,” Tanaka says. “It always invites punishment.”

***

Once Aramaki reaches the neutral corner, the referee drops to a knee and begins the count.

“One!”

“Two!”

Masahiro finally snaps out of his despair. He slams both palms against the apron, leaning forward, voice hoarse but commanding.

“Hanazawa! Breathe… Breathe slowly, Hanazawa!”

He swallows hard, and calls out again. “Take your time. Collect yourself. You can still get up. Just breathe first.”

“Five!”

“Six!”

“Aramaki!” Nakahara also calls out, not in triumph, but in caution.

Aramaki stands in the neutral corner, posture steady. He looks to the old man and gives a single, certain nod.

I’m ready.

Even if he gets up.

But there’s another message carried in that small gesture, just as clear.

I know he’s seen my cobra shot now.

You don’t need to worry about me.

Nakahara meets his eyes and nods back. They had anticipated this moment. They had prepared for it long before the bell ever rang. They came to this fight fully prepared.

Even far from the ring, in the blue corner’s locker room, Ryoma watches it through the flat screen with the same quiet understanding.

He was the one who birthed the idea, and the one who mapped the contingencies that followed.

He’s seen it now, Aramaki.

Twice.

Next time… he’ll be aiming for it.

***

Hanazawa doesn’t think about the pain first. He thinks about what stopping here would mean.

Losing that two million yen, sure. That would sting. But money can be earned back. Pride can be repaired, given time.

A loss like this, though? A third-round knockout to an unranked kid? That would cost him something far worse.

He’s been dropped to rank ninth before, the lowest point of his career since entering the contender list. Scraping the edge of irrelevance, watching younger names climb past him while his own was spoken softer, later, if at all.

It took years to claw his way back. Years of ugly fights and narrow wins, of grinding nights and damaged mornings.

Seventh!

He’s held that spot for two years now. Lose here, and he doesn’t just fall. He could just disappear, kicked out of the contender list.

The thought digs deeper than the pain in his gut.

His legs are still trembling when he plants a boot under him. They threaten to fold again, screaming for him to stay down.

But he ignores them.

“Eight!”

He forces himself upright, hauling his body vertical through sheer refusal.

“Nine!”

Finally, Hanazawa lifts both gloves, breath still ragged but still alive.

The referee steps in, eyes searching his face. “Are you okay? Can you still fight?”

Hanazawa swallows, the burn in his lungs flaring again.

“Yeah…” His voice is rough, but steady enough. “I’ve had worse. I can fight.”

The referee steps aside and slices a hand through the air.

“Box!”

The arena roars back to life.

“Credit to Hanazawa for getting up,” one commentator says quickly. “That was a brutal knockdown.”

“But look at him,” the other adds, voice edged with concern. “He took a cobra shot upstairs and a crippling hook to the body. There’s still nearly a minute left in this round.”

“That’s an eternity when you’re hurt like that.”

“Can he survive it? Or does he have something left to turn this around?”

Hanazawa hears none of it clearly.

His arms feel distant, like they belong to someone else. His legs respond a half-second late, heavy and unreliable. Every breath scrapes, shallow and incomplete, his ribs protesting each inhale.

He knows… he can’t throw anything meaningful right now. Not power. Not combinations. Maybe not even a clean counter.

But his eyes are still sharp, cold, and focused.

The hunter in him hasn’t blinked. The plan is still there, coiled and waiting, dark and patient. His pride, earned in alley gyms and bloody rings, won’t let this end with him folded on the canvas.

Come…

Come, you fucking snake.

I’ll make you pay for that.

Across from him, Aramaki doesn’t rush. He knows better not to rush, knows he is up against a veteran.

He keeps his distance, posture low, stance wide, pressure applied through discipline rather than frenzy.

The jab snaps out, clean and measured. A right follows. Then a hook, tight and controlled.

Dug.

Dug. Dug.

Hanazawa brings his guard up and holds it there. The punches thud into leather and shoulder, blocked, but they still move him.

Dug. Dum.

Dug. Dug. Dum. Dum.

Each impact rocks his frame, knocking him side to side, stealing fractions of balance he can’t afford.

His legs wobble as he tries to step away, to circle out of the storm.

The canvas itself feels thick, uncooperative, like it’s pulling him down with every step. He retreats again, then again; each step ripped from him by another thudding punch, another shove of impact into his guard.

He gives ground again. Not by will, but because Aramaki is taking it. Until the ropes brush his back.

It’s a bad place to be, but also the only thing keeping him upright now.

“Hang on, Hanazawa! Guard up tight!” Masahiro shouts. “Don’t force it. Get back to me first!”

The cables bow and give, absorbing part of the force, letting him lean just enough to survive the next wave. Hanazawa sinks into them, guard high, elbows tight, eyes still burning through the gaps.

Aramaki strikes with care, fully aware that the danger hasn’t vanished. He keeps his level low as he shifts angles, probing for seams, dropping the occasional hook to the body, but never lingering.

Every touch upstairs has a purpose: to keep Hanazawa’s guard glued to his head. To keep the counter buried. To keep the hunter blind behind his own defense.

He drums the gloves. Then dips to the ribs. Back upstairs. Then another hook sinks into the body.

Dug. Dug.

Thud!

Dug.

Thud! Bug!

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Bug!

Again. And again.

Aramaki picks his targets calmly, methodically, stacking damage without offering anything in return.

No trades. No risks. No openings.

Winning can wait. First, he lets the poison sink in, soften the legs, steal the breath, make sure the hunter can’t hunt anymore.

Eventually, Hanazawa breaks.

His pride won’t allow this; being worked, bullied, dismantled by a kid like this, reduced to something helpless.

And anger wins. It always wins.

As Aramaki’s right hook comes in, Hanazawa snaps his own, forcing the exchange, daring him to trade.

“Enough, you fucking brat!”

BLARR!!!