VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena detonates. For a split second, it’s not even cheers, but disbelief. A sharp collective intake of breath, like the building itself flinched.

This was supposed to be another quiet minute. Then it became another stretch of Ramos controlling space, piling points, carrying the round to the bell the way he always does.

The second round lulled them. The third had settled into Ramos’ routine.

And then, suddenly, just within ten seconds. Ten seconds is all it took to bring Ramos to the canvas.

The noise crashes in late, uneven and chaotic.

“He’s down…!”

“No way…!”

“Did you see how he did that?!”

“Ryoma… knocking down the Philippines Champion.”

Across the ring, Virgil Santos jolts forward so hard he nearly slips between the ropes.

“Ramos!” he shouts. “Ramos, can you hear me?”

There’s less than fifteen seconds left. He knows it.

Fifteen seconds is nothing. Ramos doesn’t need to win the round. He doesn’t even need to fight. He just has to survive, and the bell will save him.

But the panic is already in Virgil’s face, raw and uncontrolled, because this isn’t about the clock. This is the first time Ramos gets knocked down in his career.

“Ramos!” Virgil’s voice cracks again. “Answer me, Ramos!”

Ryoma still lingers, gazing down on Ramos coldly, just as how a Cruel King would do. Then the referee steps in, telling him to leave.

“Go to your corner.”

Finally Ryoma walks to the corner, steps steady, unhurried.

“Ramos!” Virgil calls out. “Can you hear me?”

The camera finally finds Ramos.

He’s on both knees, torso folded forward. One glove presses hard against his midsection, the other hand is splayed on the canvas.

His face is twisted, not just from the blood leaking from his nose, not just from the mouthpiece askew between his teeth, but from something deeper in his lungs.

Air won’t come. His chest jerks, rising too high, dropping too fast.

Each breath is shallow, incomplete, like his lungs refuse to fill. His cheeks hollow as he gasps again, eyes unfocused, fighting not the pain, but the absence.

In the blue corner, Sera’s mouth is slightly open. His brow is knotted tight, disbelief written plainly across his face.

“So… this is what he’s been aiming for,” he mutters.

“Yes,” Nakahara says quietly. “Ryoma could have landed those body shots earlier in the second round. The openings were there. But the output wouldn’t have looked like this. To reach this result, three things had to line up.”

“First,” Nakahara continues, eyes never leaving the ring, “Ramos had to unleash his tightest barrages. The most punches he could throw in one sequence.”

Sera swallows.

“Second, Ryoma had to endure all of it. Without giving ground.”

Hiroshi has gone silent now, also listening.

“And third,” Nakahara says, “the moment Ramos comes back to the surface for air, no matter how short the moment is.”

Sera turns slowly toward him. Cruelty dawns in his expression, not malicious, but absolute understanding.

“Everyone before Ryoma,” Nakahara continues, “they were too overwhelmed by the pressure. Or they felt relief when Ramos stopped. Either way, they never tried to hunt that short moment when Ramos break for air.”

The roar of the crowd blurs into a distant pressure for Ramos now. All he can hear is his own breathing. And it isn’t enough.

The ref has begun the count for a while now.

“Three!”

Ramos slams his left hand into the canvas, once, and then again.

It’s not in anger, but instinctive, something primitive. As if the jolt might force his body to answer, might shake something loose inside him.

The pain blooms up his arm, but it barely registers next to what’s happening in his chest.

Air still won’t come.

“Zhhh…”

He drags it in, thin, whistling.

“Arrgh… zhhh…”

His shoulders hitch. His ribs pull wide, and then collapse again. The aftershock of the two body shots claws deeper now, tightening everything just when he needs it to open.

In one of the neutral corners, Ryoma calmly studying the way Ramos is fighting the torment, the way his breaths stutter, the way his posture refuses to rise.

His eyes move, scanning the chest, shoulders, hands, calculating, assessing how much is left. Whether Ramos’ body can answer the count.

The referee’s count reaches five, and then six.

Ramos finally can breathe, still shallow, but he tries to straighten anyway.

“Seven”

Nothing comes with it but another broken breath.

And after the eight, he staggers on his feet, posture still bent, but gloves have risen.

The ref steps in, searching, checking his condition.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I’m okay,” Ramos says, voice low and heavy, still battling for air.

“Can you still fight?” The ref takes one step back. “Come to me.”

Ramos pulls in a deep breath and steps forward. The referee grips his gloves, hesitates, then releases them, still watching closely.

Back in the blue corner, Nakahara watches it unfold. He recognizes the possibility that Ramos might survive the round.

But the thought barely registers.

There’s no concern on the old man’s face. His attention has already drifted elsewhere, pulled back to an earlier moment, the day Ryoma first proposed taking the in-fighter form.

“That day,” Nakahara says, “when I taught Ryoma how to time body shots to the instant an opponent inhales…”

Sera’s eyes widen. Hiroshi exhales slowly now.

“The next day, he came to me with another scenario,” Nakahara finishes. “What if he does it when Ramos also needs air the most?”

“So that was the moment he’s been waiting for,” Hiroshi murmurs.

“No…” Nakahara shakes his head. “It’s the moment he’s been building since the first round.”

As Nakahara speaks, the referee has gestured for the fight to continue. A hush ripples through the arena, anticipation tightening as the crowd senses an early knockout within reach.

“Can Ramos survive this?” one commentator asks, voice tight.

“There’s almost no time left in the round…” another one says. “But he’s in real trouble.”

Ryoma is already closing the distance.

Ramos is on his feet now, his posture smaller than before, shoulders caved inward as he tries to guard both his head and his body at the same time.

The final ten seconds begin to drain away. Virgil Santos slams a hand against the canvas, shouting for Ramos to keep his guard tight.

Ryoma doesn’t rush. He sends a compact left from mid-range first, a probe, testing for any response. One mistake here and his chance could disappear.

But there is no response. Ramos has shut himself down completely.

Ryoma slides his lead foot forward, stepping deeper. But suddenly, Ramos throws a right hook.

“He’s still swinging!” a commentator blurts.

Ryoma sees it, and for a brief instant, he’s surprised Ramos is still thinking about fighting back.

He ducks inside, one glove already clenched tight. But before he can fire, Ramos steps forward too, the right arm he swung early now snaking over Ryoma’s neck, dragging down into a rough clinch, almost a grapple.

“He ties him up!”

“That’s pure survival instinct… desperate survival.”

But Ryoma doesn’t panic. He’s been preparing himself for this scenario too.

He pushes his head to Ramos’ chest before the ref even gets the time to break them. And then he sinks lower, widens his stance, weight transferring smoothly from right foot to left.

He times it perfectly, Ramos’s chest lifting, the desperate inhale.

And right then, Ryoma fires a short Dempsey hook to the body, minimal twist, everything compact and violent.

BUGH!

It crashes into the solar plexus, short, brutal and precise. The effect is immediate, ripping what little air Ramos was trying to draw back out of him.

“OH… HE FELT THAT!”

“THAT WENT STRAIGHT THROUGH THE LUNGS!”

Ramos folds inward, a sharp bend at the waist as the pain hits late and cruel. He staggers a step back, guard sagging, arms trembling as his body struggles to obey him.

And in that sliver of space, Ryoma is already moving.

He swings the right again, same coiled hips, same torque through the spine, but this time the arm moves like a shovel, coming up from below.

Ramos sees it rising, thinks it’s headed for his jaw. He clamps his guard tight beneath his chin.

But Ryoma digs the glove into the solar plexus again.

BUGH!

“NO… NOT AGAIN!”

“Ramos is in agony now.”

“And the Cruel King is carving the air straight out of him.”

Ramos’s face twists, agony plain now. His mouth hangs open, breath refusing to come, chest shuddering as if it’s forgotten how to work.

His guard falters. And Ryoma takes it.

A left hook upstairs.

BAM!

A right follows instantly.

BAM!

Both land flush, snapping Ramos’s head side to side.

The crowd erupts, a surge of sound crashing over the ring, the certainty rising that this is it, that they’re watching the end arrive in real time.

But Ramos won’t go. He hauls his guard back up on instinct alone.

Ryoma’s next hooks slam into forearms, thudding against bone and muscle. Then he shifts his level again, mercilessly hammers the body.

Thud! Thud!

Ramos can’t breathe. Not properly. Not at all.

But he endures anyway, sheer will holding him upright, mind still clear, consciousness clinging on even as his body betrays him.

And then…

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell shatters the moment.

The referee lunges between them, arms out, preventing Ryoma from landing another blow.

“You have to respect this… most fighters would’ve folded already.”

“But this isn’t just a ranked contender in there. That’s the Philippine champion.”

“A national hero. A man who’s climbed through far worse than this.”

“And it’s going to take more than pain alone to put him away.”