VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The red corner is light with confidence. Higuchi sits relaxed on his stool, shoulders loose, breathing steady. His cutman barely needs to touch him.

Water, a nod, a quiet word exchanged, nothing more. Three rounds in, and it already feels like routine, another night at the office.

Across the ring, the blue corner tells a different story. Okabe slumps forward, chest heaving, sweat streaking down his face. Nakahara crouches in front of him, voice firm but measured, doing what a corner must do when answers are scarce.

“You’re still in this,” Nakahara says, gripping Okabe’s gloves. “Forget the scorecards. We don’t chase points. We take his legs. Dig the body. Slow him down. Once his feet go, the fight changes.”

There’s no tactical miracle in the words, just survival instincts dressed as strategy. Morale first, hope second.

“Work the ribs,” Nakahara continues. “Even if he slips, even if he moves, touch him. Make him feel it. Don’t rush. Don’t panic.”

Okabe nods, though his eyes say he’s already fighting something heavier than the man in front of him.

Ryoma stands just behind the stool, silent. He isn’t just seeking for flaws in the enemy anymore. He’s just found something in Okabe himself, a bad patterns.

The Vision Grid works at the edge of his thoughts, replaying sequences in fragments; impact, reaction, repetition.

>

>

Ryoma has known Okabe for years, sparred with him a lot. But tonight, stripped of momentum and drowned in speed, the flaw stands naked.

>

>

Ryoma exhales and steps forward. “Okabe,” he says carefully, keeping his tone even. “There’s something I need to say.”

Okabe looks up, wary.

“When you take a clean shot to the face,” Ryoma continues, choosing every word, “you always throw two wide swings right after. Hooks. Big ones.”

Okabe stiffens, but Ryoma doesn’t stop.

“It’s not bad instinct,” he adds quickly. “Higuchi hesitates after landing. That creates space. It’s kept you safe more than once. But I’m afraid… you’re doing it blind, out of desperation.”

Okabe has acknowledged Ryoma’s sharp observation for a long a time. But still, he feels his words land heavier than a punch.

“The pattern’s too clean,” Ryoma finishes quietly. “If I were him, I’d already be setting a counter.”

Silence settles over the corner. Nakahara and Sera exchange a brief glance, neither had seen the pattern before. Now that Ryoma names it, concern flickers in their eyes.

Okabe’s mouth tightens. A kid, a younger fighter, telling him he loses composure, that his defense is panic dressed as aggression. It feels like being stripped bare in front of everyone.

But he doesn’t argue, though he doesn’t nod either. He just nods once, and looks away.

***

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round four begins the same way the others ended.

Higuchi resumes control like nothing was ever interrupted. Light on his feet, eyes sharp, hands snapping out in clean, efficient bursts.

Okabe presses forward, forcing himself to remember Nakahara’s words. He digs to the body when he can, short hooks, thudding but imperfect.

Thud! Thud!

Higuchi flicks his face with a compact jab…

Dsh!

…and steps out, pivots, and then answers upstairs.

Dsh! Dsh!

By the second minute, it happens again, the pattern Ryoma has seen so many times tonight.

A jab snaps Okabe’s head back, and he reacts without thinking. Two wide hooks; left, right, air cutting empty space.

And like always, Higuchi is already gone. Then he steps back in and scores.

One, two… Dsh! Dsh!

And a sharp hook behind the guard… Dsh!

The crowd reacts, a ripple of sound as if witnessing something inevitable unfold.

“He keeps biting on it,” one commentator says.

“That reaction’s becoming predictable.”

Ryoma’s fingers curl at his side. He’s warned it, but it seems the pattern really comes out of instinct rather than decision.

And there it is again, another two wild hook. But thankfully, Higuchi doesn’t counter hard. He doesn’t sit down on the opening.

Or maybe he doesn’t need to. He’s winning too cleanly to rush. There’s no reason to do anything reckless.

Instead, he harvests points, clean shots, safe exits. A lead growing wider with every mistake Okabe repeats.

The round ends.

Ding!

And just like the previous break, Okabe walks back to the corner looking lost. Meanwhile, in the red corner, Higuchi barely breaks a sweat.

The head coach, Ueno Shimei, hasn’t stopped smiling since the opening round. And now, exactly as Ryoma feared, the flaw has been seen.

This fight is no longer about winning a tournament. Ueno is already looking past it, picturing his fighter standing across from a champion.

“He’s cracking,” Ueno says. “And you know what… you can just end it next round.”

Higuchi’s eyes narrow slightly.

“He fights like an amateur tonight.” Ueno continues. “After every clean hit, he always responds with two blind hooks. Every time. Pressure or skill, it doesn’t matter. That habit is there. Aim it. Let him swing. Counter the second hook.”

***

Back in the blue corner, Ryoma speaks again, firmer now, still trying his best to help Okabe to win even when everyone is already giving in.

“You can’t erase the habit mid-fight,” he says. “I know. This isn’t about fixing it.”

Okabe looks up, eyes tired, pride worn thin. “Then… what am I supposed to do?”

“Use it,” Ryoma continues. “Invite the counter.”

Okabe blinks, looking unsure.

Nakahara hears the idea, knows how dangerous it is. But he doesn’t interfere. He waits, only turns slightly, listening.

“You won’t pull a clean counter,” Ryoma admits. “You’ve never trained it. But you can brace. Let him step in. Make it an exchange. Pull him into a slug fest. I know how tough you are.”

Okabe lets the air leave his lungs in a long measured breath, as if he’s steadying something fragile inside himself.

“If he wants to punish the habit,” Ryoma continues, eyes fixed on the ring, “make him pay for committing.”

Finally, Okabe nods in humble this time. For once, there’s no defiance in it, no tight jaw or flicker of stubborn pride. Just acceptance, quiet and heavy, settling into his shoulders as the referee waves them forward.

He can feel the truth of it now, lodged uncomfortably in his chest. He’d told himself it wasn’t a habit, that Higuchi was simply faster, sharper. But the replay won’t stop running in his head, and there’s no dodging it anymore. He really did it, every time.

He hates admitting that, even to himself. And he hates to see Ryoma getting so full of himself acting like he knows everything.

“Damn kid acting like a coach tonight.”

“And Nakahara… he just let the kid speaks as he pleases.”

But Ryoma’s words cut through it with something firmer than reassurance. There’s a plan this time, clear and dangerous. And even Okabe’s stubborn pride can’t quite argue it away.

He knows exactly what it costs. He’s going to get hit for it, hard, and maybe more than once. He can already feel the future bruises lining up beneath his skin.

Still, as the bells rings…

Ding!

“Alright, this is it,” one commentator says. “Okabe needs something different now.”

“The question is…” the other one says. “Does he still have an answer, or is he already out of options?”

…and as Okabe steps forward and raises his gloves, something unfamiliar stirs beneath the dread. It isn’t confidence, and it isn’t comfort, but it’s close enough to keep his feet moving.

For the first time since the opening round, Okabe catches a glimpse of hope he never thought ever existed.