VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the red corner, Coach Koichi doesn’t move. The man, who’s been grinning since the opening bell with easy confidence, just stands there now. His mouth is half-open, eyes fixed on his fighter.

For a few seconds, it’s like the sound has drained out of the world around him.

Then he finally hears the referee’s count clearly.

“Four… five…”

Koichi blinks, as if waking from a bad dream. His hands grip the rope, his voice crack through.

“Uchida! Get up!” he shouts, sharp and urgent now. “I know that didn’t finish you! Can you hear me, Uchida? Get up!”

On the canvas, Uchida hears him clearly. The pain in his jaw isn’t overwhelming. It aches, deep and hot, but it’s not what keeps him down.

It’s his head, still spinning, tilting, like the ring has been twisted sideways beneath him.

He plants one glove on the mat and pushes. For a moment, something invisible tugs him to the right, a pull he can’t explain, like the floor is sliding under his feet.

His knees wobble, vision swimming, but he snarls and forces his legs to anchor.

“Seven…”

Uchida rises, slow but stubborn, teeth clenched.

“Eight.”

He lifts his gloves, arms heavy but steady enough, eyes blinking hard as he fixes them on the referee.

“He’s up,” a commentator calls out. “He’s still there.”

“Yeah,” the other agrees. “That punch was too compact to finish it. This fight isn’t over yet.”

The referee steps back, eyes flicking between them, before chopping a hand in the air.

“Box!”

Ryohei leaves the corner at once.

He isn’t fully convinced himself. Even now, he can’t quite believe that short hook did that much damage. There was no wind-up, no weight poured into it.

But he sees Uchida’s legs still trembling. His guard is up, disciplined, but his stance is loose, uneven. His balance hasn’t caught up to his will yet.

“This is my chance…”

Once Ryohei steps into range, the pendulum disappears entirely. He plants his feet and goes to work.

Two heavy punches slam into the guard; solid, textbook punch. Not thrown to break through, but to make sure the guard stays closed, to pin it there.

Then he starts mixing.

Dsh!

A lead hook smacks the side of Uchida’s head near the ear. Uchida absorbs it, jaw clenched.

Ryohei taps the guard again with his left, not a real punch, just a feeler, then drives a shot into the midsection.

Thud!

Then he slides his rear foot half a step forward and sends a right hook behind the glove.

Dsh!

“Oh, this is turning ugly now,” one commentator says, voice tightening. “Ryohei’s stopped moving and started placing his shots.”

“He’s breaking him down,” the other adds. “Pinning the guard, changing levels. This is bad territory for Uchida.”

Uchida stays upright, but his stance stiffens, weight shifting unevenly as he shells up again.

“And remember,” the first continues, glancing at the clock, “there’s still over a minute left in this round. That’s a long time to survive when you’re hurt.”

“Especially against someone who’s finally willing to stay in range,” the second says. “Uchida’s toughness is being tested right now. The question is how much he’s got left.”

The crowd swells, sensing it, every clean thud pulling another roar as Ryohei stays close, patient, hunting for the next opening.

The red corner is in disarray, Koichi shouting half-formed instructions, less strategy than desperation, just trying to keep Uchida conscious and moving.

In the blue corner, no one speaks. Nakahara, Sera, Ryoma, three still figures having tight faces, each holding the same unspoken prayer that Ryohei can finish it here.

Even Logan shifts where he sits. It isn’t concern for Uchida that unsettles him. It’s the sight of Ryohei seizing the momentum, and refusing to let go.

Up in the back rows, Umemoto watches in silence, his earlier boredom gone.

His gaze lingers on Ryohei now, recalibrating, already weighing the possibility that the man in blue might be the one stepping up to challenge his title next.

But he is still hard to admit it. “Tch! One lucky punch… and the entire fight is flipped.”

Back in the ring, Uchida sways sideways, shoulders rolling with the impact. But then, he fires back at last, a sharp right thrown on instinct.

Ryohei blocks it clean. And the contact tells him everything.

“He’s not done. Not yet.”

He slips in two more punches while the opening’s there; one dull thud on the glove, the next brushing the shoulder.

Then he pulls out, not retreating far, just enough to stay dangerous. And the pendulum returns, small and tight, rear foot anchored, lead foot sliding back and forth as his gloves move again.

Jab. Lead hook. Rear hook.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

All of them die on forearms and gloves.

Uchida, convinced the worst has passed, steps in with a long hook. But his lead foot wobbles, just for a heartbeat, and Ryohei lets the punch miss by pulling his own lead foot back.

The same picture as before, and Uchida still doesn’t realize it.

He follows through with a left, but suddenly…

Dhuack!

The hook appears again, short and compact, fired from near Ryohei’s own chest, landing flush on the jaw.

“There it is!” a commentator shouts. “The same punch that knocked Uchida down earlier!”

But this time, Ryohei doesn’t wait. As Uchida collapses, his balance gone, Ryohei caps it with a chopping left…

BAM!!!

“Ooooh!” the second commentator cries out, hands flying to his head. “Another one! He’s down again!”

“Less than twenty seconds from the first knockdown!” the first adds. “Uchida is down again. Can he get up this time?”

The referee points Ryohei to the neutral corner and drops to one knee, starting the count.

But before Ryohei even reaches the corner, the ref waves both arms high.

“That’s it!”

“It’s over!”

“The referee has seen enough!”

And Ryohei explodes. He jumps once in place, then sprints to the corner, climbing the ropes in a single motion.

He pumps his right glove toward the crowd, eyes blazing.

“You see that?!” he shouts. “Did you see that?!”

The arena erupts with him.

“RYO-HEI!”

“RYO-HEI!”

“What a fight, Ryohei!”

“You took long enough, man!”

“RYO-HEI!”

“But a knockout nonetheless!”

“RYO-HEI!”

“RYO-HEI!”

“Great job, Ryohei!”

“The star of the tournament!”

“Class-A King!!!”

“RYO-HEI!”

“RYO-HEI!”

The chant rolls over him, loud and unbroken, as he stands there under the lights, breathing hard, smiling at last.

Up in the back rows, Umemoto doesn’t join the celebration. His jaw tightens, teeth grinding slightly as he watches the man he dismissed as a coward stand bathed in cheers.

That knockout; clean, compact, merciless, gnaws at him.

Beside him, his friend leans closer, voice low. “He did it again. That ghost punch. You still think that was luck?”

Umemoto doesn’t answer. He just keeps his eyes locked on Ryohei, irritation simmering behind a stare that’s no longer bored, only sharpened.

***

The blue corner is breaking in triumphant.

Nakahara is the first to reach him, arms wrapping around Ryohei’s waist as he nearly loses his balance on the ropes. Sera’s right there too, grabbing an arm, steadying him, laughing breathlessly as they haul him down and lift him again, all of them tangled together under the lights.

“You did it,” Nakahara says, voice thick.

“That’s it… that’s how you finish it,” Sera adds, grinning as he pounds Ryohei’s back.

Ryohei’s still half-dazed, chest heaving, one glove resting on the top rope as they raise him up again, letting the crowd see him, letting the moment belong to him.

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He stays where he is, just outside the corner, arms loose at his sides, watching.

Pride settles in his chest, real and undeniable. Ryohei did it, the pull-off counter, clean and convincing. It’s not borrowed weapon, not forced, but he earned.

And yet, something else coils beneath Ryoma’s heart. It’s the feeling of falling behind to see Ryohei actually reaches the title fight first.

The thought slips in quietly, unwanted, and Ryoma feels it for what it is; a small sting, sharp enough to notice, not deep enough to hurt.

>

The system’s voice cuts in, blunt and unamused.

>

Ryoma exhales through his nose. The tension eases.

“…Yeah,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He steps up onto the apron and climbs through the ropes at last, moving toward Ryohei as the noise keeps crashing around them.

On the way, his eyes drift to the front row, and Logan Rhodes is already looking at him.

For a moment, their gazes lock.

But Logan’s smile is still there, easy and polite, almost congratulatory. He’s clapping too, like he’s enjoying the outcome. Like this was never a problem for him at all.

Ryoma doesn’t look away. His stare is flat, heavy with contempt. That smile’s a lie, he knows it.

“It’s still my win,” he mutters, not taking his gaze away from Logan. “This feeling… isn’t that bad either.”