VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Jade reads the change quickly. The flickers are sharp, fast, meant to keep him honest. When he steps in to test the range, he blocks the first jab cleanly.

Dug.

And the second comes a beat later, veering wide, almost a slap, cutting across where his guard just was.

Jade sees it, dips and steps back, reclaiming space. No rush, no irritation. He’s seen the two-beat flicker before, studied it. It isn’t a surprise, just another line in the book.

And for now, he doesn’t feel the need to challenge it. This round is already his. He has asked the questions, set the terms, and learned what he needed to learn.

There’s no reason to gamble.

So he keeps it safe, small steps, high guard, just enough presence to keep Ryoma reacting as the seconds drain away.

Until then…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the hall.

“One round in the books,” a commentator says. “And it’s the champion’s round. He dictated the pace, dictated the space.”

“But credit where it’s due,” the other adds. “Takeda adjusted under pressure. He’s young, only seven fights in, and he’s not overwhelmed.”

“No,” the first agrees. “Maybe not the performance people expected… but he belongs here.”

Ryoma turns back toward his corner. Nakahara is already there, towel in hand, guiding him onto the stool.

Ryoma sits. His chest rises and falls faster than usual. He isn’t hurt, no grimace, no stiffness in his shoulders, just breath coming a little too hard for a first round.

Sera leans in, wiping Ryoma’s mouth, eyes scanning him closely.

“…You’re not yourself today,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Ryoma only glances at him, still catching his breath.

“You’re fighting like you’re waiting for something,” Sera continues. “Thinking too much. Worrying too much.”

He taps Ryoma’s knee once, firm.

“Your rhythm’s off. That pendulum shouldn’t feel forced. You’re reacting to him instead of making him move.”

Ryoma swallows. His jaw tightens. He rolls his shoulders once, shakes out his elbow, trying to loosen the arm, trying to slow his breathing.

Sera straightens slightly, voice steady. “This isn’t you. Did the pressure get to your head that badly?”

Ryoma exhales longer this time, eyes dropping as he listens.

Nakahara finally speaks. “This is expected when you fight a switch-hitter for the first time. You usually control fights with that sway, keeping your opponent busy reading you. Tonight, the champion’s doing the same thing to you.”

“Yeah…” Ryoma nods, finally answering, breath still uneven. “I didn’t expect him to show it this early. I thought he’d save it, use it later when I tried to set a counter.”

Nakahara nods once. “That means he sees you as a real threat. He’s showing you his tools early, which also means you get to study them early.” He pauses. “So… can you take control back next round?”

Ryoma falls quiet.

Normally, this would already be enough. An opponent showing too much, too soon. By now, he’d have settled in, adjustments forming naturally.

But this time feels different. He hasn’t been studying. He’s been reacting. Guarding. Surviving.

“Give me a moment,” he says, closing his eyes, steadying his breath.

He replays the exchange, frame by frame, leaning on memory instead of instinct. Even doing this, he knows he’s already a step behind. When he opens his eyes, he has clarity, but no solution yet.

“He’s not just switching stances to trap me,” Ryoma says slowly. “He’s manipulating distance and angle. When I jab, he drags his lead foot back and the angle’s already gone. Then the hook comes. That’s where my rhythm breaks. I’m still baffled how that rear hook reached me.”

“That’s not quite it,” Nakahara says, shaking his head. “He didn’t drag his right foot far. Just enough to slip your reach. When he threw the left hook, he slid his left foot forward too. Small movement, but it turned him orthodox, meaning his left is further forward. That hook wasn’t from the rear. It was a lead hook.”

Ryoma blinks as it clicks into place. With Nakahara’s correction, the picture sharpens, and his confusion finally easing.

“So that’s how he reached me,” Ryoma says. “A lead hook… I thought it was coming from the rear.”

Nakahara nods. “If it were a rear hook, it wouldn’t have reached you. And you wouldn’t have had to break your sway to block it.”

“I just…” Ryoma hesitates. “I’ve never seen him do that on tape.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer at once. He runs through the footage in his head, every fight he’s studied, every sequence he remembers. As far as he can recall, Jade has really never shown that adjustment against past opponents.

“Then assume he built it for you,” Nakahara says at last. “It’s his way of answering your Soviet style. Instead of reading your pendulum, he disrupts it. He shifts the angle, then fires before your rhythm has time to form.”

Sadly, understanding it doesn’t mean he can solve it yet. What Jade is doing isn’t in the tapes, not in Ryoma’s stored patterns, not even in the phantom-mode sparring that shaped his instincts. There’s no ready answer waiting to be deployed.

“…I’m going to need another round,” Ryoma says quietly. “Just to study him properly. The pendulum won’t work right now. So I’ll stay in the Philly Shell.”

Nakahara nods, accepting it without hesitation. “That’s fine. You might lose another round. But don’t let him take too much. Guard or not, damage adds up. Keep him honest. Keep him at range when you can. Remember. You didn’t come in with perfect conditioning.”

“I know,” Ryoma says.

***

Across the ring, the red corner is quiet despite the first round domination. There’s no celebration, no raised voices.

Jade sits on the stool, elbows on his knees, eyes still fixed on the blue corner.

“I feel it,” he says at last. “He’s not at his best.”

Mark doesn’t interrupt.

“His shots didn’t land that hard,” Jade continues. “But his reactions… especially when he switched into that Philly Shell.” He exhales slowly. “I threw a dozen punches. None of them landed clean.”

Mark caps the bottle and shrugs, casual as ever. “And you know what to do, right?”

Jade’s eyes flick to him, then return to Ryoma. “Of course,” he says.

A faint curve touches his mouth, not a smile, more recognition. “That shell looks airtight because of the angle. There’s almost no space to hit.”

He rolls his shoulders once, already loosening up again. “But working angles is my specialty.”

There’s no arrogance in it, only certainty.

***

Moments later, the referee’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Seconds out.”

Both corners move at once, stools pulled back, towels tossed aside. And the ring clears.

The commentators slide back in as the space tightens.

“You can feel it now,” one says. “That first round settled something. The champion took it, but not comfortably.”

“And the challenger earned respect,” the other adds. “This isn’t a mismatch. Not even close.”

Across the canvas, both fighters stand. Jade looks loose, balanced, already centered in his stance. Ryoma is still, shoulders low, eyes forward.

The arena stirs in waiting.

And then…

Ding!

Round Two.

Jade steps out first, claiming the center as he did before, settling into southpaw with calm precision.

Ryoma leaves his corner and immediately veers left, torso swaying lazily. His left hand hangs low, almost careless. His right stays tucked beneath his chin.

“There it is again,” one commentator says. “Philly Shell to start the second.”

“And that hanging left,” the other continues. “We saw how he used it at the end of the first round. The flickers kept the champion just out of range.”

“But the question is,” the first adds, voice tightening, “how long can that keep Jade off him?”