VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

This situation works well with Ryoma’s initial plan, actually making it better as Jade now trying to close that distance for him by switching to an orthodox.

Now that the pressure eases and the confusion thins, his confidence starts to return; and with it, the ideas. They don’t arrive one by one. They surface together, sharp and familiar, every trick he’s ever owned lining up at once.

But he doesn’t rush the idea yet. He keeps the impression that he’s struggling to maintain the safe distance.

“Okay… let’s make him work for it first.”

As Jade steps into his range, Ryoma starts it with his left, a textbook jab snaps out first, straight and economical, and then pulls it cleanly to guard. There’s nothing fancy, just enough to reestablish rhythm.

He throws it again, and this time, Jade parries it aside, his eyes stays calm. This much he understands.

Then comes the two-beat flicker. The same left hand snaps again, light and fast, the set up. And then a second beat without fully retracting, the glove veers wider the second time, slapping across the space Jade just vacated.

Wsht. Wsht.

Jade blocks the first, slips the second, steps back half a pace. There’s no pressure

“I’ve seen this enough already.”

They reset, side stepping to adjust the angle.

And then Ryoma does it again. Two-beat flicker, same timing, same shape. Jade stays disciplined, keeps his base, lets it skim air.

“Takeda’s back to the flickers,” one commentator notes. “He’s trying to stall the entry.”

“And McConnel’s not biting,” the other replies. “He’s reading them clean. And we’ve seen how this ended before.”

They circle once more, measuring intent. Ryoma lets the pressure show on his face, and Jade takes it at face value, his confidence settling in comfortably.

“What are you going to do now… Chameleon?”

Then Ryoma changes the sentence without changing the first word.

Another jab comes out, back to textbook again, straight line, honest speed. Jade raises his guard automatically, while expecting the second beat.

The two-beat flicker does come again, wider now, veering like the familiar flicker.

Jade’s shoulders loosen.

There it is.

But Ryoma never pulls the hand back.

Instead, his lead foot slides forward in the same breath, his weight transferring clean and sudden, and the left shoots straight again; shorter, heavier, piston-like.

Thud!

The Detroit Piston jab lands flush on Jade’s face. Not a knockout shot, not even a big one, but stiff.

He actually saw Ryoma doing this in his fight with Sekino. He just couldn’t read the timing.

“This punch…?”

Jade’s head snaps back just enough for him to feel it, just enough to remind him that this distance still belongs to Ryoma when he misreads it.

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Oh, he snuck that one in,” a commentator says. “That was sharp.”

Jade blinks once, resets his stance, jaw tightening. His expression doesn’t change much, but the calm has thinned.

Irritation flickers through him now, brief and contained.

Ryoma sees it, the psychological trap has been planted well. Then he sends another jab; textbook again, same look, same speed.

Jade braces for the piston this time, but the jab stops halfway.

It’s a feint.

Ryoma dips lower instead, bending at the knees and waist together, and spears the left into the midsection, compact and sudden.

Thud!

Jade exhales sharply as the shot digs in, his elbow dropping a fraction too late.

Jade steps back on his own, reassessing. Now the entry feels harder.

“If the champion really wants to get at that Philly Shell,” one commentator says, “it’s not the guard he has to solve first.”

“No,” the other cuts in. “It’s the road there. Takeda’s left hand is making him work just to step inside.”

“Different looks every time,” the first adds. “Straight jab, flicker, double-beat… McConnel can’t settle on a read.”

“And until he does,” the second says, “breaking the shell isn’t even on the table.”

Ryoma’s flickers have grown teeth. And every time Jade thinks he’s solved the pattern, another layer reveals itself underneath.

“He’s stacking the jabs now,” the commentator says, excitement rising. “Not just flicking. He’s building off them.”

“And McConnel has to respect all of it,” the other adds. “That makes closing the distance expensive.”

***

In the blue corner, Aramaki’s eyes are bright, almost pleased.

“He can keep this up,” he says, watching the ring. “Look at that left. He’s not forcing anything. No need to gamble on counters, no need to wrestle with the switch-hitter problem. He’s making the champion solve it.”

Nakahara doesn’t respond. Neither does Sera. Their attention stays fixed on Ryoma’s feet, the timing of the jab, the way Jade hesitates before stepping in.

The left snaps out again, different look, same result. They can relieve for now that the champion hasn’t found a solution that that situation yet.

Then Sera speaks first, quietly. “The question is… for how long he can keep it?”

Bot Aramaki and Kenta glance at him, but Sera doesn’t look back.

Nakahara exhales through his nose. “It’s good for racking points,” he says. “But this is a twelve-round fight. Points only matter if you’re still standing when the last bell rings.”

“And with how bad Ryoma’s conditioning was coming in,” Sera adds, voice flat, “he can’t be satisfied with winning minutes. He has to break Jade while he still has the legs to do it.”

His gaze sharpens. “And those lefts,” he continues, “they’re smart. They’re clean. But they’re not hurting him. The longer this goes, the more it favors the champion.”

Nakahara nods once. “And don’t forget the body work. Jade’s already landed enough down there. Before long, Ryoma’s legs will get heavy. Reactions slow. Guard starts arriving late. And when that happens, resistance goes with it.”

The optimism in the corner fades into something tighter, more watchful now.

Back in the ring, Ryoma keeps the sway small, the flickers alive, the jab ever-present. He knows he’s not in his best condition, and already has a raw estimation how long he can last.

But for now, he keeps this rhythm for a while, at least to give his legs some rest after the blows Jade drove into his body before this.

From the outside, it still looks like he’s trying to keep Jade away. For one reason, he does.

Inside, his timing sharpens. Because the more Jade works to earn that angle again, the more certain Ryoma becomes that when it finally closes, it’ll be on his terms.

Eventually, Jade begins to read the left better. Not all of it, and he doesn’t need to.

He only times the two-beat flicker, the second jab that comes slapping across space.

Punches this light won’t stop me.

His right hand snaps out.

Dsh!

Ryoma’s left is knocked aside, clean and decisive. The chain breaks. Every variation that could have followed dies with it.

And in the same motion, Jade steps in, smooth and economical, closing the gap before Ryoma can rebuild his guard.

A stiff jab shoots straight down the line. But Ryoma doesn’t panic. He turns his shoulder and lets it thud into the upper arm, deflecting it off the bone.

Dug.

Then the shell closes again. Shoulder high. Elbows tight. Chin hidden.

“Good… Now come closer.”

Jade obliges. He presses from southpaw, working just close enough to keep Ryoma folded inward.

A probing right, then a left to the chest, nothing clean, but enough to make Ryoma bend at the waist, head slipping off-line the way it has all night.

As Ryoma dips as Jade’s right foot is already beside his left leg.

The next step is seamless. Jades halts his probing right, and then catches Ryoma’s right glove before it rises from below.

Dp.

And his left foot slides forward and across, and he pivots through the turn. The angle flips, and in a blink, Jade is orthodox, standing right before Ryoma, chest to chest.

But this time, Ryoma is ready.

He’s been waiting for this exact pivot. As Jade steps across and turns, Ryoma’s left doesn’t chase the center. It trails the angle instead, clenched tight, carried just outside Jade’s vision.

Not behind him, not quite at his back, but close enough that it slips past the edge of Jade’s awareness, hovering near the space behind his ear.

Jade turns his head a fraction to throw his own left toward Ryoma’s head. And Ryoma’s left fires straight out of the blind spot. A phantom shot.

“Oh, here we go…” one commentator starts.

Both of them are set now, weight planted, shoulders loaded. Hooks are primed on both sides.

But…

Dsh!

Ryoma’s left lands first, hard and unseen. The impact jolts Jade mid-motion, a punch he never registers until it’s already there.

His legs dip, the left hook he was loading dies halfway, robbed of balance by the shock.

Ryoma is already flowing forward, hips turning, right shoulder dropping as a compact uppercut coils up from below.

Unfortunately…

Ding!

The bell cuts straight through the moment.

The referee steps in at once, arms between them, forcing the break before it can turn violent.

“Saved by the bell,” the second commentator says, voice rising. “Both men were about to let those hooks go.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, irritation flashing across his face. He lowers both gloves immediately, sealing the weapon away as if it never existed.

Jade glares at him, anger sharp in his eyes. But Ryoma doesn’t return the look. He flicks his gaze toward the red corner instead.

From this angle… he can only hope they didn’t see his phantom shot.