VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Jade keeps trying to engage, but nothing lands clean. Ryoma’s shots aren’t heavy, but they score. Little marks of control, threading through guard just often enough to remind the champion who’s dictating this exchange.

“You see this?” one commentator says, voice lowered in disbelief.

“He’s matching him stance for stance,” the other replies. “Every time Jade changes, Takeda changes right with him.”

“And Jade’s chasing now,” the first adds. “But he’s swinging at shadows.”

Even so, the noise never dies. Every exchange draws a reaction.

Gloves colliding, shots caught on arms, punches skimming past by inches. To the crowd, it all looks dangerous.

They see two fighters throwing and adjusting in real time, the champion switching stances, the challenger changing styles, neither giving an inch.

It feels like a deadlock forged by skill, not caution.

And whenever one of Ryoma’s flickers sneaks through and snaps Jade’s head just enough…

Dsh!

…the arena jumps, a fresh roar tearing through the stands as if something decisive almost happened.

And then, a few voices rise above the rest. Admirers who had been watching in silence finally declare themselves.

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

The chant rolls through sections of the arena, uneven but growing.

That’s enough to stir the other side. Jade’s supporters answer, not with rhythm, but with volume, shouts thrown back out of pride more than unity.

“Keep going, Jade!”

“Smack the kid! Send him back to Japan!”

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

“Come on, champ!”

“Don’t lose to that kid!”

The noise overlaps, chants and shouts crashing into each other, the arena splitting down invisible lines as the fight grinds on.

Neither side willing to give ground, inside the ring or in the stands.

Then finally…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the tension.

Both fighters slow at once. Gloves dip, shoulders sag.

And still, the noise doesn’t die. Shouts answer back from both sides, raw and defiant. The chant battle rolls on even as the action pauses, the arena refusing to settle.

“Listen to this place,” one commentator says over the roar. “They’re not ready to breathe yet.”

“No chance,” the other replies. “This crowd’s split right down the middle now.”

Ryoma turns back toward his corner with a grim set to his face. His breathing stays ragged, stubbornly refusing to settle no matter how steadily he draws it in.

He keeps his shoulders loose, his pace even. But he still feels it; deep in his legs, in the tight pull along his calves, in the dull heaviness creeping upward.

Jade never landed anything clean, not to the head, not to the body. And still, the cost is there. Ryoma feels it in the output he had to maintain, in the constant movement, the repeated bursts of footwork that never truly let him rest.

***

Nakahara is already waiting when he reaches the corner. The old man doesn’t say anything at first. But he sees the tension around Ryoma’s mouth, the way his chest rises just a little too fast.

The commentators may keep talking, Ryoma dominates this round. The crowd may agree, still restless and loud, still stirred by the image of Ryoma gliding through the round, snapping jabs and slipping away untouched.

But Nakahara knows better. That footwork wasn’t preference. It was necessity.

In the previous two rounds, Ryoma had been able to dictate the fight without leaning so hard on his legs. This time, he couldn’t.

This time, he was forced to dance. And the cost of that choice is already catching up.

Once Ryoma drops onto the stool, Nakahara addresses it immediately.

“How are your legs?” he asks. “Need a massage?”

“Not yet.” Ryoma shakes his head. He takes a sip of water, swishes it around his mouth, then spits it into the bucket. “I can still use them for another round.”

Nakahara exhales and gives a short nod. “Then rest. Don’t talk. Steady your breathing.”

There isn’t much for the team to do. Ryoma’s face is still clean, untouched. And his body, Jade never landed anything there in the previous round.

There’s no adjustment to the plan either. Nakahara knows Ryoma is still chasing that perfect counter.

And if the champion stays disciplined, if he refuses to give it, then there’s only one outcome left. Ryoma will eventually have to stop dancing.

And tonight might end with Ryoma’s first loss.

The old man braces himself for that possibility. He doesn’t say it aloud, but the weight shows on his face all the same.

As a cornerman, he’s lived with losses before, a lot of them. Fighters he’s trained have tasted defeat more times than victory.

But for Ryoma, someone this gifted, this would be the first. And to lose it here, on the biggest stage of his career, hurts more than he wants to admit.

But even without a word spoken, Ryoma sees it. His eyes miss nothing.

“Don’t look like that,” he says quietly. “I told you back home, before we took this fight. I knew the risk.”

He leans back slightly, voice calm, almost reflective. “For this one… even losing isn’t that bad. I get to fight a high-level southpaw. A switch hitter at his best. A champion with real strength. A man, after everything I landed, still hasn’t dropped his rhythm.”

Kenta and Aramaki glance at each other. From the tone alone, Ryoma sounds like he’s already accepting defeat.

For those who know him best, it’s unsettling. This is the first time Ryoma’s sounded like this, soft, and pragmatist.

Usually, he would force his luck, push himself past reason, cling to winning and deny the very idea of losing.

But maybe tonight is different.

After everything that’s happened since they set foot on this foreign land, it feels like nothing has gone right, just one setback after another, stacking quietly, relentlessly, until even Ryoma can feel their weight.

***

In the red corner, the mood is lighter.

An ice pack presses briefly against the small swell on Jade’s right cheek, the same spot Ryoma’s flickers kept finding.

It’s more habit than urgency this time. Compared to the work they had to do after the third round, this barely registers. The skin isn’t even tight yet.

Jade barely reacts. He rolls his shoulders once, loose, breathing already steady.

“That kid’s got timing,” he says, almost amused. “Real timing.”

One of the cutmen glances up, surprised by the tone. There’s no edge in it, just a genuine appreciation.

Jade smiles, eyes bright. “You see the way he moves? That’s not running. That’s dancing. He’s making choices every step.” He chuckles softly. “Beautiful stuff.”

He leans back on the stool, relaxed, almost like a fan replaying a highlight. “This is the Ryoma I was expecting. The one everyone keeps talking about.”

“Did you forget he’s winning that round?” Mark reminds him.

“Sure,” Jade replies easily. “But this? This is fun.” He lifts his glove slightly, testing it. “This is the kind of fighter you come to the ring for. Makes you think. Makes you work.”

There’s a quiet understanding around him now. When Jade sounds like this; light, open, genuinely pleased, it means his mind is at comfort.

He isn’t rattled anymore. He’s enjoying himself.

Mark studies him for a moment. He knows his champion lost that round. But Mark isn’t blind. He can see the cost of that domination, the cost of the constant movement, the legs doing all the work.

And for all of it, Ryoma still hadn’t truly hurt the champion.

“So,” Mark says calmly, “can you end it next round?”

Jade pouts, exaggerated. “Come on. It’s just getting fun, and you’re talking about ending it?”

Mark doesn’t budge. “You’re the champion. You don’t fight for fun alone. You carry expectations. Sponsors. This country’s pride.”

“But still…” Jade starts, then trails off.

The cheer fades from his face, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful. Almost disappointed.

“There still a side of him I have’t seen,” he says. “I don’t know, but… for some reason, he lacks something.”

Mark exhales. “They took this fight on short notice,” he says. “Replacement bout. No proper camp. You can’t wait for him to be at his best. No matter how clean he looks, he’s only getting weaker from here. That’s boxing.”

Jade falls silent. And when he looks up again, the warmth is gone. His eyes are clear, cold, and resolved, like the decision has already settled.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll look to finish it.”

Then he smiles again, lighter this time. “But don’t expect it next round. You know the risk… chasing a knockout against a counterpuncher like him. One mistake, and it backfires.”

Mark nods, satisfied. “Exactly. Don’t give him that moment. Let him keep chasing the counter.”

Back in the blue corner, Ryoma watches them with his sharp eyes, following Jade’s lips as they move.

“He’s going to try to end it,” he says.

Aramaki blinks, surprised. “Isn’t that good?” he asks. “If he’s hunting a knockout, he’ll have to commit. That’s when the counter comes.”

Ryoma shakes his head. “He knows better than that. He’s not saying it to his corner… he’s saying it to himself, not taking the risk.”

Nakahara’s expression hardens as he understands. “Then he won’t rush you,” the old man says. “He’ll drown you instead. Tight rhythm. No lunging. No broken balance. Combinations kept in the pocket.”

Sera exhales slowly. “Just like Ramos did. Constant pressure, but disciplined.”