VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When the referee’s voice cuts through the arena, ordering the corners clear, Ryoma’s breathing has finally settled. Each breath comes even now, measured, no longer clawing at his chest.

The dull weight in his legs has faded. He taps the tip of his shoe lightly against the canvas, testing it, feeling for resistance. And it’s there, springy and responsive, light again.

But the doubt hasn’t gone with it.

He knows better than to trust how it feels. All he can do is hope the legs hold for one more round. And maybe, just maybe, that the opening he’s been chasing finally shows itself.

The noise swells again as the corners clear. The crowd’s still calling Ryoma’s name, oblivious to his condition.

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

The chant rolls through the arena, loud and proud, carried by people who only see what’s in front of them; the clean face, the smooth movement, the man who just ruled the last round.

And it doesn’t go unanswered.

“Come on, champ!”

“Don’t give him anything!”

The voices clash, uneven and overlapping, neither side willing to be drowned out, turning the break into a contest of volume rather than truth.

Even the commentators laugh into their mics.

“Listen to this place,” one of them says. “They’re fighting their own battle out there.”

“Yeah,” the other replies. “But none of that noise matters once the bell rings.”

And then…

Ding!

Round Five.

“The real fight’s right here,” the first commentator adds as both men step forward.

“Two fighters. One ring,” the second says. “And only they get to decide how this ends.”

Ryoma doesn’t force his legs to work yet. He keeps himself as relaxed as possible, efficient, opening the round in his familiar flicker stance, veering gently to his left.

From the outside, Jade sees nothing unusual. He doesn’t sense the restraint, doesn’t realize Ryoma is being frugal with his stamina this round. What he is wary of is the counter.

So he stays southpaw, trying to impose his presence with punches thrown at mid-range, firm and measured shots, delivered without fully committing his posture forward.

Ryoma doesn’t react. There’s still plenty of space. And his read remains clear.

He simply drags back a half step, letting the punches brush against forearms and gloves, never quite letting Jade reach him clean.

And then, almost casually, Ryoma lifts his left, just enough to blur the distance, just enough to give the illusion of touch, of connection, without truly giving anything away.

But a champion like Jade isn’t so easy to fool.

He takes one step deeper, a quick rigid step, balance still even. Then he swings a lead hook with his right.

Ryoma tightens his guard and welcomes it on his shoulder, rolling with the impact.

BAM!

The punch is blocked, lands near the armpit at the back. But the collision still rattles through him.

It isn’t a scoring blow, yet the shoulder absorbs the damage all the same. For a brief moment, Ryoma can’t simply snap his flicker back out.

That’s when he abandons the Philly Shell, and uses his legs instead. The dance comes alive again, space opening as he slides away, feet working to keep him safe.

Then he stops. He settles back into the Philly stance and fires the flicker.

Whst!

Wsht!

Wsht!

Jade raises his right glove, catching the first. He slips the second. He blocks the third.

The fourth comes from a lower angle. Jade ignores it, keeping his guard disciplined and high.

Thud!

It lands on the side. A scoring blow. But too light to matter.

Ryoma presses his luck, feinting subtly before throwing a cross. Jade covers his face, but the punch thumps into his chest, near the shoulder.

Bugh!

A commentator jump on it. “Another clean touch from the challenger.”

But that punch gives the champion a tell; the punch isn’t as heavy as in the previous round.

Jade switches to orthodox and inches closer, step by step, guard tight, posture compact. He’s working his way inside, trying to turn it into a slugfest.

“Oh… there it is,” the first commentator perks up. “McConnel’s changing gears now.”

But Ryoma doesn’t like that idea, and goes back to his legs.

He bounces on the tips of his shoes, light and quick, hit and run, forcing those legs to work again.

“And Takeda’s moving,” the commentator continues, voice rising. “You can feel it… he’s lively again. He snaps the jab…”

And Jade answers with a short hook, cutting space instead of chasing.

“…McConnel tries to close him off!”

“And Takeda’s out of range again!”

“Ah, wait… He steps back in immediately, firing a straight down the middle.”

“There’s the straight…”

“The champion shifts his guard, shoulders rolling as he crowds forward.”

“He keeps walking him down!”

Ryoma is gone once more, feet skimming the canvas, resetting just outside danger.

“This is turning into a chess match at full speed,” the second commentator adds. “Punch, answer, angle, reset… nobody planting their feet.”

“And every time McConnel tries to drag him into a fight,” the first finishes, “Takeda just refuses to stay there.”

But unlike before, Ryoma never steps too deep. He leans away, keeps the distance thin, just enough to tease, just enough to draw the champion forward.

They trade at mid-range. Gloves collide, spark, slide off lines. Nothing lands clean.

Less than a minute passes before Jade feels it; Ryoma’s movement isn’t as sharp as it was last round.

So the pressure builds. Step by step, Ryoma is driven back until the ropes brush his spine. With no space left to circle, he settles into the Philly Shell again.

This time, it isn’t strategy. He’s simply too tired to keep dancing. So he uses the ropes instead.

Jade throws a lead hook. Ryoma absorbs it on his shoulder, deliberately leaning back into the ropes to bleed off the force.

Jade follows with a left cross, still compact, still disciplined.

Ryoma catches it on his right glove.

Dp!

Another lead hook comes. Ryoma bends to his right, shoulders rolling as he leans into the ropes again, letting the punch skim over his head.

The ropes snap him forward. Staying low, Ryoma surges in, bumps Jade’s chest with his right glove, then shoves him off just enough to reset the space.

And the flicker snaps out immediately…

Dsh!

“That flicker again… he can’t make it miss!”

It cracks clean against Jade’s nose. This time, it can’t be ignored.

Ryoma may be weakening. But his mind is still clear. And with tricks like this still in his pocket, Jade knows he won’t impose anything by staying safe.

So he commits.

He steps in deeper, pounding on Ryoma’s shell with everything he has.

Bug. Bug. Bug.

Then he lunges, reaching for the head.

Ryoma clenches his right glove, ready to fire.

But Jade halts mid-motion, catching and pinning that right hand instead. In the same breath, he switches stance. His left foot steps deep, squaring him up chest to chest, and his left arm whips around in a hook toward Ryoma’s head.

Ryoma’s eyes widen. It’s there, the blind spot. So he ignores the incoming punch and swings his own left.

Jade doesn’t see it, but he knows it’s coming. He braces and commits anyway.

The result…

BANG!!!

Both left hooks crash into skull at the same instant.

“Oh my…” one commentator gasps, hand flying to his headset.

“This is too much,” the other winces.

For a heartbeat, both fighters freeze where they stand, stunned in place, ears screaming, vision smeared.

Nggg…

Inside Ryoma’s head, the system is still there. Still sharp. Still cruel. Still annoying.

>

Trusting that Jade’s mind is still searching for what just struck him, Ryoma forces himself forward. His legs tremble beneath him as he fires a right uppercut, his left already coiled to follow with a hook.

But…

Dhuack!!!

It becomes another brutal collision.

Ryoma’s uppercut snaps into Jade’s chin at the same moment Jade’s compact hook buries itself into the side of Ryoma’s head.

“Another collision!” a commentator shouts.

“They’re breaking each other in there!”

The crowd groans as one, a wave of sound like collective pain.

Jade’s head jerks upward. Ryoma’s vision explodes white, his balance shattering as his body spills to the right. The left hook he’d prepared dies halfway through its arc, arm suddenly weightless.

Jade buckles, staggers back a single step.

But Ryoma drops.

“Down!”

“Unbelievable! Ryoma Takeda… finally down!”

His body slumps into the ropes, right arm draped uselessly across the middle strand as his knees give out.

His eyes are still wide opening, but the world is spinning around, that ringing sound still lingering in his ears.

Seeing it, the champion steadies himself. He straightens slowly, draws in a deep breath, chest expanding as he regains his posture.

For a second, the champion doesn’t move, simply taking in the sight; how far Ryoma has been pushed, and what it took to put him there.

Then the referee steps in. “Neutral corner!” he orders.

Jade blinks, exhales once, and turns away without argument.

Across the ring, the blue corner is unnervingly still. No one shouts for Ryoma to get up. No one urges him on.

Even Nakahara has tightened his grip on the towel, the fabric twisting in his hands.

For the first time tonight, strategy disappears. He isn’t thinking about rounds, or counters, or salvaging the fight. He’s thinking about Ryoma’s life.