VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Jade steadies himself, near the neutral corner now, planting his feet. For the first time since the collision, he looks back.

The ref finally begins the count.

One!

Two!

Ryoma’s hand fully grips the rope, both feet planting on the canvas. He stands up, one hand still holding the ropes.

He hears the ref still counting, but he takes the moment to rest.

Seven!

Eight!

Finally, Ryoma releases the rope and turns toward the referee. His legs still tremble beneath him, but he raises his gloves anyway.

“Nine!”

The count stops.

The ref grips Ryoma’s gloves firmly, eyes searching for something far more important.

“Look at me,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“…Ryoma Takeda,” he answers.

The referee presses on. “Do you know where you are?”

“In the ring.”

“Which ring?”

“Festival Hall,” Ryoma says. “OPBF title fight.”

The referee watches him closely. He tilts Ryoma’s gloves slightly, testing his balance, his resistance.

“Who’s across from you?”

Ryoma’s eyes shift past him, toward the neutral corner. “Jade McConnel.”

The referee leans in, voice lower now, serious. “You good to continue?”

Ryoma straightens as much as his legs allow. His answer comes without hesitation.

“Yes.”

For half a heartbeat, the arena holds its breath.

Then, finally, the ref steps back.

“Box!”

A roar rolls through the stands, raw and explosive, shock turning into belief, and belief turning into defiance.

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

RYO-MA!

The chant surges, louder than before, no longer admiration but demand.

Across the ring, the commentators can barely hear themselves.

“He’s up!” one of them shouts over the noise. “Ryoma Takeda beats the count!”

“And look at the place!” the other adds, voice edged with disbelief. “They thought it was over… and now they’re dragging him back into the fight with sheer will!”

The camera catches Jade at the neutral corner, chest still rising and falling hard, eyes narrowed as he turns back toward center ring.

“This just changed everything,” the first commentator says. “A knockdown like that is supposed to break a man.”

“But Takeda didn’t stay down,” the second replies. “And now the champion has to come back to him… hurt, unsteady, and with a lot of time still on the clock.”

The roar refuses to fade. The fight isn’t over yet. But Jade McConnel has no intention of letting it drag on.

The respect is real now, earned and undeniable. And precisely because of that, Jade won’t allow the challenger another breath, another moment to recover after the bell.

“Kid’s dangerous. Need to end it here…”

Ryoma doesn’t move. He could just take one or two steps off the ropes, but he doesn’t do it. He decides to stay there.

His legs are still weak, unreliable. For the moment, he could use the ropes to help him stay upright when the storm comes.

As Jade steps into punching range, Ryoma shifts immediately. His stance folds back into the Philly Shell, familiar and tight, offering nothing but the slope of his lead shoulder.

His left arm locks against his ribs. His right hand rises to guard his chin. His posture leans slightly backward, spine brushing the ropes, just enough to let them support him without trapping him.

From his southpaw stance, Jade fires first. And a short right crashes into Ryoma’s left arm.

Dug

The impact jolts through bone and muscle, sharp and unpleasant, but Ryoma absorbs it without breaking shape. His shoulder tightens, rolling inward, stealing the punch’s sting.

Another shot follows, left to the body. Ryoma drops his elbow just in time. The punch lands solid on the forearm.

Dug.

Pain still blooms, deep and heavy, yet contained.

“He’s right on him!” a commentator shouts. “McConnel wasting no time!”

Jade stays compact, no wild swings, just pressure.

A right jab hits only the guard. Then a tight right hook lands around the shoulder, followed by a left short cross meant to split the shell, but still fails to get a clean blow.

Dug. Dug. Dug

Ryoma blocks. Deflects. Parry with the right.

He shoulder-rolls, head slipping the next punch just inches off line. His legs tremble for every blocked punches, but his eyes don’t waver.

“Takeda’s still in it!” the other commentator yells. “He’s hurt, but he’s not lost!”

A heavier punch comes, this one meant to crack the shell open. Ryoma offers his shoulder again, and lets the blow push him.

The ropes flex, and give, stretching the force as they carry his weight for him. He rides the recoil, and uses the momentum to shove Jade away, creating a moment to breathe.

Jade resets, but his patience thins. Those punches should’ve done more, but they didn’t.

He digs again. Another hook. Another straight. More punches, a series of them.

Ryoma waves, rolls to the side, shoulder rising, glove nudging the fist just off target. Every movement is smaller now, tighter but precise.

“He’s surviving on technique alone!”

“And McConnel’s feeling it too… those arms aren’t fresh anymore!”

Jade exhales hard through his teeth, forehead almost touching Ryoma’s guard as he crowds the space, trying to smother the vision.

But Ryoma’s mind stays clear. He tracks shoulders, hips movement, weight shifts. He blocks, deflects, absorbs.

Fifteen seconds bleed away in grinding pressure.

The crowd roars without pause, noise crashing over the ring as Jade keeps working and Ryoma refuses to break. And somehow, the shell still holds.

***

Eventually, Jade switches stance to orthodox, without diving deep this time. Left foot forward, he whips a heavy left hook into the body.

Dug

Ryoma catches it, but Jade doesn’t pull back. He lets the weight carry through, shoulder and hip driving Ryoma sideways, shoving him closer to the corner, closer to where the ropes can no longer soften the blows.

“Smart pressure,” a commentator says quickly. “He’s sending Ryoma into the corner.”

Ryoma feels it. He’s on the edge now, no way out, no ropes holding him anymore.

So he shifts his stance, no longer hiding behind the shoulder alone. He squares up slightly, takes a step away from the corner, forcing himself into open space.

Jade meets him in orthodox. And the punches come in sequence; a sharp left jab snaps toward the jaw, a rear hook digs toward the body, then a left hook whips toward the head.

Ryoma reads everything. He catches the first on his right palm, twists his shoulder inward to deflect the second, and then raises his right glove just in time, the leather smacking hard against leather.

“Unbelievable defense!”

“He’s still reading everything!”

And then, Ryoma straightens, just a little. He pulls his head back, chin lifting, guard loosening for half a beat.

It’s an invitation, and Jade takes it.

Impatience flashes. Heat overrides caution. He fires a long lead hook, reaching for the opening Ryoma is offering.

And Ryoma disappears.

He slides his lead foot forward, dips low toward Jade’s chest, letting the hook sail past his back.

From the inside…

Bugh!

A left hand buries itself into Jade’s midsection. Jade staggers a step back, breath forced out of him.

“This is crazy!” a commentator shouts. “He’s still fighting back!”

Ryoma doesn’t stop. A right cross snaps up toward the face.

Dsh!

“Another one!”

“This guy never stops surprising us!”

Jade resets, boots scraping the canvas. His patience thins, but his mind clears.

Those shots… they aren’t that heavy anymore.

He also sees it now. The exhaustion has etched into Ryoma’s face, the delay in his shoulders, the way his chest heaves.

“He’s at the limit.”

So Jade decides to risk it.

You want that counter, right?

Fine… I’ll give it to you.

He steps in again, southpaw this time.

He strikes him with a left jab, right cross, then left hook; compact, controlled, no overcommitment.

And Ryoma blocks them all, clean.

Then Jade leans forward, just a fraction too long. His posture dips, his weight hints at a heavy rear cross.

And Ryoma sees it.

This is it… the opening.

He steps in, right glove clenching, everything lining up in his vision.

But Jade never lunges. In the same instant, he switches stance back to orthodox. And the “rear cross” becomes nothing more than a left jab.

The distance is wrong. The angle is gone. And the head is suddenly too far away.

Ryoma’s breathe catches.

Oh… god. I’m done.

He cancels the punch on instinct, snapping his guard back up as fast as his body allows, but too late.

Jade’s right hand comes over the top, and smashes through the guard…

Dhuack!

…catching Ryoma’s forehead, right between eyebrows. At that exact moment, the system HUD in Ryoma’s vision glitches.

His head whips back. And once the corner post slams into the back of his skull, everything goes black.

“Is this it?!” a commentator yells. “Is this the end?!”

In the blue corner, Nakahara’s towel is already lifting.

Jade loads his weight, shoulder turning, a heavy left hook on the way.

Then a short right swings out of Ryoma, cutting only the air.

Jade pulls his head back. The hook dies mid-motion as he hears Ryoma murmuring in Japanese.

“You’ve done great holding on this far.”

“But I won’t let you fall now.”

Jade doesn’t understand the words. Ryoma straightens, and Jade fires anyway.

Dsh!

The left hook snaps Ryoma’s head sideways. His mouthpiece flies out, skidding across the canvas, red with blood.

The crowd gasps. But Ryoma’s stance doesn’t break. Only his head turns back, slowly.

Blood stains his mouth. And he’s grinning, wide and wild. His eyes are sharp beyond reason, two veins bulging at each temple.

And the champion freezes.

For the first time tonight, Jade McConnel feels fear.