VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Confusion spreads through the arena like a cold draft.

Ryoma stands in the corner, unmoving. Both gloves hang low at his sides, completely open. His mouthpiece is gone, blood staining his teeth and lips, yet he doesn’t seem to notice.

He just grins, wide, unbothered, completely wrong.

The face is different now. The eyes especially, they are too sharp, too awake. There’s no pain in them, only hunger.

The crowd doesn’t know how to react. Cheers falter into uneasy murmurs. Even the commentators hesitate, words dying before they reach their tongues.

But Jade feels it. Standing right in front of him, he’s the only one who understands.

The air feels heavy, suffocating, like standing too close to something feral. This doesn’t feel like facing a boxer anymore. It feels like standing before a beast that has decided to stop pretending.

In the blue corner, Nakahara forgets the towel completely. His concern now is on the mouthpiece. Ryoma’s mouth is exposed. And his hands are too low.

“Kid!” Nakahara shouts. “Guard up! Lift your guard!”

But there’s no response. Ryoma doesn’t even blink. And the grin doesn’t fade.

Jade snaps out of it with a curse and fires a heavy cross straight at that smile.

“Stop that damn grin, you psycho…”

But the punch simply misses by millimeters.

Ryoma slips it with the smallest tilt of his head, barely moving, and lazily swings a left into Jade’s body.

Bugh!

It’s ugly, loose, undisciplined. And it hurts.

Jade staggers back a step, breath knocked loose.

“…damn it.”

Unease creeps in.

But Ryoma still hasn’t raised his guard. He steps casually out of the corner, like he’s taking a walk.

And Jade doesn’t let him go far. He storms in, pouring on pressure.

Hook after hook. Fast. Compact. Relentless.

Ryoma doesn’t retreat. He twists his torso just enough. Tilts his head. Dips low. Rolls right. Pulls a shoulder back. The ropes give him space when needed.

Jade’s gloves slice empty air, brushing skin at best, never landing clean.

“What… what is he doing?” the first commentator blurts out, words tumbling over each other. “He’s not moving his feet. He’s not leaving the corner…”

“I… I don’t have a read on this,” the second cuts in, audibly stunned. “That’s not normal defense. That’s not slipping and running, that’s… he’s just there.”

Jade unloads again. Still, nothing lands.

“Look at this!” the first voice rises, half disbelief, half alarm. “He’s letting him throw! He’s letting him empty the tank!”

“And he’s making everything miss,” the other says slowly, as if trying to convince himself. “No footwork. No retreat. He’s not even resetting.”

There’s a pause in their commentaries. And then, quieter…

“This is starting to feel familiar.”

“…Yeah.”

“I don’t like saying it, but this looks like Ali on the corner, slipped 21 punches in ten seconds against Michael Dokes.”

But Jade doesn’t even reach twenty punches. Sixteen is all it takes before doubt sets in, and he eventually stops, questioning the reality before him.

Ryoma steps away from the ropes and walks to center ring, grin never fading, eyes unblinking.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he says calmly. “If you’re not coming… then let me end this for you.”

He settles into a stance, southpaw. And it’s not just any southpaw, but Jade’s southpaw.

The champion grits his teeth, feeling offended. But he’s still hesitating to throw anything.

Ryoma steps in first; right jab, right lead hook, a left cross.

Jade blocks them all, and his forearms screaming as numbness blooms.

“They are… damn heavy.”

Fear lingers, but he’s a champion. He’s a man, and he won’t allow it.

He fires back in southpaw too; right jab, lead hook, rear cross from the left, then a right short hook.

Ryoma lowers his guard to chest level and makes them all miss.

And then, as Jade throws a cross, Ryoma switches stance mid-evade, and simply sees the glove cut short before his face.

Jade realizes it. “Shit… he trapped me.”

But it’s too late.

Crack!

Ryoma’s right cross detonates on his nose. Bone gives, and blood sprays.

“Where did this strength come from…”

A left hook snaps his head sideways. Then an uppercut, coiled and loaded, erupts into his chin.

Crack!

The mouthpiece flies. Blood and spit arc in the air.

Ryoma finishes with a right cross, but Jade blocks on instinct, barely standing.

Dug!

“What a stubborn…”

Ryoma dips and digs two sharp hooks into the ribs.

Bugh!

Bugh!

Then he holds, and drives another, same spot, fully loaded now.

Crack!

Jade buckles, but he holds on.

The bell saves him.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

And finally, Jade allows himself collapse, clutching his ribs. Around him, blood coats the canvas.

He stares up in terror. And finds Ryoma looking down at him, still grinning.

“Stay there,” he says softly. “If you still want to live.”

The red corner storms the ring in a blur of motion and shouts. Mark is the first to reach Jade, but before he bends to help, he hesitates.

His eyes lift, catching Ryoma’s stare. For an instant, hatred flashes across his face, raw and instinctive. But it doesn’t last. It drains away, replaced by something colder, something closer to dread.

He breaks eye contact immediately and turns back to his fighter, hauling the broken champion upright and guiding him away as quickly as he can.

On the opposite side, Nakahara and Sera reach Ryoma at the same time, hands gripping his shoulders as they pull him back toward the blue corner.

Their voices spill over each other, relief and excitement breaking through before either of them can slow it down.

“Easy… easy,” Nakahara mutters, breath shaky despite himself. “You finally did it, kid. You really did great hanging on back there. Just breathe now.”

Sera laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That was insane. Do you realize what you just did to him? He couldn’t touch you. Not once at the end.”

Nakahara nods, still holding on. “That form… that’s your best form. Ever.”

“Yeah,” Sera adds quickly, forcing the grin.

There’s a pause. Their hands stay firm, a little tighter than necessary.

“…You’re good, right?” Nakahara asks, quieter now.

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even seem to hear them. He keeps grinning, and his eyes never leave the champion.

They guide him down onto the stool, almost carrying his weight. Nakahara is already moving, voice sharp and automatic.

“Hiroshi, mouth. Check his mouth first.”

Hiroshi presses a bottle into Ryoma’s hand, tilting it gently. “Rinse. Don’t swallow.”

But there’s no response. Ryoma’s eyes are still fixed on the red corner, unfocused, unblinking.

Hiroshi freezes. He looks up at Nakahara, throat working as he swallows. Nakahara meets Sera’s gaze. For the first time tonight, neither of them knows what to say.

“…The zone,” Nakahara mutters finally, more to himself than anyone else. “He must still be in the zone.”

Kenta’s hands stop mid-wipe on Ryoma’s back. Aramaki, holding the fallen mouthpiece, hesitates, unsure whether to move closer or pull away. They all know the rule; when Ryoma is like this, Nakahara never lets anyone interfere.

Hiroshi straightens, leans in close, voice low and urgent. “Forget the zone. The champion’s finished. We need to pull him out now so I can treat him properly.”

Nakahara hesitates. His eyes go back to Ryoma, considering.

And then the arena shifts. A wave of confused murmuring rolls through the crowd.

Nakahara looks up, and his heart jumps, seeing the referee waving both arms high, stopping the fight.

For a single beat, no one in the blue corner moves.

Then Aramaki explodes. “It’s over!”

Kenta shouts at the same time, fists pumping. “He did it! He really did it!”

The commentators are yelling over each other, disbelief pouring out of them.

“It’s finished! The referee has seen enough!”

“Unbelievable! Ryoma Takeda has broken the champion!”

Nakahara exhales hard, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Sera grins, eyes shining, worry still etched into his face but drowned now by relief.

They turn back together.

“Kid… you did it,” Nakahara says, voice cracking. Tears finally spill.

“Ryoma…” Sera manages, lips trembling.

But then, they stop mid-joy.

Ryoma’s eyes are already half-closed. His back rest against the corner post, his head has slumped forward.

For a heartbeat, he’s still. Then his body starts to slide, but Nakahara catches him just in time.

“Medic…” the old man murmurs in fear. “Stretcher… we need stretcher.”

Around them, the commentators are still praising the madness of the fight, the brilliance, the way the challenger broke the champion.

The arena erupts, cheers, chants, history being made. A new champion is crowned.

But then the noise falters.

“Stretcher!” Nakahara calls out, face edged with fear.

The joy evaporates all at once. What remains is a brutal silence, a night turned grim so suddenly that no one can find words for it.

Not the commentators, not the referee, not even the officials standing ringside.

In one corner, the former OPBF champion still sits on stool, fully conscious, groaning in pain, clutching broken ribs, jaw hanging with mouth red with blood.

In the other, Ryoma Takeda is unresponsive, surrounded by medics, oxygen mask pressed to his face.

Moments later, he’s lifted onto a stretcher and carried out beneath stunned lights. What should have been a coronation turns into a nightmare.

The title fight ends with two broken men, and no one in the arena will ever forget it.