VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

This time, it’s not just the journalists. Ryohei, Okabe, even Aramaki turn toward him, brows knit. They look curious, unsettled, and expectant.

The word zone lingers between them, heavier than the bell that just rang.

Kenta doesn’t look at Nakahara. His eyes stay on the ring, but his thoughts slip backward.

Shimamura never used that word with him, never explained it cleanly. But once, years ago, after sparring, after drinks, he’d tried.

You ever feel it? Shimamura had asked then.

Feel what?

When your body’s already breaking, but your head’s floating. Like you’re dancing on the edge and it feels so damn good you don’t care if you fall.

Kenta isn’t sure it’s the same thing Ryoma talked about, or the same state he experienced. In his case, he didn’t feel the world slow. There was only excitement, a sharp rising thrill, and a body that moved faster than thought.

There’s an urge to ask Nakahara about it, but Aki voices it first.

“Zone?” she says, leaning forward. “Coach Nakahara… what are you talking about?”

Before Nakahara can answer, Sato speaks.

“Something like Jordan,” he says, “when he’d stick his tongue out and everything just… clicked. Or those fantasistas in football. They don’t look, yet they see everyone’s movements.”

Tanaka nods. “Ryoma’s shown it too. A few times. That fifth round against Jade McConnel. That wasn’t normal.”

Aki blinks as the realization settles in. “Like… When he dropped his guard and slipped everything so cleanly, like he could see the punches in slow motion?”

“Something like that,” Nakahara says. “But it’s not the same for everyone. Some athletes fall into it without thinking. Others force themselves there when it matters. Either way… go too deep, and you stop knowing where you are.”

***

Back in the ring, the bell for round five has just rung.

Shimamura steps out of the corner with a dilemma weighing on him. He knows exactly where the edge is. But chasing that state means risking his self-control, risking the fight itself.

This is a title bout. For once, he wants to win it the right way. The real problem is how long he can keep boxing that way. His legs feel heavier already.

“No choice now… I have to end it here.”

Shimamura lowers into a compact crouch, weight centered, guard tight. He advances with purpose, eyes level with Yanagimoto’s chest.

The champion notices the change. And judging Shimamura’s condition, he knows what he’s trying to do.

“Okay… let me test it out first.”

He probes with his right jab, cautious.

And Shimamura slips just outside it and answers with a short counter to the body…

Thud!

…and then resets.

But he’s no longer circling to escape now. He stays engage, inviting for mistakes.

Yanagimoto knows Shimamura is leaning on the counter now. The question is how desperate he is for it. So he tests the edge again.

The right hand snaps out again; jab-jab-jab, not thrown to break through, but to see how deep the challenger is willing to sit on the counter.

Shimamura waits patiently; blocks, blocks, and parries. On the fourth jab, he slips just outside and digs a short left hook into the ribs.

Thud!

This time he adds a right hook upstairs.

Yanagimoto parries with his left glove just enough, letting the punch glance off the top of his shoulder. In the same motion, he pivots and fires back; tight right jab, then a right hook.

Shimamura blocks the jab, and then takes a short step back, letting the hook carve through empty air.

“Good read by the challenger,” the first commentator says.

“And here comes the answer,” the second calls out.

Shimamura steps in immediately, measured and compact; jab, cross, jab, and right hook to the body.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Thud!

Yanagimoto absorbs the first two on his guard, brushes aside the third. Only the body shot lands.

As he steps away, the camera catches him shaking his head, ignoring the blow.

“He didn’t even blink,” one of the commentators says.

“That body shot was clean,” the other adds, surprised. “And Yanagimoto just… shakes it off.”

“That’s a message,” the first continues. “He’s telling the challenger it’s going to take more than that.”

Shimamura exhales slowly through his nose, reassessing. The body work isn’t enough. If he wants this to end, he needs something decisive; a counter thrown with the intent to finish, not to manage the round.

So he starts to bait, left hand drops a fraction, inviting.

Yanagimoto takes it. A sharp right jab shoots in, compact and disciplined. But the moment it’s thrown, the guard snaps back, followed immediately by a left cross.

It’s too tight. Shimamura can’t find the opening. He cancels the counter and blocks the punch.

He tries again. But the champion keeps the jab tight and controlled, guard returns and a cross follows.

***

One minute stretches like a chess, measured exchanges at mid-range, neither man rushing, neither overcommitting.

Eventually, a flicker of impatience crosses Shimamura’s face, just a split second where restraint strains against urgency, where his posture leans a fraction too far forward.

Yanagimoto’s eyes narrow. “He’s losing it…”

Shimamura lowers both gloves this time, not carelessly, but deliberately. He plants his feet and lifts his chin once, and again, a naked invitation. He isn’t hiding behind rhythm anymore. He’s asking for it.

Yanagimoto knows it’s a trap, and still, he steps in anyway.

You want me to step into it that badly, huh?

So be it.

A short right jab snaps out first, compact and economical. Then a left shoots toward the head.

Shimamura’s eyes widen.

This is it…

He pulls his head back to avoid the left, and then dives forward, loading a right cross meant to split the opening clean.

But the punch never completes its path.

The left Yanagimoto threw isn’t a rear cross at all. It’s just a jab, sharp and tight, thrown from an orthodox stance that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. The switch is seamless.

Shimamura’s right glove freezes inches from Yanagimoto’s smiling face.

It’s too close, and too late.

“Fuck… he switched stance?”

A heartbeat later, a right hook crashes into Shimamura’s cheek…

DSH!

…snapping his head sideways.

The power isn’t crushing, Yanagimoto’s right isn’t as heavy as his left, but it’s sharp enough to rattle him. Shimamura’s legs still wobble as he absorbs it.

Then the real left comes; a straight cross thunders in. And Shimamura barely gets both gloves up in time.

BAM!

The impact thuds into his guard, forcing him to brace as Yanagimoto presses forward, now fully in command.

High to low, low to high, the champion starts picking targets, threading punches through narrow gaps.

Dug. Dug. Bug!

Dug. Thud! Dsh! Bug. Dug. Thud!

Shimamura shells up, elbows tight, forearms burning as body shots dig in.

Four clean blows land, and that’s enough. He crashes forward into a clinch, arms locking around Yanagimoto’s shoulders.

His legs tremble. Blood slicks his lips. His breathing comes heavy and uneven.

Yanagimoto leans in close, voice low, almost amused. “Did you really think I’d fall for that?” he whispers. “Keep dreaming, drunken boxer.”

Shimamura’s face twitches, anger flashing raw and unfiltered.

Yanagimoto answers it with two short, taping to the side of his head inside the clinch, just enough to sting. Just enough to mock.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs. “Can’t dance like a drunkard anymore?”

Before the referee can force the break, Shimamura shoves off first.

He snaps, and his hands come flying in tight furious arcs, punches thrown without setup, without patience. The distance collapses into a brawl.

But infighting has never been his world, and Yanagimoto knows it.

The champion plants his feet, and smiles as he welcomes the exchange, happy to meet chaos head-on, where discipline still rules.

The entire arena erupts. And the booth explodes with overlapping voices.

“This is turning ugly…”

“Shimamura’s throwing caution out the window!”

“Yanagimoto’s exactly where he wants to be!”

Inside the pocket, the champion’s punches begin to land with rhythm. Short hooks, compact straights, shoulders rolling as he fires. The sound changes, less air, more flesh.

Shimamura eats them. A hook crashes into his ribs. Another clips the side of his head. His guard leaks, his balance wavers, but he refuses to give ground.

He plants himself there, trading, answering with wild counters that scrape gloves or thump into elbows. They aren’t clean. They aren’t smart. But they keep coming.

“He’s taking too many shots,” one commentator warns. “But look at him… he’s not backing up!”

The exchange stretches on, breath against breath, sweat flying in the harsh light. And somewhere in the middle of it, something in Shimamura slips.

The pain dulls. The arena erupts, but to him, the noise fades into a low hum.

His movements loosen, shoulders rolling in uneven rhythm. His head sways a fraction late, then just in time.

A grin creeps across his face, slow and crooked. The frustration bleeds away, replaced by something darker, almost joyful.

“This is dangerous,” the booth says, quieter now. “This is too dangerous.”

“Shimamura eats too many punches, and yet, he’s still swinging his arms.”

Finally, the bell slams into the moment like a blade.

Ding! Ding!

The ref separates them as the crowd detonates, half the arena on its feet.

Yanagimoto raises his glove before turning to his corner, confidence etched into every line of his posture. He’s won the exchange. He knows it.

But Shimamura doesn’t protest. He looks up, breathing hard, and actually smiling.

There’s no desperation anymore, no anger. He’s finally drunk on the edge of something he’s been chasing all night.