VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, in the blue corner Shimamura does not sit. He remains standing, gloves resting low at his sides, chest still rising hard as he stares across the ring.

His eyes are steady, almost feverishly alert, as if he is afraid that looking away for even a second might let the feeling slip.

The cornermen crowd around him, voices overlapping with excitement.

“That’s it,” Hisaki says, wiping Shimamura’s shoulder. “That’s your rhythm. When you move like that, nobody can touch you.”

Shoyo nods eagerly. “You should’ve done it earlier. He couldn’t read you at all. Not once.”

Shimamura hears them. He hears the roar of the crowd too, the chant that has started to find its shape. But he does not answer, does not even glance at them.

His attention stays fixed on the red corner, his mind deliberately holding on to the exhilarating sensation stirring in his chest.

Ozaki Rintaro steps in closer, lowering his voice. “Hey. Sit down. You need to…”

Shimamura turns his head toward him, eyes sharp, but he still does not move.

Before Ozaki can say anything else, Coach Tadayuki reaches out and grips Shimamura by the shoulder and the back of the arm, guiding him down with practiced firmness.

Shimamura drops onto the stool almost automatically, the motion catching him a half-second late, as if his body obeys before his mind notices.

Tadayuki presses the bottle into his hand. “Swish,” he says.

Shimamura finally shows a bit response. He rolls the water through his mouth, spits it back onto the bucket, and lifts his gaze again immediately.

“That was a good round,” Tadayuki says, his voice even. “You took control. I see it.”

He does not praise him further. Instead, he glances down at Shimamura’s legs. “But I also know what shape you’re in.”

He nods to Ozaki. “Start on his legs.”

Ozaki kneels and begins to work, thumbs pressing into muscle that feels too tight and heavy. Shoyo wipes Shimamura’s face, reapplies vaseline along the brow and cheekbones.

Shimamura does not protest this time. He barely reacts at all as his eyes never leave Yanagimoto.

He keeps himself right on the edge of that feeling, refusing to let it bloom too wide, refusing to let it dull.

The hands on his body, the voices around him, the noise of the arena, all of it fades to something distant, like static behind a melody he is trying not to lose.

Several rows back, Nakahara watches in silence, his lips thinning as concern for Shimamura’s condition settles in.

Aramaki leans toward him. “Is he really in the zone?” he asks quietly. “Won’t all that…” he nods toward the busy blue corner “…pull him out of it?”

Nakahara does not answer at first. His eyes remain on Shimamura, taking in the way his attention never leaves his opponent, the way his posture stays loose even while seated.

Finally, he exhales. “It’s better this way,” he says.

Aramaki looks at him. “How?”

“With Ryoma and Kenta,” Nakahara explains, “the zone came from heightened focus. You disturb them, you break it. And once it’s gone, it’s hard to get back.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “But Shimamura is different. He’s been there too many times. Almost every fight. Once he tastes that ecstasy, you can’t really pull him out anymore.”

There’s a pause. And the three journalists turn to Nakahara, their attention drawn by his silence and the expectation it creates.

Nakahara’s gaze stays steady on Shimamura. “He either beats the man in front of him… or he beats himself first. So it’s better they keep him engaged before he dives too deep.”

***

The referee’s voice cuts through the noise as he calls for the seconds out. One by one, the corners peel away from the apron.

Shimamura pushes himself up from the stool, and for a brief moment his weight seems to argue with him. His legs straighten slowly, and even then he never fully stands tall.

His back remains slightly hunched, shoulders hanging loose in their familiar lazy slope. It looks heavy, looks tired.

But when he shifts his weight, something is different.

He rolls one ankle, then the other, giving his legs a small shake as if testing them. The movement comes easier than before, lighter.

In the booth, one of the commentators lowers his voice, filling the space as the ring clears. “You have to wonder how much Shimamura has left,” he says. “That last round was electric, but it took a lot out of him.”

His partner nods. “He looks heavy getting up. And on the other side, Yanagimoto is still the champion for a reason. If there’s a moment to reassert control, this next round should be it.”

Shimamura bounces once, barely lifting his heels from the canvas, then does it again, looser this time, the faintest hint of satisfaction crossing his face.

He looks down at the mat, nodding, and then turns his head toward Ozaki. “Thanks,” he says simply.

Ozaki blinks, then exhales, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders.

Shimamura does not linger on it. His gaze drifts back across the ring, settling on Yanagimoto. He tilts his torso to the right, then to the left, slow and exaggerated, stretching his hips, coaxing his body back into that strange familiar rhythm.

The movement is loose, almost careless, but his eyes stay sharp.

“For all that rhythm and confidence, exhaustion doesn’t just disappear,” says the first commentator. “At some point, it has to show.”

Then Shimamura lifts his head. The grin comes back, slow and unmistakable, and the tone in the booth changes immediately.

“Wait a second,” the second commentator chimes in. “Look at him.”

“That’s not the look of someone hanging on,” the first replies. “That’s the look of someone asking for more.”

The bell for round seven rings.

Ding!

Shimamura steps forward with an easy walk toward the center, gloves hanging low just above his waist, shoulders rolling as if the fight has only just begun.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, voice light, almost playful. “Let’s keep going. Don’t let it get dull now.”

Yanagimoto sees it the moment Shimamura steps forward. The shoulders sag, the back never fully straightens. The legs take an extra beat to settle beneath him.

Whatever strange rhythm the challenger found last round, the body beneath it is still damaged, still worn.

Nothing has changed, Yanagimoto tells himself. Break him. Wipe that ugly grin away and remind everyone why chaos never rules a champion.

He steps in hard, tightening his stance, punches snapping out with sharper intent than before. He shifts southpaw to orthodox and back again, cutting angles instead of following, throwing combinations with purpose rather than patience.

“That’s a different gear,” a commentator notes. “He’s coming out to impose himself from the opening second.”

A jab snaps into Shimamura’s guard. A hook digs into the ribs. A straight thuds against the forearm. Not everything lands, but enough does to remind him that this is still a fight.

“This is what Yanagimoto needed,” the second commentator says. “He’s making Shimamura feel him again.”

Shimamura gives ground without retreating, rolling and slipping, blocking what he cannot avoid. His head never presents itself cleanly. His elbows stay tight. The body takes punishment, but the face remains untouched.

Then finally, a glove brushes his cheek.

Dsh!

It is nothing, barely a punch, more of a slap than a strike. And Shimamura’s grin widens, not in defiance, not in anger, but in delight.

The look hits Yanagimoto harder than any punch.

“Something’s wrong this guy…”

That smile is wrong, so wrong. It does not belong on someone this tired, this hurt. It widens as if the contact has fed him something instead of taken from him.

From that moment, Yanagimoto cannot touch him again. The tight rhythm he forced begins to fray, not from exhaustion, but from irritation.

***

Shimamura’s dance grows looser and lighter. There is more bounce in his legs now, more coil in the ankles. Even the body seems harder to pin down.

Yanagimoto throws, and the head is gone. He adjusts, and the angle is wrong. He aims lower, and the target drifts just enough to steal certainty.

And finally, Shimamura punches back. Not recklessly, not wildly, but one punch for every miss.

A slip, then a short hook into the body.

Thud!

A sway, then a straight snapping into the cheek.

Dsh!

A dip, then an uppercut scraping the jaw.

Dhuack!

And there is weight behind them now. The massage did its magic, even just a little. Shimamura’s legs drive back, the hips turn, and the punches carry intent.

Yanagimoto feels it build a fraction too late. He steps in to answer with a heavy hook, but a right hand clips his mouth as he moves forward.

Bugh!

“Oh!” a commentator bursts out.

Yanagimoto’s guard snaps high on instinct, but the answer is already there.

BAM!

A punch flashes from the opposite side and snaps against his temple.

“Back-to-back!”

“That’s two clean shots!”

The champion’s legs give way without warning.

“Oh, he’s falling…”

The canvas rushes up and slams into him as the arena detonates in noise.

“He’s down!”

“Yanagimoto is down!”

The referee waves Shimamura away, but he lingers a moment longer, savoring the roar pouring down from the stands.

“Less than a minute!” one commentator shouts. “Less than a minute into the round!”

“And it came out of nowhere,” the other adds, voice shaking. “Two punches… no space between them!”

For the first time in the fight, the champion lies on the canvas.

And Shimamura looms nearby, loose and grinning. His breath is still ragged, but his eyes burning as he looks down on the champion.

Then He lifts a hand in lazy imitation. “This is how it’s done, champ.”