VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kaga abandons Coach Arinori’s plan almost immediately. The restraint is gone. He drags the fight back into the fierce rhythm of the first round, trying to seize control with sheer force.

Heavy marches forward, pounding at Satoru’s guard, shoving the fight back to center ring. It works, so for now, Coach Arinori lets it happen, watching closely.

The blows are thudding now, not just wild, but brutal. A few crash into Satoru’s upper arms, numbing them, knocking his stance just off-center.

Then a clean sequence breaks through.

Jab-cross-lead hook.

Dsh! Thud! Dsh!

The jab clips Satoru’s face. The cross thuds into inside his shoulder above the chest. The hook snaps against the side of his head as he struggles to regain balance.

The crowd erupts. The supporters from Kanagwa find their voice again, shouting, cheering, calling Kaga’s name.

“That’s the danger of Shigetaka right there,” the lead commentator says.

“Those are heavy shots,” his partner adds quickly. “And now Yoshitomo’s feeling them. This is the pace Kaga wants.”

“You can hear it… those punches aren’t being blocked clean anymore.”

“If this keeps up, that first round patience might start to crack.”

But Satoru doesn’t unravel. It hurts, but he’s endured far worse in the gym.

In the blue corner, Hiroshi shifts uneasily. Each thudding blow from Kaga makes his shoulders tense, his eyes flicking between the ring and the clock.

“He’s letting him have it,” Hiroshi mutters. “In a four-rounder, you can’t just give rounds away. If he drops this one too, it’ll be hard to take the fight back.”

He leans closer to Ryoma. “You need to tell him to fight back.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He keeps watching, waiting patiently for the right moment, his sharp eyes not missing any detail.

Another heavy punch lands. And the sound snaps Hiroshi’s patience.

“If Coach Nakahara were here,” Hiroshi presses, “he’d tell Satoru to answer him.”

“And that’s exactly why Satoru lost his debut,” Ryoma says, voice flat, his gaze never leaves the ring.

Hiroshi blinks, caught off guard. For a moment, he has no words. And then the sting sets in.

“Sorry, Ryoma,” he says carefully. “I respect your skill. I don’t doubt your standing as OPBF champion. But saying that about Coach Nakahara…”

“The old man knows,” Ryoma cuts in. “Those aren’t my words. They’re the old man’s regret.”

Hiroshi falls quiet.

“Satoru isn’t like me,” Ryoma continues. “He’s not Okabe. Not Aramaki. Not Ryohei. He’s closer to Kenta, patient, and reserved. And that’s not a flaw.”

His voice softens, but his eyes stay sharp. “Our job isn’t to force him to trade just because the other guy is loud. It’s to teach him how to use that patience as a weapon. If we break his composure now, we lose the very thing that keeps him alive in there.”

Another punch thuds into Satoru’s guard. But Ryoma doesn’t flinch.

“He’ll fight back,” he says quietly. “Just not the way Kaga wants him to.”

***

Two minutes tick away in the second round. And Ryoma still does nothing. He stays there, eyes steady, watching as Satoru continues to endure the assault.

From the stands, impatience begins to ripple. A section of the crowd didn’t come for this fight at all. They came to see Ryoma Takeda in a different role, to see what an OPBF champion looks like as a chief second.

They expected movement, signals, something unconventional. A sudden shift maybe. A clever adjustment pulled out of thin air. Instead, there is only silence.

Kaga presses again, heavy and insistent. Satoru blocks, absorbs, gives ground in small, disciplined steps. No counterflood, absolutely no dramatic response.

“That’s it?” someone mutters a few rows back.

“He’s just letting the kid get hit.”

“So much for the prodigy trainer.”

The doubt spreads quietly. Maybe it is too soon. Maybe corner work isn’t something talent alone can carry. Reading a fight from outside the ropes is different from fighting one.

To those watching him, it feels like hesitation. To those judging him, it feels like failure.

But Ryoma’s gaze never leaves Satoru, not even once.

Kaga presses, looking convinced now. More heavy shots follow, and Satoru shifts back into survival mode, mind cool, risk managed. Jabs are parried or caught. When the heavier blows come, he gives ground in measured steps, never rushing, never panicking.

Kaga tries to herd him toward the ropes, then the corner. But it doesn’t work. Satoru always finds a narrow exit.

And his patience finally bears its fruit. Those heavy punches are getting easier to read now, bigger gaps, clearer tells.

Satoru senses it. And Ryoma sees it too.

“Let’s see if you’re really ready for this, Satoru,” Ryoma mutters, stepping closer to the apron.

He slaps the canvas four times with his palm, pause, then once more with a clenched fist.

Plak. Plak. Plak. Plak

Dum!

A few heads in the stands turn. Some fans lean forward instinctively, anticipation sparking.

Is this it?

Is he calling for something?

But among the regulars, the reaction is different.

Brows knit. A few journalists glance up at the clock mounted above the ring.

Coach Arinori notices it too. His eyes then flick to the clock, but still more than thirty seconds left.

“What are you doing, Ryoma?” he murmurs. “It’s too early for that, isn’t it?”

In the press section, a couple of writers exchange looks.

One lets out a quiet chuckle. “What’s he doing?”

“Miscounted?” another whispers.

“Did the pressure finally get to him?”

“Calling end-of-round cues with half a minute left?”

But Satoru receives the signal without changing his posture. The code isn’t about time for the last ten seconds. It’s about rhythm.

I hear you, Senpai.

Four beats. Then one.

He resets, patient again, letting Kaga continue the assault.

Stiff jab. Another jab. Then the cross. Then the lead hook, heavier and slower.

Satoru blocks, absorbs, and watches.

He sees it now. Every long combination opens a gap before the cross, and a wider one before the hook. Then Kaga will finish with a heavier cross to the head, and that’s the opening.

The pattern locks in. And Satoru is ready.

Two jabs come, Satoru blocks and parries.

The cross follows, he absorbs it.

The hook comes upstairs, heavier and slower. Satoru pulls his head back just enough.

Kaga continues, loading the next cross. Satoru actually straightens instead, lifting his head, offering a higher target.

The bait works, and Kaga overcommits.

Satoru’s eyes widen.

This is it.

He slips outside, bends, and rips a left hook into the midsection.

BUGH!

And he lifts his head once more, offering another target.

Kaga forces the combination anyway, swinging the hook again, aiming for his head.

Satoru ducks and rolls the other way, letting the punch sail overhead. From there, the answer is vicious and precise; low and high.

BUGH!

BAM!!!

The ribs cave, and the head snaps.

“Woohoho… what a sick move,” a commentator shouts in surprise.

For a heartbeat, the arena doesn’t react at all. Then the crowd stirs, not with a roar, but with confusion.

Kaga stumbles, guard shooting up too late. Satoru stays calm, surgical, picking his target.

Another left hook buries itself into the midsection.

Bugh!

Then a short hook curls around the guard and smacks the base of the jaw.

DSH!

Kaga’s head whips sideways, and then…

Blugh!

Kaga hits the canvas hard, limbs folding beneath him, and the ring feels too small for what just happened.

Then the arena breaks, not into cheers, but into restless voices, layered and uncertain.

“What just happened?”

“Did you just see that?”

“He dropped him… like that?”

The buzz rolls through Korakuen Hall in uneven waves, people half-rising from their seats, others leaning forward with hands pressed to the rail.

In that brief span, more than a dozen punches pour out. Satoru read every one of Kaga’s assault, and his answer came back clean, precise, and devastating.

This isn’t a random flurry. It’s something Korakuen Hall recognizes. The head bait, the rolling movement, the shift of weight, capped with a low-to-high combination.

It’s an echo of the style Ryoma himself often used in his fights.

Even the commentators lose their words, stunned by the level of technique unfolding in the opening round of a rookie tournament.

Harder still to believe, it’s coming from the fighter with one professional bout and one loss, the least favored entrant, standing over the tournament’s most feared prospect.

The referee steps in, pointing Satoru to the neutral corner. And the commentators’ voices finally return.

“Did you see that sequence?” one commentator exhales.

“That wasn’t instinct,” the other answers. “That was the fruit of training. No one expected Satoru Yoshitomo to pull something like that. No one.”

“He actually did it…”

“And with a frightening level of it.”