VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the heart of that unending torture, something inside Ryohei shifts. The pain that had been piercing every nerve begins to recede. Not because it is gone, but because he forces his mind to lock it away.

He draws a shallow breath behind his tight guard, anchoring his concentration on a single point.

One counter…

I just need that one perfect counter…

The world around him narrows. The roar of the Osaka crowd and the thick scent of sweat melt into a sharp tunnel vision.

In the blue corner, Sera slams the canvas, signaling the final ten seconds.

“Hold on, Ryohei! Tighten your guard!”

But to Ryohei, Sera’s plea and the arena’s thunder are nothing but a muffled, distant noise. He sees only one thing: the slight tilt of Umemoto’s shoulder as the champion loads his next power shot.

Ryohei sees the timing, and sends a compact right hook.

Umemoto glimpses the incoming fist but refuses to flinch. He stiffens his neck muscles, braces his jaw, and continues to swing his massive right hook.

Dsh!

Ryohei’s counter snaps cleanly onto the corner of Umemoto’s mouth. But at nearly the exact same mili-second, Umemoto’s right hook buries itself deep into Ryohei’s side.

The two men are locked in a lethal, dual impact.

Ryohei’s face contorts in agony. His body betrays him, and he collapses to one knee, his left hand clutching his shattered ribs.

“Down! Ryohei Yamada is down!” the lead commentator screams, his voice cracking. “The champion has finally broken the ghost!”

Umemoto remains standing; his lips smeared with crimson, his neck muscles rigid, his eyes glaring wide and predatory at the challenger kneeling beneath him.

“Unbelievable! Umemoto took that counter as if it were a mere sting!” the co-commentator yells. “He’s just standing there, looming over his fallen opponent. It’s a terrifying statement of dominance!”

The referee steps between them, gesturing Umemoto to the neutral corner. And despite the searing pain from Ryohei’s counter, Umemoto walks with a calm unyielding stride.

Ryohei watches those footsteps, and a cold desperation crawls up his spine. That was his last card. He bet everything on that counter, and it still wasn’t enough.

Is there really nothing that can beat this monster?

***

The count begins. And in the distance, Sera’s voice is a desperate lifeline.

“Don’t give up, Ryohei! Look at me! Only four seconds left! Get up and come back to me first!”

Ryohei no longer thinks of winning. To his mind, getting up feels meaningless; there is only more pain waiting ahead.

But as his gaze shifts toward Ryoma, the old resentment of being in the kouhai’s shadow flares up in his chest.

Then it is replaced by a crushing sense of shame.

He remembers Ryoma’s OPBF title fight against Jade McConnel. Ryoma had stepped into the ring after a terrible conditioning. He also failed his own counter, yet endured the carnage and won, even as he was carried away on a stretcher.

Compared to that, the desperation he feels now is nothing.

How dare I feel resentment…

How dare I feel jealous of his achievements…

As the count reaches six, Ryohei’s hand finds the rope. He grips the rough texture and hauls himself up.

“That’s it!” Sera calls out. “Hold the rope! Regain your balance first!”

Ryohei leans heavily against the turnbuckle. After the count reaches eight, he turns to the referee, lifting his gloves to show he can still fight.

Across the ring, Umemoto’s lips curl with visible boredom. He already looks like a man who has lost interest in a broken toy.

The moment the ref steps aside, Umemoto rushes in to end it. He moves with terrifying speed, and manages one heavy swing.

But Ryohei’s guard holds…

Dug.

…and the bell saves him.

Ding! Ding!

The referee dives between them, ending a round that nearly cost Ryohei everything.

“That’s the bell!” the commentator cries out in relief. “Ryohei Yamada has survived by the skin of his teeth! He rose at eight just to block one final assault.”

***

The arena is a thunderous wall of sound, a rhythmic deep-seated chant that shakes the very foundations of the EDION Arena.

U-ME-MO-TO!

U-ME-MO-TO!

The people of Osaka aren’t just cheering; they are reclaiming their king.

In this sea of fanatical support, there is an absolute suffocating void for Ryohei. He is a ghost in the enemy’s land, a Tokyo underdog whose suffering is merely the entertainment for the thousands in the stands.

In the red corner, the atmosphere is chillingly professional. Coach Ishimaru and his team work with mechanical precision.

They press cold iron to Umemoto’s swelling face and swab the crimson from his lips. But not a single word of concern is uttered. Because Umemoto isn’t a son or a student. He is an asset.

For once, Ishimaru leans in, trying to impose his status as the boss. “You had the chance to end it,” he grunts. “But you played with your prey.”

But Umemoto doesn’t even look at him. “Shut up and watch the fight,” he rasps. “We made this clear the moment I joined your gym. I only need you for the formality as I can’t enter the ring without a license. I win with my own strength, and you get your share of the purse just by being here.”

Then he exhales and openly shows his discomfort. “If you want to feel useful, start waving that towel. It’s getting hot here.”

Ishimaru’s face goes blank, a mask of cold indifference. He stops the treatment, steps back, and begins lazily snapping the towel to fan the champion.

Umemoto sits there, slumped yet regal, like a king on a throne of violence.

***

Meanwhile, the blue corner is a frantic contrast. Sera and Nakahara work on Ryohei’s battered face while Hiroshi feverishly massages the leaden weight out of his legs.

Ryohei watches the red corner, a bitter resentment simmering in his chest, though he is too drained to let the hatred reach his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Ryohei says, his voice a frail whisper. “He’s eaten every counter. And that last one… the timing, the angle… it was the exact same shot that won me the Class-A final.”

He trails off, the insults Umemoto hurled at him echoing in his skull. “Maybe he was right,” he mutters. “Maybe I just got lucky. I thought I’d acquired the perfect weapon… but he took it like it was nothing.”

“No,” Ryoma cuts in, his voice a sharp blade that slices through the self-pity. “That wasn’t the same counter you landed on Uchida.”

“Ryoma’s right,” Nakahara adds. “Uchida never saw that punch coming. He couldn’t prepare. That’s why it worked.”

“So… I just need to land it without Umemoto seeing it?” Ryohei asks. “Fine. I’ll look for that opening.”

Ryoma glances at the champion, and then back to Ryohei’s bruised eyes. “If you spend the round hunting for that one chance, it will never come. He’s studied you. He calls it a lucky punch, but he’s trained his neck and his mind to expect it. He’s waiting for you to try it again.”

A grim silence falls over the team. The realization sinks in: they are out of conventional options now. The monster has evolved past their strategy.

Then, Sera leans in close, his eyes burning with a desperate hope. “If that’s the case… if he’s trained his body to withstand your power, then aim for something he can’t train.”

Ryohei’s brow furrows in confusion. “Something he can’t train? You want me to hit him in the nuts?”

Sera blinks, and a small accidental laugh escapes him. “No, stupid. You can’t do that in boxing.”

For a fleeting second, the crushing tension breaks. But Ryohei is still lost. “Then what are you telling me?”

“If you’re going to bet everything on a counter,” Sera says, “aim for what steals his control. His balance. His equilibrium.”

“How?” Ryohei asks.

“The back of the ears,” Nakahara clarifies, his voice clinical. “The base of the jaw. An uppercut that rattles the brain inside the skull. He can withstand pain, but no amount of training can stop the brain from resetting when the impact is right.”

“Yes,” Sera nods. “Steal his control over his own body, and then you finish him.”

Ryohei understands, but the pessimism remains. Even if he lands it, and Umemoto loses his balance, he will just shell up until he recovers.

To beat him this way would require an exhausting, prolonged effort, an effort Ryohei isn’t sure he has left.

He knows this next round is his last stand. He won’t survive until the final bell, and he has no intention of prolonging the agony.

But then, the desperation in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a grim resolve.

“Alright. I’ll try it.”

Sera nods, but…

“Seconds out!”

The official’s voice booms through the arena:

Ryohei rises as Kenta snatches the stool away. The team slips through the ropes, but Ryohei calls out to Nakahara while the old man is still on the apron.

“Sir… if I win this, promise me one thing.”

Nakahara pauses, looking back. “What is it?”

“Put me on the same stage as Ryoma. Not as an undercard, but as a double main event. Let the world learn there are two stars in this gym.”

Nakahara studies the battered face of his fighter for a long moment, before giving him a nod.

“We’ve planned for that since long before you even thought to ask,” Nakahara says, his voice steady. “Win that belt. Become the champion, and you will stand on that stage as Ryoma’s equal.”