VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena no longer feels relaxed when the sixth round approaches. Conversations that once drifted lazily between spectators now shorten into sharper exchanges, and more eyes remain fixed on the ring instead of wandering toward phones or side discussions.

In the blue corner, Okabe sits upright on his stool with a spark in his eyes that was not there earlier. He nods to himself as if confirming something only he can see.

“I can see it now… I can see where this is going.”

Coach Murakami presses the cold Enswell against Okabe’s forehead and left cheek, where swelling has begun to rise beneath the skin.

“I won’t let that kid feel comfortable tonight,” Okabe continues, voice steady but firm. “I won’t let him return to his form he wants so badly. Not for a second.”

Sera watches him closely, arms folded but expression measured. “You did very well,” he says. “That exchange at the end disrupted his rhythm. But he still won that round. That means half this fight already belongs to him.”

Okabe wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and exhales through his nose. “I don’t care about the score. There’s only one option for me. A knockout. I’ll take the beating if I have to, just to drop him.”

“And that,” Sera replies calmly, “is exactly where disasters begin.”

He crouches before him, draws his face closer so that his voice stays low and controlled. “If you rush recklessly, one ugly counter is enough to end everything. You cannot afford to gamble blindly.”

The heat in Okabe’s eyes softens slightly. He nods once, grounding himself.

“Keep fighting with a clear head,” Sera continues. “Keep irritating him. Keep making him uncomfortable. But when he bites, do not become the one who gets caught in the trap.”

***

Across the ring, the mood in the red corner carries a different weight entirely. Narisawa kneels before Wakabayashi with a stern expression that barely hides his disappointment.

“What was that at the end of the round?” he demands. “You are still far ahead. You won that round clearly. Yes, he landed a few shots. You lost that exchange badly. So what? It is not the first time you have taken punches like that.”

Wakabayashi sits rigid, shoulders rising and falling more heavily than usual.

“Your level is far above his,” Narisawa continues. “There is no need to get dragged into that kind of brawl. Fight the way you always do.”

Wakabayashi nods, but irritation still burns behind his eyes. His breathing refuses to settle completely, and the dull ache from Okabe’s hooks still throbs in his ear and ribs.

He knows he has won another round. Yet his jaw remains clenched tight, and his gaze drifts back toward Okabe with something sharper than confidence.

“Hey, Wakabayashi,” Narisawa says again, pulling his attention back. “Look at me.”

Wakabayashi lifts his eyes.

“I told you already. Calm yourself,” Narisawa says. “You are far ahead. Do not let his words or his antics move you. Whatever he says, whatever face he makes, focus only on your boxing.”

Wakabayashi nods again, slower this time. Narisawa studies him for a moment, then straightens to his full height.

“Now control your breathing,” he says. “When the bell rings, I want you to step out there with a cold head.”

***

The sixth round unfolds exactly the way Narisawa demands at first. Wakabayashi’s footwork remains crisp and balanced, his steps light as he circles along the perimeter and keeps Okabe locked in the center of the ring.

The body blows he absorbed in the previous round show no visible effect on his performance. His breathing steadies, and his shoulders loosen as he reclaims the tempo.

Okabe continues with his strange posture, crouching so low he resembles a praying mantis preparing to strike. Both gloves shield his head, which moves constantly up and down, rolling from side to side with deliberate exaggeration.

His midsection and flanks remain visibly open because of the deep crouch, the stance creating a wide invitation for body shots.

Yet Wakabayashi never targets them. His focus stays on the head.

Jab. Then cross.

Okabe’s defense looks cleaner now. He ducks and rolls with more discipline, and when punches do touch him, they meet forearms and gloves instead of flesh. Wakabayashi’s straight shots thud repeatedly into the guard, landing but failing to break through.

After thirty seconds, Wakabayashi begins layering feints into his rhythm. His shoulders twitch, his lead hand flickers without commitment, and his weight shifts subtly to draw a reaction.

Okabe bites just slightly, and…

Dsh! Dsh!

A sharp one-two snaps forward and clips Okabe’s head square on the forehead.

The arena erupts with sudden noise.

“There it is! That’s the precision we’ve been waiting for!”

“Beautiful timing on that one-two! He pierced right through the rhythm!”

Wakabayashi keeps circling, his movement smooth and economical, and his jabs continue to rain down in disciplined rhythm.

He denies Okabe any opportunity to close distance, stepping off at sharp angles the moment Okabe leans forward.

He returns to his elegant footwork and continues attacking with straight punches, jab and right cross flowing in measured combinations.

Yet discomfort lingers beneath the surface.

His eyes drift repeatedly to the wide openings along Okabe’s sides. The ribs are exposed, the midsection vulnerable, and still he avoids committing there.

“Damn it… since when did I become this cautious,” he thinks, irritation simmering.

The frustration grows because he recognizes the hesitation. He has been playing safe, overly concerned with maintaining control instead of seizing opportunity.

After several more straight punches that fail to land cleanly, Wakabayashi slides his lead foot forward and anchors his stance.

He commits, whipping a lead hook into Okabe’s right ribs.

The distance collapses instantly, and Okabe embraces it. He ignores the incoming strike and chooses instead to initiate a dual exchange.

Thud!

Dugh.

Wakabayashi’s body shot lands cleanly, solid against the ribs, while his right forearm blocks Okabe’s initial counter.

The impact reverberates through Okabe’s torso, but he refuses to retreat. Instead, he anchors himself inside and begins his assault, keeping his hooks tight and compact from both sides.

Bugh! Dud. Dugh.

The first punch buries into the stomach. The second and third collide awkwardly against forearms at terrible angles.

“Now they’re trading inside! This is exactly where Okabe wants him!”

“Wakabayashi landed clean to the body, but he does not like staying there. He’s too refined for this kind of trench warfare!”

Wakabayashi immediately disengages and reestablishes distance with sharp jabs, then jab-jab-cross, pivoting out before Okabe can trap him.

***

Only one of Okabe’s punches truly penetrates. Nearly two minutes have passed, and the round still belongs to Wakabayashi. Yet satisfaction eludes him.

In the red corner, Narisawa narrows his eyes. For the first time, he senses something fundamentally wrong.

Wakabayashi is ahead. He is scoring cleanly. Okabe looks like he is struggling to keep pace. And still, something feels off.

“What is happening to you, Wakabayashi…” Narisawa mutters under his breath.

The more Wakabayashi throws, the clearer it becomes to Narisawa that this may be the worst version of him he has seen.

“Wait, his form…?”

Wakabayashi cannot plant his feet ideally before striking. His combinations lack their usual elegance because the foundation beneath them is compromised.

Every punch angles downward because Okabe is lower, because that hunched stance disrupts the geometry. The posture ruins balance and distorts form.

Wakabayashi’s the kind of fighter that depends heavily on rhythm, clean lines, and aesthetic precision. But none of that has materialized tonight.

“Damn it,” Narisawa grunts. “Don’t tell me this is actually part of their plan.”

Unfortunately, the awareness arrives late.

Wakabayashi’s growing frustration narrows his focus. He becomes preoccupied with irritation rather than space, and that lapse shifts positioning by inches at a time.

Before he fully realizes it…

“Wakabayashi! Get out of there!” Narisawa shouts.

Wakabayashi blinks, finally recognizing how the angles have collapsed around him. By then, the exit lanes are gone. He’s trapped in the corner.

Okabe slides his lead foot inward and anchors himself at close range.

And the brawl begins.

***

Wakabayashi strikes first with a sharp, disciplined jab to deny Okabe any entry.

But tonight Okabe’s mind feels clearer than it has ever been. He does not rush. He absorbs the rhythm first, lifts his guard, and blocks cleanly.

Dug.

Wakabayashi sends a cross next. And Okabe catches it again on his forearms, and then…

Thud!

A right hook digs deep into the ribs, and Wakabayashi’s face tightens.

He tries to capitalize, swinging a left hook toward the head, but Okabe pulls his right glove to his temple and fires his own left at the same time.

Both punches collide awkwardly against raised guards at terrible angles, the impact loud but ineffective.

Okabe does not stop there. He keeps rotating from his hips in tight, economical motions, hooks compact and disciplined as he mixes high and low, attacking the sides and center without hesitation.

Dug. Bugh! Bugh! Dug. Thud!

Wakabayashi keeps his head relatively clean, but three body blows sneak through and sap his breathing.

The rhythm begins to tilt, and frustration surges.

He answers with a sharp hook to the head, anger creeping into the motion, but the punch sails forward at the exact moment Okabe dips under with precise timing.

Wakabayashi miscalculates. And Okabe punishes him instantly.

BAM!

“OH NO… he walked right into that!”

The hook detonates against Wakabayashi’s ear, snapping his head violently to the side.

“Ngh…”

In the red corner, Narisawa’s expression darkens. “Get out of there, Wakabayashi! Use your left and pivot out!”

But Wakabayashi does not hear him. The world around him dulls into a distorted hum. His ear rings sharply, and his balance wavers beneath him after another body blow lands to his ribs.

He forces himself to answer with another hook, swinging through instinct rather than clarity.

This time, Okabe plants his feet, welcoming the collision, committing fully to a dual exchange.

And…

BAM!!!

Both gloves crash into the sides of their heads at nearly the same instant.

“Woooo!!!”

“That’s dangerous!!!

For a heartbeat, they remain upright, stunned by the mutual impact.

Then…

Blugh.

One of Wakabayashi’s knees touches the canvas.