VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Hamakawa’s lips curl in open disdain when he hears Ryohei’s cocky remark. But he cannot dismiss what he sees in front of him; the lazy pendulum sway, the loose shoulders, the unbothered posture.

There is no tension in Ryohei’s frame, no urgency. The reach advantage that Hamakawa felt so clear minutes ago now seems blurred.

Hamakawa stops bouncing on the balls of his feet. His lead foot slides wider and forward into a bladed stance, recalibrating. If distance is the question, he will measure it properly.

He flicks a jab, sharp and quick, and immediately retracts it.

But Ryohei barely reacts. His glove brushes it aside with a small parry. Hamakawa feels almost no impact, as if the punch never truly enters his space.

“Okay… let’s test it again.”

Hamakawa fires another jab, this time leaning his shoulder in, extending just a fraction deeper.

Dug.

It lands firm against Ryohei’s guard this time.

But…

Dsh!

A slapping lead hook snaps across Hamakawa’s cheek, light but clean. It reaches him from the side before he fully registers the opening.

In the same breath, Ryohei slides his lead foot subtly forward and whips another lead hook, lower this time.

Thud!

It buries under Hamakawa’s armpit, in the seam beneath the elbow.

Ryohei finishes with a straight right that crashes into the double guard, then immediately steps out and resumes that lazy sway, as if the exchange means nothing.

The commentator’s voice jumps a notch. “He reaches Hamakawa easily! That’s a lead hook beating the jab to the mark!”

The analyst responds immediately. “That shows you Ryohei has better depth control. He’s stepping just outside the expected line and back in enough stealing inches, and steps out again.”

Hamakawa takes a step back as well. Now they stand outside each other’s range again.

He circles slowly, studying, recalibrating distance and timing all over again as confusion creeps in deeper.

“I thought I had a longer reach than him.”

“I only went in a little deeper… and he touched my face with a lead hook.”

“That wasn’t a jab with the tip of his glove. He actually reached me with a lead hook.”

“How is that possible?”

To be certain, Hamakawa tests it again; a probing jab first, then a second with his shoulder leaning slightly deeper.

Dp. Dug.

The first brushes against Ryohei’s palm. The second lands harder on the guard.

Ryohei answers in the same rhythm: two lead hooks, high then low, finishing with a cross.

Hamakawa has prepared, bracing himself this time, ready.

Dp. Thud! Dug.

He blocks the first hook and the cross, but the second hook still digs clean into his ribs.

Suddenly, Narisawa and Sera slam their palms against the apron from opposite corners, the sharp cracks cutting through the noise as they demand urgency in the final seconds.

“Final ten seconds of the round!” the first commentator picks up.

Ryohei steps in deeper now, planting his feet for infighting. But only one short hook thumps against Hamakawa’s upper arm before Hamakawa disengages quickly, taking a step out.

Ryohei follows, widening his base, and shoots a spearing jab to the midsection.

Thud!

It lands clean, though light at that range. From that position, Ryohei suddenly explodes with a cobra shot from the rear hand.

Hamakawa nearly freezes but manages to tilt his head to the right. The glove grazes his cheek.

He prepares to counter, but Ryohei has already collapsed the distance. His right arm drapes briefly over Hamakawa’s shoulder as he drives a compact left hook to the opposite side of the head.

Bugh!

Hamakawa’s ear rings sharply, the impact echoing inside his skull.

The commentator nearly shouts over the rising noise. “He changed levels beautifully! Jab to the body, then straight upstairs. It’s the same cadence with Okabe and Aramaki. Still, Hamakawa didn’t see that sequence coming!”

“That’s layered offense,” The analyst leans in, voice quick but controlled, “He’s using the body to freeze the feet, then collapsing the pocket before Hamakawa can reset his base.”

Another left hook swings toward the body. But Hamakawa immediately reaches to tie him up, pulling Ryohei’s head down.

“And look how fast he closed that distance…”

“Oh! Hamakawa doesn’t like it in there at all, and he immediately ties him up to shut it down!”

Still…

Thud! Thud!

Two short hooks land against the body, lacking full power but scoring.

The referee steps in, slapping Hamakawa’s arm. “Break, break! Hamakawa, let him go!”

Hamakawa hesitates, still holding. And Ryohei sneaks in one more short punch to the midsection.

Thud!

The commentator exhales sharply. “Oh, that’s getting heated now. Hamakawa held a little too long there.”

The analyst adds, “And Ryohei’s sneaking work inside every second he’s given. That frustration is starting to show.”

The referee forces them apart now, shoving their chests back and pointing sharply.

“Hamakawa! Listen when I say break!”

“And Ryohei, no punching on the break!”

Ryohei nods lazily. “Sure, sure.”

Hamakawa says nothing. He stares at Ryohei with open contempt, breathing heavy with both fatigue and anger.

A mix of boos and cheers spills down from the stands. The arena splits down the middle, loyal supporters defending their former champion, while others grow excited at the tension building inside the ropes.

“Let them fight!”

“Break means break!”

“Stop holding him!”

“Finish him, Hamakawa!”

The commentator chuckles under the noise. “This isn’t just technical anymore. Pride’s getting involved.”

The referee steps back to resume. Both fighters reset their stance, but…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the tension, ending the round.

For a split second, the arena doesn’t know how to react. The early cheers for Hamakawa have nowhere to land.

The final exchanges are still hanging in the air. What began as confident applause has turned into a restless buzz.

Some fans clap loudly for Hamakawa, trying to reclaim the narrative.

“He was controlling it!”

“He had him the whole round!”

But others exchange glances.

“…That last minute though.”

“He changed something.”

In one corner, the Cruel King’s Army erupts, their chants cutting through the uncertainty. Neutral spectators, who came for a technical showcase, find themselves grinning. The tension has shifted from predictable to dangerous.

The commentator exhales audibly. “What a fascinating opening round. For the first two minutes, it was classic Hamakawa; center control, sharp jab, clean geometry. He dictated the pace.”

The analyst nods. “He looked completely in command early. Ryohei was reacting, adjusting, giving ground. On optics alone, you’d say it was Hamakawa’s round.”

Then a replay flashes on the big screen: the lead hook snapping the cheek, the body shot under the elbow, the compact flurry inside.

“But,” the commentator continues, voice sharpening, “that final minute changed the complexion entirely.”

“Absolutely,” the analyst replies. “Ryohei didn’t just survive. He recalibrated. He solved the reach, disrupted the rhythm, and forced Hamakawa into clinches. You can’t say who truly owns that round now.”

The crowd grows louder as the fighters sit on their stools, neither looking rattled, both composed, breathing steadily, as tension thickens across the arena.

“If Hamakawa controls distance, he wins clean,” the commentator says. “But if Ryohei keeps collapsing space like that…”

The analyst finishes the thought. “Then this fight won’t stay orderly for long.”

Around Yoyogi, anticipation replaces certainty. And the second round suddenly feels far less predictable now.

***

In the VIP section, the mood contrasts sharply with the restless energy of the general crowd. Conversations there are quieter, tighter.

International promoters, world champions, contenders, and managers lean toward one another, speaking in low, measured tones.

The first round has demanded attention rather than spectacle. They are not reacting as fans. They are evaluating.

Among them sitting in the front row, Miguel Cabello exhales through his nose with genuine acknowledgement.

“Didn’t expect that in the first round,” he mutters.

His manager, seated beside him, shrugs. “It’s a title fight. They don’t ease into those.”

Cabello tilts his head slightly, leans sideways and raises his voice just enough. “Hey, Elliot! That champion over there… he fights a lot like you.”

Two seats away, Elliot Graves lifts an eyebrow, amused. He gives a small nod. “Yeah. There’s a Soviet foundation in his boxing.”

Cabello scoffs. “Foundation? That’s not just a base. He’s using the old Soviet style almost straight up. Though I’ll give him this… he blends it with infighting. That part’s his.”

Elliot’s gaze sharpens as he studies Ryohei more closely. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Watching Ryohei now pulls Elliot back years. He remembers sparring at Narisawa’s gym. He remembers Ryoma studying him round after round, mimicking the angles, the cadence, the foot positioning.

Back then it was imitation. And it became mastery as he saw it clearly in Ryoma’s fights with Ramos and Jad McConnel.

But he didn’t expect another fighter from that same gym to execute the Soviet system this deeply.

His eyes drift toward the corner team, and he recognizes Sera immediately. The same face he saw working quietly behind Ryoma during that sparring day.

“They must have a good trainer in that gym,” Elliot murmurs.

There’s acknowledgment in his tone. What he doesn’t realize is that this evolution, this branch of style now blooming in Nakahara’s gym started with him.