VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma watches Thanid leave, catching the faint irritation in the man’s shoulders. He knows exactly what Thanid tried to do out there.

It’s a mind game, and it worked, at least enough to drag the anger out of him. But mind games are a battlefield Ryoma enjoys just as much.

He turns back toward his corner, a small curl tugging at his lips, amused by the irritation he saw.

If that’s how you want to play it, then let’s play.

By the time he reaches the corner, Nakahara is already waiting. The old man’s sharp eyes immediately catch the quiet confidence on Ryoma’s face, and he doesn’t like it at all.

“What’s with that face?” Nakahara asks coldly. “You can’t be satisfied after recklessly slamming his elbow with your left.”

Ryoma nods, accepting the criticism without protest. He drops onto the stool and slowly clenches his left hand inside the glove.

“How is it?” Nakahara asks.

“It’s still a bit numb,” Ryoma replies. “I thought I might’ve broken it again. But the pain’s gone now.”

“Are you sure?” Nakahara doubts.

“Well… thanks to you, coach,” Ryoma says. “All that mittwork, holding my hooks to seventy percent on the side. And you know my triple hooks… only the first one lands hard. The second is lighter and faster… a set up for the final hook.”

Nakahara grunts, understanding. “Since the second one hurt your knuckle, you didn’t throw the third.”

“Yeah,” Ryoma says. “It still hurt. I wasn’t sure about the condition, so I saved it.”

Nakahara steps closer and grips Ryoma’s left glove.

“How is it?”

“I’m fine.”

Nakahara tightens his grip.

“And now?”

“Still fine. Just numb.”

“Think you can use it next round?”

“I can,” Ryoma says. “But they think it’s injured. So let them believe it is.”

There’s a brief pause as Ryoma steadies his breathing, weighing his options while the plan runs through his head in quiet hypotheticals.

“I’ll fight with my right for now,” he continues. “Might be a good time to try that new stuff.”

Nakahara studies him carefully. He knows that look; Ryoma already building some ugly psychological trap in his head.

“Fine,” he says at last. “Do as you wish. Just remember… fifty percent upstairs, seventy on the side. Only go all out on the flesh in the midsection.”

Ryoma nods, no argument on that. Nakahara nods too, straightens, and gestures for the corner team to finish their work.

There isn’t much to do for now as Ryoma hasn’t taken any clean shots.

Sera only hands him water to swish. Hiroshi simply rubs a towel over his shoulders and upper arms, the spots Ryoma used to receive and deflect Thanid’s punches.

Meanwhile, Aleksandr Volkov leans forward in his ringside seat, eyes flicking repeatedly toward the giant screen above the arena. Beside him, his trainer Oleg Markovic tilts closer, their shoulders nearly touching as they speak in low whispers meant only for each other.

For a moment, they say nothing, simply watching the replay of the exchange.

“That challenger,” Markovic murmurs, “Thanid Kouthai. What do you think about him?”

Volkov nods slowly. “World level.”

Markovic’s gaze remains fixed on the screen as Thanid’s barrage along the ropes plays again.

“Speed is there,”

the trainer says quietly. “Heavy hands too. Even the blocked punches… you hear the sound.”

Volkov nods again. They both heard it earlier when the glove slammed against Ryoma’s arm.

“And stamina,” Volkov adds. “He kept that pressure for ten seconds straight.”

Markovic rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Not just pressure. Discipline too. And that elbow trick, I’s sure he baited the hook.”

Volkov’s eyes narrow slightly. “Smart adjustment.”

“Exactly,” Markovic replies. “He changed approach mid-fight. Pressure outside, traps inside.”

The champion leans back slightly, folding his arms. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “He is already world class. And yet, he couldn’t do much so far.”

For a brief moment, both men fall silent again as the broadcast cuts to a replay of Ryoma’s counter right.

Then Markovic tilts his head toward Ryoma. “Now about that kid, you saw what he’s done so far, right?”

Volkov nods once. “First two rounds… he was using the Soviet system. Not just the pendulum step rhythm, but the punching beat too. Weight shift, every punch riding the swing. He has clean mechanics.”

“More than clean,” Markovic says. “It’s mastery.”

Volkov watches another replay, this time Ryoma rolling punches along the ropes in the Philly shell.

“But then he switched,” the champion says. “American system with the Philly Shell.”

On the screen, Thanid’s barrage crashes against Ryoma’s shoulder and arms, none landing clean.

Markovic’s voice lowers even further. “And look at that.”

Volkov studies the footage carefully. “A world-level pressure fighter throwing everything…”

“…and still not landing clean,” Markovic finishes. “His defense is a real deal. And the way he adjusts mid-fight after that left hook to the elbow.”

Markovic glances briefly toward Ryoma’s corner. “And the left hand?”

Volkov shrugs faintly. “Could be injured. We saw what he did to Jade McConnel… and what it cost his knuckles. He can clearly punch hard. But his hands aren’t built to keep throwing that way.”

“That’s understandable,”

Markovic says. “He’s still young, with a small fight record. He reached this level too quickly. But he’s learning to manage his output during the fight.”

“He has to,” Volkov replies. “Otherwise he’ll break himself before reaching his real potential.”

His eyes return to the screen. “Now if that left hand is truly compromised… how does he finish this fight?”

***

The thing is, Volkov and Markovic are not the only ones asking that question.

Around ringside, the same quiet speculation moves through the clusters of champions, contenders, and trainers watching the fight. Eyes drift toward the screen, then toward Ryoma’s corner.

If the left hand is compromised… what now?

For a technician, the lead hand is everything. It measures distance, disrupts rhythm, controls the pace of the fight. Without it, maintaining command of the ring becomes far more difficult.

A fighter who builds his system around precision cannot simply discard that weapon.

Yet the bell interrupts the speculation.

Ding!

Round three begins.

Both fighters rise from their stools and step out of their corners.

Thanid advances first, shoulders loose, ready to resume the pressure that ended the previous round.

Across the ring, Ryoma walks forward to meet him. And the answer to everyone’s question appears immediately.

“This kid…” he mutters under his breath. “Is he serious right now?”

Everyone looks baffled now, because Ryoma does not merely adjust his guard.

He switches stance completely, Southpaw position.

His right foot slides forward. His body turns the opposite direction. The injured left hand now rests in the rear position.

The change is so bold that it cannot be mistaken. The arena fills with a wave of confused murmurs as the crowd begins to notice the shift on the big screen. Even the energy in the building seems to pause as people try to process what they’re seeing.

“Oh! Hold on a second!” the lead commentator suddenly exclaims. “Ryoma’s switched stance! He’s fighting southpaw now!”

The analyst leans closer to the monitor, eyes narrowing as he replays the previous round in his mind.

“Think back to the end of round two,” he says. “After that left hook collided with Thanid’s elbow, Ryoma barely used that hand again.”

The lead commentator nods as the realization settles in. “You’re right… he mostly relied on the right after that.”

“Exactly,” the analyst continues. “So this might not just be a tactical switch. It could mean that left hand is actually injured.”

Back in the VIP section, Markovic lets out a quiet breath beside him. “That… is one way to solve the problem.”

Volkov’s brow tightens as he studies the screen. “Or a desperate one,” he mutters. “Switching stance in a title fight isn’t something you improvise. Either he can truly fight from there… or he’s gambling.”

Before Markovic can answer…

Clap-clap-clap!!!

The sharp sound cuts through the VIP section.

Celeb Mercer suddenly slaps his hands together, leaning forward in his seat with open excitement.

“Now that’s interesting!” he calls out with a grin. “This kid is really something else. He knows he can’t use his left hand, and now he switches stance to compensate it. What a bold move.”

Back in the ring, Ryoma begins to move again. And the rhythm is still there.

His body sways lazily back and forth with the familiar Soviet pendulum cadence, only now the footing is reversed; right foot leading, left foot behind.

Yet nothing about it looks awkward. He glides smoothly along the perimeter, the pendulum beat mixing with light lateral movement as if he has always fought this way.

Thanid hesitates, looking baffled.

They had studied Ryoma thoroughly, bringing in sparring partners with every style imaginable; out-boxers, Philly Shell specialists, infighters, because indeed Ryoma could blend them all.

But a southpaw? That had never been in the script.

Thanid steps forward cautiously, stopping just before his lead foot meets Ryoma’s right.

He flicks a probing left, but Ryoma seems too far.

Thanid pulls it back and resets, brow tightening in confusion.

“Damn… how do I deal with this?”

From the blue corner, Kiet shouts, “Ignore the stance! He’s doing it because his left is injured! Cut the space and fight him inside!”

Thanid glances toward Ryoma’s rear hand. An ugly grin spreads across his face.

“So that’s it… he really can’t use it.”

He steps in with renewed confidence, but suddenly…

Dsh!

A stiff jab snaps his face and stops him cold.

Thanid rubs his nose and changes angle before stepping in again behind a sharp left.

But again…

Dsh!

Another jab thuds into his chest, halting him again.

Now Ryoma begins to dictate the rhythm. The pendulum beat continues as his right hand leads the attack.

A jab spears into the guard. Then he steps in with two quick lead hooks; one digging into the upper arm, the second snapping Thanid’s face sideways.

Dug. Dug. Dsh!

Each punch lands with surprising weight.

And every one of them feels heavier than the jabs Ryoma had been throwing earlier with his left.

“Wow… this is interesting,” the lead commentator blurts out. “We’re seeing a completely unexpected development here in round three. The champion switches to southpaw… and good lord, he looks pretty comfortable doing it!”

The analyst leans forward. “And look at Thanid… He’s confused. His rhythm is completely disrupted right now.”