VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For a moment, Ryoma thinks deep inside. Then a new movement in the blue corner steals his attention. Kiet Anurak rises, and Ryoma can only see the broad line of Kiet’s shoulders as he speaks.

He can’t hear a word, can’t observe any lips movements. But one thing becomes clear almost immediately. For the first time since the round ended, Thanid is listening.

Thanid’s eyes lift fully to meet Kiet’s face, the attention sharp and unwavering. The challenger still doesn’t say anything, not a single word leaving his mouth, yet the focus in his gaze is different now.

Ryoma narrows his eyes slightly. Whatever Kiet is telling him, it clearly reaches somewhere deeper than the words shouted by the rest of the corner.

“…So you pulled him back, huh.”

Then the official’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Seconds out!”

The command echoes sharply across the ring. Immediately the cornermen begin clearing the canvas.

Towels are snatched away, stools folded and pulled back under the ropes. The cutmen step down first, followed by the rest of the teams as the referee gestures them out.

In the red corner, Ryoma has already begun loosening his arms when a voice calls from behind him.

“Kid.”

Ryoma turns slightly, and finds Nakahara standing on the apron, one hand gripping the top rope.

“Stay composed,” Nakahara says, his expression calm, but his eyes firm. “Go out there with a clear head. Don’t rush it. You’re controlling the fight. Keep it that way.”

Ryoma gives a small nod before turning back toward the center of the ring. Nakahara watches him for a moment longer from the apron.

Then he steps down to the floor, one hand still resting briefly on the rope as his eyes remain fixed on Ryoma’s back.

Something about the previous round lingers in his mind.

Ryoma’s concentration had climbed sharply near the end of the exchange. His reactions were faster, cleaner, almost surgical. Every slip, every counter had come with frightening precision, to the point where Thanid couldn’t even do anything despite standing right in front of him.

For most trainers, that kind of performance would be reassuring. But for Nakahara, for now, it raises a quiet concern.

Sera notices the look. He tilts his head slightly, studying Nakahara’s face for a second before leaning a little closer.

“The kid’s in complete control out there.” he murmurs, a faint teasing note in his voice. “But you look like he’s the one in danger.”

Nakahara exhales slowly through his nose. “That’s exactly what worries me. His concentration spiked. His reactions got sharper. Too sharp. He was slipping everything. But Thanid’s pressure… the danger he carries, it’s pushing Ryoma closer to that edge.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Sera asks.

“If he slips into the Zone now,” Nakahara murmurs, “everything sharpens. His reflexes… his focus… his concentration…”

Sera watches Ryoma for another moment. “And that’s bad?”

Nakahara’s voice remains calm. “I’ve seen the danger it brought to someone who slipped too deep into it. Once a fighter enters that state, control stops mattering. The deeper they go… the more they start losing themselves.”

He pauses briefly before continuing. “For now, Ryoma doesn’t need it.”

***

At the commentary desk, the lead commentator leans forward as both fighters remain in their corners, gloves resting near their chests while they wait for the bell.

“We’re heading into round five, and this fight has been fascinating so far,” he says. “Ryoma in complete control through four rounds, but Thanid is still standing.”

The analyst nods while watching the two fighters across the ring from each other. “And that’s important. Thanid has taken some serious punishment to the body, yet he’s still here. Fighters like him can be dangerous when they refuse to break.”

Both men settle deeper into their stances. Across the arena, the buzz of anticipation grows louder. All that remains now is the bell.

Then finally…

Ding!

The bell rings.

Round five begins with the same rhythm Ryoma has carried since the previous round.

Still in southpaw, he settles into that loose Soviet pendulum step, weight swaying from foot to foot, shoulders rolling lazily as he drifts along the edge of range.

His right hand lifts, floating forward with the rhythm. It’s not a stiff jab for now, just a loose tap.

Another follows, almost casual, the glove swaying with the motion of his body rather than snapping from the shoulder.

Then Thanid’s guard rises, and when the first jab touches…

Thock!

The sound is sharper than expected. Thanid had angled his forearm forward, the punch landing against the solid ridge just beneath the elbow.

Ryoma’s right hand pulls back immediately with the rhythm of his sway. His brow tightens a fraction as the faint vibration travels through his knuckles.

It’s not painful yet, just solid, and uncomfortable.

At the commentary desk, the analyst leans slightly forward. “Interesting… look at how Thanid is catching that jab.”

Ryoma’s eyes narrow slightly. He sways again, shoulders rolling with the same lazy rhythm.

Then he lets another jab drift forward, testing it with two lazy swaying jabs.

Dug.

Thock!

The same ridge meets it again.

Ryoma pulls the hand back and glides a half-step out, letting the distance widen as his weight settles into the sway.

This time the lead commentator notices the pattern. “Yeah, he’s not just blocking that. He’s actually driving the guard into the punch.”

Inside the ring, Ryoma’s brow tightens faintly. His eyes linger on Thanid’s guard for a brief moment, quietly weighing the next move.

The impact isn’t painful, not with the loose nature of the jab. But the vibration still runs through the bones of his knuckles.

Across from him, Thanid’s elbows stay tight but slightly angled, the guard structured like a pair of reinforced walls waiting for the next strike.

The analyst nods slowly as he watches the exchange. “That’s a very Muay Thai-influenced guard right there. He’s meeting the punch with the elbow ridge. If Ryoma throws a stiff jab into that…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, because in the ring, Ryoma clearly understands the same thing.

The pendulum rhythm continues, his shoulders swaying lightly, but the punches stop. He looks hesitate to throw even just a punch.

Thanid notices it, and he moves immediately. The step forward is sudden but controlled, weight shifting firmly into range as his shoulders roll.

The punch comes from tight inside the guard. A compact shovel hook drives toward the body.

Ryoma reacts instantly, dropping his elbow to block.

DUGH!

Even through the guard, the impact thumps loudly enough to echo across the arena. The crowd lets out a low reaction.

“Whoa,” the lead commentator mutters. “You could hear that one.”

Ryoma drifts back a half step, shoulders swaying again.

Thanid follows, and another hook whips toward the ribs like a smash, fast and heavy.

Ryoma blocks again, and…

DUGH!!!

This one shakes him harder, the force pushing through the guard and rattling his torso for a brief moment.

The analyst exhales sharply. “That’s heavy. Even when Ryoma blocks it, that kind of body shot still moves you.”

Ryoma’s expression tightens slightly. Now simply blocking suddenly feels like the wrong option.

So when Thanid fires again, he doesn’t catch it.

“He’s dangerous…”

“I can’t even let him touch me.”

The glove whistles past his side as Ryoma leans away, shoulders rolling into a quick sidestep that takes him back into open space.

Thanid steps after him, guard still tight, elbows angled like sharpened edges waiting for the next punch.

With Ryoma still not throwing anything, he simply opens up first; a sharp jab–jab snaps forward.

Zrrf, Zrrf…

Ryoma sways through both, the gloves cutting past his face by inches.

Thanid drives a cross behind them, and Ryoma slips it cleanly.

Zrrf..

Another jab shoots out as Thanid steps deeper into range. Ryoma leans back, letting it skim the air in front of his nose.

Zrrf..

Then finally, the hook comes at close range, and Ryoma can’t simply avoid it anymore, and angles his left shoulder.

BAM!!!

The punch crashes into his left upper arm, the impact knocking him sideways a step as the crowd reacts with a sudden roar.

“Good lord,” the lead commentator blurts out. “You can hear that from here.”

Across the desk, the lead commentator notices the subtle change. “You see that? Ryoma’s throwing less now.”

The analyst nods slowly. “Yeah. That elbow guard is making him think twice about those jabs.”

Inside the ring, Ryoma settles back into his swaying rhythm, feet light, shoulders loose.

But the difference is visible now. The punches come slower, more cautious, looking more like probing than hitting.

Ryoma’s eyes move constantly, scanning the narrowing openings around Thanid’s guard. Every angle feels tighter now, every target shrinking behind those elbows and the hard ridge of bone waiting to meet his knuckles.

Inside his vision, the Vision Grid System shifts along with his focus.

Small green rectangles appear over the available targets, brief windows where a punch could slip through safely.

Then they change. As Thanid subtly angles his guard closer to those openings, the frames fade into yellow; a warning.

When the elbows seal the space completely, the markers flash red, too risky.

Occasionally, a sharp [!] flares near Thanid’s shoulder or along the tightening line of his neck muscles, catching the smallest twitch before the guard shifts again.

Ryoma’s shoulders continue their lazy sway, but his mind is already working through the problem.

He needs to find a way to slip his punches through those gaps, without smashing his knuckles into bone.

Because Thanid isn’t simply waiting behind the guard. He’s timing it, turning the block into something closer to a half-counter in the middle of the strike.