VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Unlike usual, Aramaki doesn’t fight back. Instinct pushes him to escape, to get out of range. He flicks out a single jab, not to hit, just to disrupt so he can slip through any opening.

But Cortez halts only briefly, a fraction of a second, before pressing forward again, forcing Aramaki back against the ropes. He doesn’t relent, punch after punch rains down from close range, fast, hard, and precise.

Aramaki twists his torso, angles his guard, shifts his head, but still, punches slip through, hitting ribs, sides, even grazing his forearms.

Dug. Dug. Bugh! Dug.

Dug. Dsh! Dug. Bugh! Bugh!

“Cortez is relentless, hammering away at every opening!”

“Aramaki’s defense is holding, but barely. He’s under constant pressure!”

The assault continues, a relentless rhythm. Sweat drips into his eyes, chest heaving, yet Aramaki makes no move to counter. His gloves rise and fall with the impact, absorbing each strike, muscles tensed to survive the barrage.

After a dozen shots, Cortez steps back slightly, resetting, only to mock him.

“What’s the matter? Forgot how to fight?”

The lead commentator leans forward in his chair, eyebrows raised, a half-smile forming at the audacity.

“He’s… actually taunting him mid-combo. That’s bold, even for Cortez.”

His co-commentator shakes his head, leaning back, arms crossed, a mix of disbelief and amusement on his face.

“And Aramaki’s still not countering… he’s really taking a beating right now.”

It’s obvious Aramaki can’t make sense of his words. And in this situation, he doesn’t have the brainspace to translate this insult into anything useful right now.

His guard drops just a touch, as if to strike back. But Cortez moves first; jab-cross-jab, three punches snapping toward the head, forcing Aramaki to raise his gloves immediately.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Then Cortez slips one shot to the body, sneaking past Aramaki’s guard.

Bugh!

“Yeah… keep hiding back there!” he jeers.

Aramaki winces, the body shot rattling him. His guard dips again, and Cortez takes advantage. Two hooks fly to the head from either side. Aramaki clamps down again, raising his defense once more.

Dug. Dug.

He blocks the punches well, but Cortez shifts the angle…

Thud! Thud!

…both strike the ribs cleanly despite his guard.

Back in the blue corner, the team watches tensely, each hit against Aramaki a reminder of the challenge unfolding before them.

Okabe’s eyes are tense, following every punch that lands against Aramaki. Having sparred with him countless times, he knows just how far above his own level Aramaki really is, even at such a young age.

His hands tighten into fists, frustration flickering across his face. There’s nothing he can do from the corner right now. But surely, this is the moment for Coach Nakahara to step in.

“Aren’t you going to say something, old man?” he asks, voice sharp with impatience.

Nakahara glances at him calmly. “Say what?”

Okabe blinks. “Anything… give him instruction. He’s clearly out of ideas at the moment.”

Nakahara shakes his head faintly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Relaz. First round barely started. He doesn’t need barking orders yet. I know he can get out of this on his own.”

Hiroshi shifts beside Okabe, voice low but urgent. “It’s his first international fight. No matter how confident we are in him, he’s still inexperienced. Less than ten professional fights. That kind of immaturity could be fatal if he isn’t guided.”

Nakahara scoffs, shaking his head. “Immature? Don’t forget… he’s the only one of us with a wife and child waiting at home. Despite his gentle nature, he’s far more grounded than you think.”

Kurogane adds, leaning forward slightly, voice calm but firm. “When we were arranging this international bout, we considered the risk. This opponent isn’t one he can’t handle. And honestly, Miyamoto Rikiya was far tougher than this one.”

Nakahara finally nods once, slowly. “This is a test. And even if he loses here, it’s not a loss that matters. Let him figure it out. Give him space to find his own solution.”

Okabe exhales, a mix of tension and reluctant trust. He leans back slightly, realizing Nakahara has already chosen the only strategy available: watch, observe, and let Aramaki navigate the storm himself.

***

Back in the ring, Aramaki remains on the defensive, still under relentless pressure. He tries to clinch, hoping to disrupt the rhythm, but Cortez leans in with his shoulder, driving him back against the ropes without missing a beat.

“Nice move… He’s keeping Aramaki pinned there!” the lead commentator shouts, leaning forward in his seat.

Then a compact uppercut slips through, followed by a lead hook upstairs.

Dsh! Dsh!

Both land clean. Aramaki’s head snaps upward and then tilts to the left. He resets the guard, tucking into his turtle guard, bracing for the next wave.

“And Aramaki can’t even find a moment to breathe,” the second commentator adds. “Cortez is dictating every inch in that corner!”

Cortez actually pauses. He resets only briefly, letting his taunts flow while he prepares another series of attacks.

“Why so quiet, kid?”

Dug. Dug.

“Gonna hide forever?”

Dug. Dug. Bugh!

He then steps back, lowering his gloves to chest height, baiting.

“Come on. Hit me.”

And Aramaki takes the bait, firing a left hook.

“Naïve…”

Cortez ducks, rolls to the side, and counters with two hooks; right to the ribs, left to the head.

Bugh! Dsh!

“And he walks right into it! Aramaki’s reaction time just cost him a clean hit!”

“Cortez is practically reading his mind. He’s baiting, countering, and Aramaki’s falling right into it!”

Aramaki staggers from the second hook to the face, completely stunned.

Cortez’s grin widens. “Gonna cry now?”

But no, Aramaki’s expression hardens. The fear of the stage, the pressure he felt at first, slowly melts away. Blood drips from his lip, but his eyes are icy cold, deadly focused.

“Oh, I like that,” Cortez says, voice smooth and cruel. “Let’s make that face even better.”

Cortez steps in with a quick jab, not to strike, but to pin Aramaki’s lead glove with his palm, pushing it down slightly. Then he seizes that opening, coiling his hips, and snaps a hard right hook toward Aramaki’s side.

Aramaki sees it coming, and welcomes it willingly, trading with a straight right.

BAM!

Dsh!

Both punches land clean, though the impact of Cortez’s hook rocks Aramaki’s head to the side.

The commentators shout over the roar of the crowd.

“Both land! That hook just rocked him!”

“And the crowd can feel that! Listen to this reaction!”

The arena explodes, a wave of gasps, cheers, and whistles. Fans jump to their feet, shouting and stomping.

Both fighters pause briefly, knees bent, balancing hard. Aramaki’s right leg stiffens, anchoring him; Cortez’s head tilts back, but his eyes widen with fury.

“Hurts…”

Cortez mutters. “That fucking hurts…”

He resets, gloves clenched, swinging a heavy hook to Aramaki’s right side.

DUGH!

Then a hook to the left.

DUGH!

Aramaki’s guard absorbs most of the power, but his body still rocks under the force.

Cortez adjusts his angle just slightly, continuing to hammer the sides, elbows, forearms, upper arms.

DUGH! DUGH! DUGH! DUGH!

Brief pauses break the rhythm, but Cortez’s taunts never stop.

“Why don’t you just die, you little bastard…”

Without realizing it, his endless bickering during the combinations sets a strange rhythm. The last word hisses out with a sharp exhale, using the air itself to add force to the next punch.

Aramaki senses the subtle change in rhythm and reads it as timing. He shifts half a step forward with his lead foot, leaning his head slightly.

Cortez commits to a short hook aimed at the head, driving his weight through it. But Aramaki simply pulls his lead foot back, snapping his head subtly to its original position.

Swsssh.

The punch slices through the air with a sharp sound.

Aramaki then slides his lead foot forward again, leans left, plants it, and coiling fully, unleashes a devastating left hook to the ribs.

BAM!!!

Cortez’s torso folds. Breath bursts out of him, mouthpiece nearly flying. Pain spreads through his ribs.

“What…?”

“What kind of punch is this…?”

Aramaki immediately follows with a second left hook to the head.

Cortez doesn’t see the punch, but he senses the motion of Aramaki’s body. Not wanting to take the risk, he drops to his knees. Knowing his body can’t react in time to defend, going down is the best option.

Blugh!

The canvas shakes as he lands. Aramaki’s gloves stay tight after missing that last chance, his chest heaving, adrenaline coursing.

Cortez grits his teeth, grimacing. His grin vanishes completely, his eyes fixed on Aramaki, this time no longer with that mocking menace.

“D… Down!”

“Nicola Cortez… is on his knees!”

The arena falls silent, everyone frozen mid-reaction. The crowd holds its collective breath, staring at Cortez on his knees, eyes wide, the air thick with disbelief.

The lead commentator stammers, voice breaking slightly. “I… I don’t know… how did…?”

The second commentator cuts in, calm but precise. “That’s a step-back counter. Cortez’s just caught clean off the subtle movement back. A textbook counter.”

The referee hovers between them, ready to enforce the count, but Aramaki doesn’t step back. He leans slightly, eyes locked on Cortez.

“Just keep talking…” he says in Japanese, “not that I understand a word coming out of your mouth.”