VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

He tries to feint with his right, dipping his knee slightly, selling the motion just enough to suggest a shift in attack. It’s not a big movement, but it’s deliberate, meant to interrupt the rhythm, to make the champion hesitate, even for a fraction.

But it doesn’t work. Dela Cruz simply steps in and drives a stiff jab straight through the line, forcing Kenta to bring that same right glove up to block.

Dug.

The impact is sharp, controlled, more of a statement than a strike meant to damage.

Kenta answers with his left, but he’s already behind the rhythm. Dela Cruz’s right hand comes first, the transition between his punches so tight there’s barely a visible gap.

The shot brushes past Kenta’s left glove, slipping through the edge of his guard.

Dsh!

It snaps his head backward.

“Right hand gets through! Clean shot from Dela Cruz!”

“Just when Moriyama tries to do something, the effort actually backfires.”

Kenta has known for a while this champion is above him. But now he experiences it first hand; the difference in timing is immediate, the difference in strength even more so.

“Strong…”

“He’s too strong…”

Dela Cruz steps in again without hesitation, closing whatever space remains. There’s no reset, no break in tempo. He keeps moving forward, forcing the exchange to stay on his terms.

Kenta tightens up instantly, dropping into a compact shell. His elbows tuck in, chin buried behind his gloves, posture lowered as he braces for what’s coming.

The assault follows, fast, relentless. Left and right, punches come in straight lines, clean trajectories with no wasted motion.

DUG. DUG.

DUG. DUG. DUG.

Dela Cruz keeps himself in perfect range, never stepping too deep, never drifting too far. Every punch is placed to maintain pressure rather than chase a finish.

At this stage, landing clean isn’t his priority. It’s about control, about pressure, about imposing a rhythm his opponent can’t settle into, slowly wearing him down, both physically and mentally.

“That’s the pressure we talked about!” the lead commentator says, his voice rising with the pace. “Dela Cruz has him on the ropes now, and he’s not letting him off!”

“Moriyama’s covering up,” the second commentator follows immediately. “He’s not giving him a clean opening, but he’s not giving anything back either. He has to find a way out of there. This is exactly where the champion is most dangerous.”

Inside the ring, Dela Cruz keeps working. His hands don’t stop. His weight shifts subtly as he adjusts angles, maintaining dominance without overcommitting. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t overextend. He simply keeps Kenta where he wants him.

Back behind the blue corner, Nakahara’s composure finally cracks. “Get out of there, Kenta!” he shouts. “Or clinch… just do something! Don’t just let him work on you!”

Kenta responds, pushing lightly against the ropes to create a sliver of space before trying to move laterally. It’s not a full escape, just a small adjustment, a step to the side.

But Dela Cruz tracks him immediately. For the first time, he widens his motion, sending a right hook across to cut off the angle.

Kenta reads it and raises his left guard, his shoulder lifting to reinforce it.

DUGH.

The impact thuds against his upper arm, heavy enough to stall his movement for a moment.

But the champion’s wide hook finally creates an opening, and Kenta steps forward, snaking his left arm to the champion’s right shoulder, and locking up the champion’s movement in a clinch.

He hopes it buys him something he hasn’t had in the last several exchanges, a moment to breath, a second, maybe two.

But Dela Cruz doesn’t allow even that. He reacts immediately, pulling his left hand downward to free it from the tie-up before swinging it in tight, compact arcs toward the body.

Thud! Thud!

Two short hooks land against Kenta’s ribs.

Then he drives his left shoulder forward, forcing separation, pushing Kenta back into the ropes again. In that brief pocket of space he creates, his right hand fires once more, a straight shot aimed at the chest.

Kenta brings his guard up, but it’s not enough. The punch slips through partially, deflecting just slightly before crashing into the inside of his left shoulder.

BUGH!

The force still carries through.

“That’s not slowing him down at all,” the lead commentator says. “Even in tight, Dela Cruz is still getting his work off.”

The second commentator follows without hesitation. “He’s trying to buy time there, but it’s not happening,” he adds. “The champion’s just too comfortable at this range.”

For the first time, Dela Cruz takes a half-step back. Not retreating, just easing off the pressure for a moment, his chest rising a little heavier as he resets his breathing without drawing attention to it.

“Come on, old man!” he calls out, lifting his left glove in a small, taunting wave, masking the pause as if it were nothing more than confidence.

And he doesn’t take too much time to recuperate. The moment Kenta begins to feel that space open, Dela Cruz steps right back in and fires another one-two.

Bugh! Bugh!

Both punches slip through the arms and slam into Kenta’s chest, the impact dull but heavy, pushing him further into the ropes despite his guard.

Kenta reacts out of urgency now. As Dela Cruz throws his jab, Kenta launches a right hook at the same time, trying to force a dual exchange, hoping that meeting him head-on might disrupt the rhythm.

But it doesn’t. The jab lands clean…

Dsh!

…while Kenta’s hook only grazes the side of Dela Cruz’s temple…

Zrrf!

…catching at a poor angle as the champion tilts his head just enough to take most of the force off it.

And there’s no break in Della Cruz’s momentum. He quickly follows his previous jab with a straight right down the middle.

Dhuack!

“He beat him to it again!” the lead commentator says, voice rising with the pace. “Moriyama can’t get there first!”

Kenta’s head snaps back again. His vision flashes white for a split second.

“I can’t… even fight back.”

“Not even a dual exchange could stop him.”

Around the arena, the response surges. People are already on their feet, arms raised, voices overlapping into a single roar as they react to every clean shot, every exchange going the champion’s way. The energy feeds back into the ring, amplifying the moment even further.

“And the crowd is loving this!” the second commentator adds as the noise swells even louder. “Dela Cruz is taking over right in front of them!”

Still in the first round, and already the weight of it begins to settle in. Kenta’s arms feel heavier, his reactions slower, as if the effort to keep up is draining him faster than he expected.

Dela Cruz presses again, sending a three-punch combination, left-right-left; the first two drive into the chest, the third comes up top.

Kenta still raises his guard, but he is no longer thinking about winning, and all three punches land clean. His head jerks back once more, and just as the thought of giving in begins to surface…

Ding!

The bell rings, and the referee steps in immediately, moving between them before anything else can follow.

“What a round!” the lead commentator says, the energy still carrying in his voice. “That was electric from start to finish! Dela Cruz came out aggressive and never let up!”

He continues, not hiding the momentum clearly leaning one way. “This is exactly what his fans expect from him, and once again, he delivers. Honestly, at that pace, it felt like he could’ve ended it right there in the opening round.”

There’s a brief pause before his tone shifts slightly. “The bell might’ve just saved Moriyama from something much worse… or maybe it only delays what’s coming next.”

The second commentator picks it up, more measured, but still firm. “It’s too early to write him off,” he says. “We’ve seen this before from Moriyama. He’s been in tough spots, against stronger opponents, and somehow he always finds a way to push through.”

Inside the ring, however, Kenta already looks close to surrender as he makes his way back to the corner.

His steps are heavier. His breathing is rough, rising and falling unevenly as he exhales through parted lips. Both hands just hang lazily on both sides, a faint tremor running through them as he walks.

By the time he reaches the corner, his gaze looks distant, and vacant.

What am I doing here…?

He’s… too good.

There’s no way I can beat him.