VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The referee steps in without another delay, his presence firm as he reaches between them, one hand pressing lightly against Kenta’s arm to separate the tie.

“Break! Break! Moriyama, that’s enough. Let him go.”

Kenta doesn’t resist the call. But before he releases the clinch completely, there’s a subtle adjustment in his footing, a small shift of his hips and shoulders, placing his lead foot just slightly outside Dela Cruz’s stance.

It’s done quietly, almost hidden within the motion of disengaging. Then he lets go, and the moment the clinch breaks, Kenta takes a quick step out, angling away before the champion can immediately close him back in, his body already turning as he creates space between them.

“And Moriyama gets out of there,” the lead commentator picks up. “That’s the first clean reset he’s had in a while.”

“Yeah, and look where he is now,” the second adds. “Back toward center ring. That’s where he wants to be.”

Dela Cruz follows, of course. He looks visibly irritated, but doesn’t rush recklessly. The intent is still there, pressing forward, reclaiming the ground that was just taken from him.

But this time, the distance is different. Kenta settles again, feet shifting, the pendulum rhythm returning almost immediately as if it had never been interrupted.

The sway comes back, slow, deliberate, his shoulders rolling lightly with it, his guard relaxed but ready. For now, the ring feels wider again.

“He’s back to it,” the lead says. “That same rhythm, same tempo control.”

“And he bought himself just enough space to reset it,” the second follows.

Dela Cruz doesn’t rush in immediately, but the restraint in him carries intent rather than hesitation. His shoulders stay tight, his gaze fixed, and when he steps forward again, the pressure comes back with the same intent as before, only now carried with a visible irritation.

He probes with a jab first, then another, testing the distance again, trying to reestablish that forward rhythm without overcommitting too early.

Kenta doesn’t answer at first. He lets the pendulum carry him, weight shifting from foot to foot, shoulders swaying in that slow, almost indifferent rhythm.

His guard floats at chest level, moving with the beat rather than against it, never fully static, never fully open.

Della Cruz’s jab touches the guard…

Dug.

…but it doesn’t settle cleanly.

Kenta’s sway takes something off it, the angle of the gloves guiding it away rather than stopping it outright.

Dela Cruz steps in again, this time adding the right hand behind his jab.

Again, Kenta doesn’t meet it head-on. He drifts back with the motion, letting the distance stretch just enough that the impact loses its edge before it arrives.

Dug. Dug.

His shoulders roll, his stance remains intact, and before the champion can chain into the next sequence, the rhythm has already shifted again.

“…He’s not letting him set his feet,” the lead commentator notes. “And he’s looking so comfortable now.”

“Yeah, Moriyama’s just floating in and out of range,” the second adds. “That rhythm is making it hard to lock him down clean.”

Dela Cruz exhales sharply through his nose, the irritation starting to surface in small ways now. His feet adjust quicker, his steps cutting in with more urgency as he tries to close the gap before Kenta’s rhythm settles again.

He presses harder; throwing left-right-left. But the sequence doesn’t land the same way this time.

The first jab meets air as Kenta sways off-line. The right hand only brushes against the gloves, its force dulled by the backward drift. The follow-up left comes too late, catching nothing but space as Kenta’s weight shifts away.

And then Kenta answers immediately; a light lead hook, almost casual, riding the sway forward.

Dsh!

The punch is light, but he manages to land it cleanly on the champion’s cheek.

Then a soft jab follows as he drifts back out again…

Dug.

…nothing heavy, just a touch.

But he stops the pendulum in the middle, and leans forward with a heavy cross, landing solid on the champion’s guard…

DUGH!

Then he swings another light lead hook behind the guard…

Dsh!

…and already stepping back again before Della Cruz can fire back.

“He’s starting to score now,” the lead commentator says. “Those are light, but they’re clean.”

“He’s picking his moments,” the second adds. “Not trying to hurt him, just tagging him.”

Dela Cruz’s expression tightens, the restraint begins to crack. He steps in deeper this time, cutting the space more aggressively, trying to force the exchange back into his terms.

The jab comes harder, the right hand thrown with more commitment…

Dug. Dug.

But the distance betrays him again. Kenta’s sway pulls him just out of range, and when the punches do land, they arrive without the same authority as before.

And again, another light hook from Kenta, brushing across the temple.

Dsh!

As Della Cruz dips his head to the right after getting punch, his right gloves also shifting wider.

That’s when a jab from Kenta follows, snapping stiffly into the face this time

DSH!

The champion’s head knocked back slightly. And the crowd reacts, a ripple of sound rising as the exchanges begin to shift.

But Kenta doesn’t follow it up, choosing instead to step back and settle into his pendulum sway again.

“He’s getting pushed back here,” the lead says. “Not just a touch anymore. Dela Cruz is getting punched.”

Finally, Della Cruz’s patient completely breaks. He steps in again, but this time it’s different. The entry is deeper, heavier, his weight leaning forward more than before.

“How dare you…”

The jab is no longer a probe, but a push. The follow-up doesn’t come straight; it curves, his shoulder turning wider as the punch bends into a hook.

But it makes the punch easier to read. Kenta lifts his right shoulder, letting the hook run into his upper arm…

Dug.

…and answers immediately with a compact straight, landing clean on the face before the champion can pull his hand back.

Dsh!

“The champion’s getting impatient!” the lead commentator calls out. “And getting punished by it.”

Dela Cruz’s irritation flares, and Kenta picks up on it immediately. There’s no visible reaction from him, but something settles inside, a quiet confidence, knowing exactly what it means when a fighter starts losing control.

The pendulum now completely works against the champion. Dela Cruz’s punches begin to widen, their arcs stretching further, but they keep cutting through empty space as Kenta shifts just out of their path. And in those wider motions, small openings appear, ones Kenta doesn’t miss.

And so…

Dsh

A short jab snaps into the face.

And then…

Dsh!

A quick hook taps the side of the head as the champion tries to recover his stance.

Then…

Dug.

Another jab, light, but purposeful, setting it up as Kenta uses that same left to nudge the champion’s right elbow outward.

And then…

BUGH!

A heavy right drives into the chest, forcing the champion a step back.

“He’s picking him apart now! Moriyama’s landing more!”

“He’s reading the entries. Every time Dela Cruz steps too deep, he’s there to touch him.”

A new opening presents after that last one. But before Kenta gets the chance to throw another heavy straight…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the exchange, sharp and final, as Dela Cruz steps away, guard still up, his breathing heavier than before, a faint irritation now visible on his face.

Around the arena, a wave of mixed reaction follows, the local crowd unsettled at the sight of their champion stepping back on his own.

“End of the round!” the lead commentator calls out. “And that was a very different look from Moriyama!”

“He found something there,” the second says. “Not power, but control. He was landing, he was scoring.”

“And both of them were working in there,” the lead continues. “A lot of exchanges, a lot of adjustments. Dela Cruz still pressing hard, still aggressive, but Moriyama finally giving something back this time.”

“For me, that’s Moriyama’s round,” the second adds without hesitation. “He handled the pressure, he made the cleaner touches, and he dictated the tempo for longer stretches.”

“And if that’s the case,” the lead says, tone lifting slightly, “then this fight just got a lot more interesting. It’s not one-sided anymore. Moriyama’s starting to answer.”

At ringside, one of the judges marks it clearly, a 9–10 in favor of Kenta.

And even without seeing that scorecard, Dela Cruz knows he’s losing that round. He walks back to his corner with a tight expression, jaw set, shoulders still carrying the tension from the round.

“Tch… that fucking lazy sway… slow as hell, and still annoying.”

What he doesn’t realize is how two of the three judges have already handed it to him.

Whether it’s because of his forward pressure, or simply their own way of scoring, both cards come 10–9 in his favor.

And just like that, even with the shift in momentum, even with Kenta finally controlling the fight on his term, it remains firmly tilted on paper.