VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kenta takes another step back, trying to carve out just enough space to rebuild his pendulum sway. His shoulders begin to loosen again, weight shifting from one foot to the other, searching for that familiar rhythm.

But Dela Cruz doesn’t let it form. He stays right in front of him, close enough to smother the movement before it fully develops.

At that distance, the sway loses most of its effect, the subtle shifts no longer enough to blur the range.

“He’s not giving him any room now,” the lead commentator says. “He’s staying right on top of him.”

“And look at the targeting,” the second adds. “He’s not just headhunting anymore.”

Dela Cruz starts digging in with short hooks, not fully to the body, not quite to the head either, landing in that awkward middle line around the arms and chest.

Two short hooks, left and right…

Dugh. Dugh.

…thud into Kenta’s guard and upper arm.

But the force still moves him, his torso swaying slightly with each impact.

Della Cruz follows immediately with another set, more compact this time, two diagonal punches rising from below, not quite uppercuts, not quite straights, aimed toward the chin.

Kenta tightens his guard inward, absorbing both, elbows pulling closer together to seal the center.

Dugh. Dugh.

But there’s no pause in Della Cruz’s tight rhythm. Almost without thought, he adds a quick left hook upstairs, tight and fast…

Dsh!

It slips around the edge of the guard and snaps Kenta’s head to the side.

“Clean shot!” the lead calls out.

Kenta’s footing widens instinctively, his left foot stepping out to catch his balance. From there, he tries to answer, swinging his torso back into a short left hook.

Dela Cruz reads it. His right shoulder lifts, guard tightening just enough to catch it on the upper arm.

Dug.

The impact is solid, enough to stall the exchange for a fraction of a second, but only that.

Della Cruz’s left hand is already hovering forward again. However, instead of snapping straight, it veers downward before driving into the midsection…

Bugh!

“And he goes downstairs!” the second commentator reacts. “That one got through.”

Kenta’s back hunches from the shot, his guard dipping slightly as the air leaves him. And Dela Cruz doesn’t wait; a quick 1-2-3 combination fires upstairs immediately after.

The jab clips Kenta clean on the right side of his face.

Dsh!

Kenta manages to bring his guard up in time for the cross…

Dug.

…but not the third shot.

Dsh!

The lead hook slips through the opening behind his guard before he can adjust.

His head snaps again. And the crowd surges with the exchange, the sound rising as the champion finally breaks through in succession.

“That’s a sharp combination!”

“He caught him with all three beats.”

Kenta tries to answer again, forcing a short left hook through the pressure, but Dela Cruz closes the space even tighter, both gloves pressing into Kenta’s right arm before shoving forward.

The balance breaks. Kenta’s hook swings upward at an angle, catching nothing but air as his footing gives way, his body stumbling backward.

“Oh… he’s down!” the lead commentator blurts out, caught by surprise.

There’s a brief pause as the referee steps in, considering for a moment, and eventually waves it off.

“Slip!”

“Ah… they’re calling it a slip,” the lead says, a hint of dissatisfaction creeping in. “That could’ve gone either way.”

“Yeah, I get the call,” the second replies more calmly. “There’s contact, but it’s more of a push than a clean knockdown. His footing was already compromised.”

Kenta doesn’t rise immediately. For a brief moment, he stays where he is, one glove pressed lightly against the canvas, using the pause to steady himself. His breathing slows, his eyes lowering as his thoughts begin to settle, sifting through what just happened.

He has always preferred a slower rhythm, one where the pace moves slower, where he can take the shots, endure them, and build something in return. A rhythm where he has time to observe, to think, to piece together patterns without being rushed.

But this isn’t that kind of fight. And clearly not against this kind of opponent.

The champion’s rhythm is too tight, his reactions too immediate, as if every move comes without hesitation, without thought. There’s no gap to slip into, no delay to exploit. Everything comes back at him the moment he tries to set something up.

“No… I can’t keep fighting this way.”

He exhales quietly, shaking his head.

“I’m not someone who can set traps, adjust, and play mind games without ever slowing down my hands.”

The referee misreads the pause and steps in quickly, crouching beside him.

“You good? Can you still fight?”

Kenta doesn’t follow the referee’s question, and shakes his head again, more to himself than in response, still caught in his own thoughts.

“I’m not like Ryoma… who can think several steps ahead while still moving at full speed.”

The referee leans in closer, raising his guard slightly as he tries again, firmer this time.

“Moriyama! Look at me. Are you good to fight?”

Kenta blinks, his attention finally to the referee this time, but the words not fully landing.

From the blue corner, Kurogane’s voice cuts through. “Kenta! The ref’s asking if you’re good! Just say yes!”

Understanding clicks into place. Kenta straightens immediately, bringing his guard up out of instinct.

“Ah… sorry. Yes. I can fight,” he says in his limited English.

There’s a brief pause before the commentators pick it up, the moment hanging slightly in confusion.

“Ah… I think we just had a bit of a misunderstanding there,” the lead says, a faint chuckle slipping into his voice.

“Yeah, looks like it,” the second follows, amused. “Moriyama wasn’t answering right away, and it wasn’t because he was hurt. He just didn’t catch what the referee was asking.”

“That’s the thing when you’re fighting on an international stage,” the lead continues. “It’s not just about your opponent. You’ve got to deal with everything around you too, including communication.”

“And it seems like Moriyama can speak some English,” the second adds, “but listening in real time, under pressure, that’s a different skill entirely.”

“Exactly,” the lead agrees. “Understanding and responding on the fly, especially in a situation like this, that matters.”

The second lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, you need more than just fighting skills out here. Communication counts too.”

***

Meanwhile, Dela Cruz stays planted near the center, watching in silence. There’s no visible frustration over the referee’s decision. The push did what it was meant to do; to break Kenta’s counter before it could form.

Just not getting a warning out of that push is already enough. And now, Della Cruz uses the moment for a short of break, and for something else.

His eyes remain fixed on Kenta, studying him. From where he stands, it’s obvious enough that Kenta is caught in something inside his own head, trying to sort things out in the middle of a fight that doesn’t give him that kind of time.

A short chuckle escapes as the champion shakes his head. “Old man on the outside…” he murmurs, tone low with disdain, “but still thinking like a kid.”

The referee steps back, creating space between them before signaling the action to continue.

“Box!”

But Dela Cruz doesn’t raise his guard right away. Instead, he moves laterally with a casual sidestep, shoulders loose, hands low, his posture carrying a clear sense of disdain as he circles just outside Kenta’s range.

“What’s wrong, old man?” he calls out, voice loud enough to carry. “You were asking me if I was tired before. Let me ask you now… you done already?”

Kenta brings his guard up, brows lifting slightly, the words not fully landing. There’s a brief pause, just enough for the disconnect to show.

Dela Cruz clicks his tongue, a faint smirk forming. “Ah… right,” he says, almost to himself. “You probably didn’t even catch that.”

He exhales lightly, rolling his shoulders as his stance begins to settle again.

“Fine,” he adds, tone sharpening. “I’ll just end this quick for you, so you can go back home and do your homework.”

Dela Cruz steps in again, looking to reestablish his pressure.

But Kenta meets him this time, not by retreating immediately, but by setting the tempo first. He moves forward with shoulders swaying in that familiar unhurried rhythm, and lets two lazy lead hooks drift out in front of him…

Dug. Dug.

…landing on the upper arm, not heavy, but enough to interrupt the champion’s advance.

Then Kenta eases himself back, sending a short, loose cross as he does. It falls short, cutting through empty air, not meant to land but to hold the space between them.

He steps in again right after, repeating the same rhythm; two more lead hooks, light and uncommitted.

They brush against Dela Cruz’s right glove, barely making contact, but enough to keep the beat intact.

Tap. Tap.

And then, once his footing settles, Kenta drives a heavy right straight into the body.

This time, Dela Cruz doesn’t bother to fully block it. The punch grazes his left glove and thuds into his chest…

Bugh!

…but at the same moment, he fires back with a right hook, forcing the exchange on his terms.

Kenta reacts quickly, dipping his head while tightening his left guard along the side.

Dug.

The hook crashes into the guard, stopped clean. But Kenta’s pendulum rhythm breaks, and that’s all the champion needs.