VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When the bell for the sixth round rings, Kenta’s face is already looking fresher than before. The swelling has gone down noticeably, and the cut above his right brow has been sealed cleanly with Vaseline, no blood running this time.

From the outside, he looks recovered. But the earlier sharpness isn’t there anymore. His awareness spreads wider than he wants it, no longer narrowed and cutting straight toward the opponent in front of him.

The focus he had been holding onto is gone, replaced by a restless drift as his thoughts begin to branch again, circling back to the interruption he was forced out of.

“Damn referee…” he mutters under his breath. “All that just for what…? A small cut?”

Across the ring, Della Cruz rolls his shoulders once, already stepping forward with the same intensity he carried from the previous round.

“Come on, old man… let’s heat this arena up.”

At ringside, the commentators pick it up immediately as both fighters begin to step out of their corners.

“And here we go, round six,” the lead commentator says, his voice rising slightly with the moment. “That last round really started to shift the tempo of this fight.”

“No doubt about it,” the second follows. “Kenta was beginning to find something toward the end there. You could feel it building.”

“But now the question is,” the lead continues, “can he pick that momentum back up after the break?”

“Or did that intervention cool him off just enough,” the second adds, “for the champion to take control again?”

Kenta settles into his stance as he begins to move, his body falling into the familiar lazy, swaying pendulum rhythm.

Della Cruz doesn’t give him the time build that lazy dance. He moves in directly, closing the gap without hesitation.

“Enough with this… let’s just slug it out here.”

Two light lead hooks from Kenta come out first, slapping against the champion’s shoulder and neck, quick and dismissive, more to occupy than to damage.

Dug. Dsh!

Yet Della Cruz doesn’t slow, stepping through the contact as he drives a right straight down the middle.

Kenta steps back, pulling his left hand to intercept, disrupting the strike off its line just enough to soften the impact as he gives another step to the back, easing the collision instead of meeting it.

Della Cruz’s expression tightens. “Why are you running now…? Fight me.”

He steps in deeper, lowering his level as he shifts his weight forward and swings a left hook toward the body, while expecting the same immediate response, the same forced exchange from Kenta that defined the previous round.

But this time, Kenta lowers his guard…

Dug.

…catching the punch first, absorbing the collision, before answering. His left hand comes up late, cutting across with a short hook only after the impact has already settled in.

Della Cruz pulls his head just enough. His lips curls as he sees the glove pass by his face.

“That’s it?”

He dives in immediately without breaking rhythm, already inside the space Kenta just gave up.

A compact right hand snaps forward.

Dsh!

It lands clean against Kenta’s face while Kenta’s left arm is still extended from the previous motion, the timing off just enough to leave him exposed.

“And there it is… he’s faster to the exchange!”

“The challenger is a beat behind now!”

Kenta’s face tightens with pain, the surprise showing just as clearly.

“So fast…”

He brings both arms up quickly, trying to tighten his guard. But before he can fully reset his left guard into place, Della Cruz is already shifting his weight again, digging a right hook into his side.

Thud!

The impact drives into him, forcing his body to fold slightly as the pressure builds. Eventually, Kenta gives ground, just two unsteady steps, and his back touches the ropes.

“He’s already got him trapped!”

“We’re not even thirty seconds in!”

***

Della Cruz presses further, setting his feet deeper than what mid-range pressure usually demands. His stance lowers, and as he swings compact hooks from both sides, he makes sure to drive the weight of his body through every shot, turning each punch into something heavier than it looks.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

Kenta angles his guard to protect both sides, absorbing the collisions as they come, adjusting just enough to keep everything in front of him.

But Della Cruz doesn’t stay predictable for long. He suddenly crashes a heavy punch into the guard, driving it from the inside outward with enough force to disrupt its structure.

Kenta’s left arm is knocked slightly off position, not by much, but enough for a narrow opening to appear down the middle. And Della Cruz immediately takes it, driving a heavy right straight through the center.

“He’s breaking the guard open!”

“That’s a smart shot… he created that opening himself!”

Kenta turns his right glove inward to protect his face, and the punch slams into his forearm, but it doesn’t stop there, continuing to dig downward until it crashes into his chest.

BUGH!

“That one lands clean.”

“And it hurts him.”

Kenta’s face tightens with the pain, but he endures it, leaning his body against the ropes to create just a fraction of space between them.

He then tries to use it, shifting his weight and stepping slightly to the side. But Della Cruz reads it instantly and cuts him off with a wide hook that slams into his upper arm.

DUGH.

“He tried to get out… no chance!”

“Dela Cruz shuts it down immediately!”

The shot isn’t meant to damage, only to keep him there, forcing him back into position, pinning him once again against the ropes.

From there, Della Cruz continues the assault without pause, throwing hook after hook from both sides, maintaining a relentless rhythm that never quite gives Kenta a clean opening to respond.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

At first, Kenta manages to block everything, his guard holding together as the punches crash into his arms and gloves.

Then Della Cruz begins to shift the angle, rotating his torso from side to side, changing the line of attack with each swing to break the structure of the defense.

Most of the punches still meet guard and upper arms, but not all of them.

Dug. Dug. Thud! Dug.

One slips through the movement and lands clean against the ribs, the impact heavier and more direct than the rest.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Thud! Dug.

It’s simple in design, just hook after hook from both sides, relentless, leaving the middle open on purpose as bait, inviting a response that never comes.

Kenta could force it, push through the pressure and create an exchange, but that would play directly into what Della Cruz wants.

“Come on, old man. Come out and fight me.”

“Don’t just stand there.”

“Answer me like you did earlier.”

And Kenta knows it, which is why he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he lets the body register this manageable pain, allowing each impact to sharpen his awareness rather than scatter it, using the pressure to bring his focus back together.

He stays patient, reading the rhythm, searching for the right moment without complicating it, letting instinct take over where thought would only slow him down.

As the round nears the one-minute mark, his body begins to adjust. His guard no longer takes the punches directly, but shifts with them, easing the collision, redirecting the force instead of absorbing it cleanly.

From the outside, it looks as if his guard is starting to fall apart, getting knocked from side to side under the pressure.

“Look at this pressure!”

“He’s getting battered on the ropes right now!”

“This is relentless!”

“But Kenta’s still there… he’s taking everything!”

“He’s getting tossed around on the ropes!”

The crowd reacts to it, the noise building as Della Cruz continues to press. But within that pressure, something begins to settle again.

And then, Kenta starts to add something else to his defense, easing the collision not only by angling and shifting his guard, but also by subtly leaning back into the ropes with each impact.

He lets the elasticity of the strands absorb part of the force instead of taking everything directly into his frame.

And gradually, his facial expression shifts as well, the tension that had been there earlier giving way first to strain, then to a kind of detachment, until it settles into something almost emotionless.

“Notice this, folks,” the lead commentator says, his tone dropping slightly as he studies the change. “Kenta can’t really fight back right now. He’s completely occupied just defending himself…”

“Yeah,” the second follows, a little slower now, as if adjusting to what he’s seeing. “But look at him… he doesn’t look panicked at all.”

Next, Kenta’s guard follows that change. It no longer stays tight and rigid. His right glove drops slightly between exchanges, only lifting again to smother an incoming punch before falling back down.

It’s no longer holding a fixed structure, but adjusting fluidly with each rhythm Della Cruz throws at him.

“…There’s almost no urgency in his face,” the lead commentator continues, now more observant than excited. “It’s like he’s telling you he could take this for a long time.”

“Yeah…” the second agrees quietly. “He’s in full defense, but somehow… he looks comfortable in there.”

And it is because of that relentless assault that something inside Kenta finally locks in.

Not a sudden change, not a visible shift from the outside, but a settling of everything that had been scattered since the interruption. It’s as if the pressure itself has forced him back into alignment.

He is fully inside it now, the zone.