VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

To those who only know Ryoma as the Cruel King, the moment feels completely out of place. A fighter with that reputation doesn’t pull punches, not in a fight of this level.

But the ones who have seen him up close, this isn’t new. They’ve watched him soften in sparring in some occasions, holding back just enough to avoid hurting his partners, choosing control over damage when he doesn’t need to prove anything. Still, seeing that same instinct surface here, on this stage, makes no sense.

At ringside, Dr. Mizuno shifts slightly, eyes narrowing as he studies Ryoma more carefully. He has seen these shifts before, labeled them as adaptive intelligence, a flexible mind adjusting to the situation.

But this doesn’t feel like that at all. This isn’t intelligence. This is him choosing to be kind at the worst possible moment.

Back in the red corner, Nakahara’s expression tightens with clear disapproval. “What are you thinking, kid…” he mutters under his breath. “Becoming soft now just because he showed you a bit of sympathy?”

Kurogane glances at him, brows lifting. “So it’s true… he pulled that punch out of mercy?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Nakahara replies, his voice low but certain. “In the first round, Villanueva didn’t hesitate at all. He went straight at that right side without thinking twice.”

His gaze drifts briefly toward the opposite corner before returning to the ring. “But something changed during the break. His coach must’ve told him to go after the shoulder properly. And he didn’t like it. And it ruins his form, afraid to dislocate the kid’s right shoulder.”

Kurogane’s expression tightens slightly. “And Ryoma knows it?”

“Yeah…” Nakahara exhales through his nose, irritation creeping in. “He picked up on it. He felt that hesitation. And now he’s holding back too, refusing to take the opening that hesitation creates.”

He clicks his tongue, eyes locked on Ryoma. “Come on, kid. This isn’t sparring.”

The old man has the reason to be worried here. Because Ryoma’s current situation isn’t the best time for him to be naïve.

Thankfully, there’s another voice inside Ryoma, one that doesn’t let him linger in that softness, one that keeps pressing, stripping it away piece by piece, pushing him back toward something cruel.

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Ryoma’s brow tightens. The words sink in, blending with the noise of the arena, the roar of thousands who came with high expectation.

And right now, to meet that expectation, his opponent is holding back, not wanting to make the fight too easy for him.

Even as they circle, even as Villanueva probes from a safe distance, his eyes keep drifting toward that right shoulder. The hesitation is there, plain to see, written across every adjusted angle, every softened follow-through.

When he steps in behind a sharper sequence—jab, jab, a right cross, then another jab—everything stays disciplined, directed cleanly toward the head. His lead hand fires straight, controlled, never curving toward the side, never straying close to that right shoulder.

The simplicity makes them easier for Ryoma to read and block, the lines clear enough for him to see the openings he’s been noticing all along.

But even now, Ryoma doesn’t take them. He still doesn’t feel like taking those openings for a counter.

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Ryoma’s jaw tightens slightly.

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A faint tension runs through Ryoma’s shoulders. He still feels genuine respect toward Villanueva. But now he realizes, that respect could cost him the fight.

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Finally, Ryoma’s expression shifts, from hesitation to contempt, before settling into something completely detached and emotionless.

At that same moment, the voice in his head falls silent, and he calmly rebuilds his lazy, swaying rhythm. This time, there’s no hesitation in his movement.

The strikes come in a slow beat; a probing jab followed by two loose lead hooks, lightly brushing against Villanueva’s gloves as he sways deeper.

As he sways away, his right hand drifts forward. Villanueva’s eyes sharpen, catching the motion, expecting Ryoma to finally throw with his right.

Yet the hand only follows the sway, extending without intent. The punch falls short, hitting nothing before swaying backward.

But then, as the pendulum swings forward again, Ryoma actually commits. His right shoots out for two compact jab-like punches, pinning Villanueva’s left hand in place.

Dug. Dug.

Villanueva reads it for what it is. “So you’re saying you can still use that hand, huh?”

But while his attention locks onto that, he misses that Ryoma’s stance has changed.

Ryoma sways back again, and Villanueva steps in deeper with a jab and a cross. The jab is easily deflected by Ryoma’s right glove. But the cross, that’s when it feels wrong.

The punch, which should have reached, cuts through empty air, nowhere near Ryoma’s chest. The angle is off, completely off.

“Wait…” the lead commentator blurts. “Villanueva completely misjudges that cross.”

“And that’s a costly mistake,” the second commentator cuts in.

And by the time Villanueva realizes it, it’s already too late. Ryoma’s left snaps into his face.

Dhuack!

“And Ryoma makes him pay for it immediately!”

“What a counter!”

Villanueva’s head snaps back. He had prepared for Ryoma’s switch-hitting, but getting caught by it anyway grates on him.

“Damn it… didn’t see that coming.”

He takes a step back to reset, but Ryoma is already moving. A sudden ’ghost step’ carries him forward as he shifts back to orthodox, cutting the distance smoothly while firing a simple jab that snaps out without any wasted movement.

There’s no visible load, just a jab released from stillness at the exact moment he switches the stance.

To Villanueva’s eyes, the glove doesn’t travel, but simply swells in size, suddenly looks bigger, and…

Dsh!

Villanueva winces, his face clouded with confusion.

“It’s that same left… I couldn’t react to it.”

Before he can settle, Ryoma follows the sequence smootly, sliding his left foot forward to widen his stance, then swings a lead hook.

Dsh!

Then, just as fluidly, he pulls his right foot in, shifting back into southpaw while driving a compact right straight through the opening.

Dsh!

Villanueva’s head snaps back again, his face tightening in confusion. And when his vision clears, Ryoma is already back in southpaw, composed as ever.

“And there it is! He’s picked him apart!”

“That’s a three-punch sequence, clean and seamless!”

“It all starts from that jab. Villanueva couldn’t react to it, and suddenly Ryoma’s already chaining the rest!”

“That’s elite-level execution right there. No wasted motion, just one continuous flow!”

Villanueva’s irritation shows plainly now, not just at that left, but at the realization that Ryoma is actually using his right hand.

“And here I am… worrying I’d dislocate it again.”

What he doesn’t realize is that Ryoma’s right is still limited, carefully managed. It’s functional, but only within a narrow range. Ryoma avoids overextending it, avoids loading it with full commitment, anything that might risk the joint slipping again.

Straight and compact punches are still safe. And from the southpaw stance, that right becomes a steady jab, simple, controlled, and still heavy. It’s not varied like his left, not layered or deceptive. But it’s purposeful.

Jab. Jab.

Jab. Jab. Jab.

Dug. Dug.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Each one presses against Villanueva’s lead hand, nudging it, pinning it, keeping it occupied. And that alone disrupts everything.

Villanueva, the so-called architect, builds his rhythm through that lead hand. It’s where his structure begins, where his timing forms. But now that hand is constantly checked, redirected, denied the space it needs to function.

He tries to adjust, stepping off at an angle, shifting his lead to a different line to free it. But Ryoma tracks it effortlessly. He’s not aiming for openings anymore. He’s aiming for that hand.

Even when he misses, it’s only because Villanueva has pulled the left so far out of position that it can’t be used anyway.

Even beyond that, dealing with a southpaw brings its own layer of trouble. The angles shift, the lines feel unfamiliar, and every adjustment demands just a fraction more thought. And right now, Villanueva is already occupied, trying to reclaim control of his lead hand, trying to rebuild his rhythm under pressure.

Before he can fully settles, Ryoma already switches the stance again.

He does it seamlessly, the transition so clean it barely registers, and pairs it with that subtle ’ghost step’, a small, almost invisible advance that quietly cuts the distance.

In an instant, he’s perfectly in range, in a position where he doesn’t need to over-commit his shoulder to reach.

His left glove simply snaps forward with no wasted motion, and…

Dsh!

Villanueva’s head jerks back again, caught before he can even process the shift.

Ryoma doesn’t pause, sliding his left foot forward, widening his base, setting the next motion in place.

Not wanting to be caught by the same sequence again, Villanueva reacts quickly, bringing his right glove higher and wider, bracing for the hook he expects to come from that angle.

But it never comes. Ryoma dips sharply to his left instead, his weight dropping as his lead foot twists, the motion flowing through his thigh, then his hips, in one tight coiled release.

The left hand drives straight into the liver…

BAM!!!

“Oh! Big body shot!!”

“That’s the liver! He dug it in clean!”

The impact is brutal, compact, and deep, the force sinking through muscle and flesh before exploding inward.

Villanueva’s body seizes. His breath vanishes instantly, like something has been ripped out from inside him.

He tries to hold it together, forces himself to step back once, twice.

But his legs give, and…

“Down! Villanueva drops to one knee!”

“Just two minutes into round two… Ryoma Takeda scores a knockdown!”