VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The referee immediately dives in, arms outspread to signal the knockdown and begin the count. But he freezes mid-motion as he sees Ryoma stepping closer.

With a cold, deliberate motion, Ryoma hooks the thumb of his glove into the corner of his mouth, breaking the suction of the rubber guard. He pulls the mouthpiece free, pinning it against the padding of his glove.

Immediately, the referee’s face flushes with irritation. “Hey, Ryoma! Get back! Neutral corner!” he bellows, placing a firm hand on Ryoma’s chest to shove him away.

Ryoma doesn’t budge. His gaze is locked onto Villanueva. Without the obstruction of the mouthguard, his voice cuts through the roar of the crowd with crystalline clarity.

“You’d better stop underestimating me,” Ryoma says, his English smooth, edged with bite, “If I want to…”

“Ryoma, this is a warning,” the referee cuts in sharply. “Mouthpiece in, or I’m taking a point.”

“Take as many as you like,” Ryoma replies, turning away as he tosses the last words over his shoulder. “If I want to, I can end this with just my left.”

The referee’s face tightens, irritation finally breaking through. He turns sharply and gestures toward the judges’ table.

“Time! Deduct one point, red corner!” he calls out, his voice firm as his hand signals the penalty.

A wave of surprised noise rolls through the crowd. It’s not outrage, but a collective jolt of disbelief, murmurs rising as spectators exchange glances, caught off guard by the sudden call.

“Oh! Point deduction!” the lead commentator exclaims.

“That’s for the mouthpiece. He was warned!” the second adds. “But Ryoma pushed it too far there!”

“And that’s significant!You don’t often see that in a moment like this!”

“Yeah, that could have a real impact on how this fight plays out.”

“But Ryoma doesn’t look concerned at all.”

And indeed, Ryoma doesn’t react. He slips the mouthpiece back in as he walks, calm and unhurried, his eyes dropping to Hugo Ramirez and Jackson Rhodes at ringside. His expression stays cold, detached, like the deduction doesn’t register at all.

“You might’ve bought the judges. But it means nothing to me.”

Back in the red corner, Coach Nakahara doesn’t look pleased with the point deduction or the mistake Ryoma just made. But as he notices the way Ryoma stares down at ringside, he begins to understand what he’s doing.

This isn’t just indifference toward the rules or the referee’s warning. He’s delivering a message, toward Villanueva, and also toward Hugo Ramirez and Jackson Rhodes.

For Nakahara, this kind of cold confidence is far better than having Ryoma act naive and soft out of misplaced respect for his opponent’s sympathy.

Up in the ring, Villanueva receives that message clearly. On the surface, it sounds like arrogance, a taunt, sharp and dismissive. But the tone carries something else beneath it, something more direct and honest.

Don’t hold back.

Don’t worry about the shoulder.

Fight me properly.

Villanueva’s jaw tightens slightly as the meaning settles in. He looks irritated, not at Ryoma’s words, but at his own naivety, worrying about his opponent’s condition in the middle of a fight.

Looking at the situation as it is, Villanueva knows he doesn’t have that kind of luxury to begin with. He’s fighting a dangerous prodigy, one who just dropped him to a knee without even relying on his right.

***

The referee resumes his count from where he left off instead of following the timekeeper’s clock, subtly giving Villanueva a few extra seconds to recover.

“Four… five…”

Regardless, Villanueva pushes himself up on “six,” forcing his body to respond even as the pain still lingers deep in his side and his legs haven’t fully steadied. He rises anyway, refusing to stay down a moment longer than necessary.

Ryoma notices the count doesn’t match the actual time, but there’s no reaction from him. He remains in the neutral corner, both arms resting along the top rope, his expression distant and unreadable.

The referee continues the count, only stopping on eight, and then steps in to take Villanueva’s gloves, eyes scanning him carefully.

“Are you okay? Can you continue?”

“I’m fine,” Villanueva answers. “I can still fight.”

After a brief pause, the referee nods and steps back to resume the action.

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He stays leaned against the ropes, arms still draped over the top strand, watching Villanueva with a calm, detached gaze that now carries something heavier than before.

It doesn’t feel like composure anymore. This time, there’s a pure arrogance in it, as if he’s looking down rather than across, like a man completely unconcerned with what’s in front of him.

The referee cuts his hand through the air.

“Box!”

Villanueva immediately raises his guard, tightening it high as he braces himself. His legs are still unreliable, the pain still echoing through his body, so he decides to focus on his defense for the time being.

And Ryoma, instead of stepping in to finish it, simply stays where he is, waiting, leaving the space open and daring Villanueva to come to him.

An even greater confusion spreads through the arena. A few voices rise, scattered and unsure, reacting not with outrage but with genuine puzzlement. This isn’t the response they were expecting, not after a clean knockdown like that.

“…Wait, why isn’t he going in?” the lead commentator says, a hint of disbelief creeping into his voice.

“I don’t understand this,” the second adds, sounding just as caught off guard. “He’s got Villanueva hurt, this is the moment you press, you don’t just stand there and give him space.”

“Especially after scoring a knockdown like that,” the lead continues. “Most fighters would be all over him right now, trying to close the show.”

“But look at Ryoma,” the second says, his tone shifting, more analytical now. “He’s not frozen, he’s choosing this. He’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“That’s the question. Because right now, he’s giving Villanueva a chance to recover.

“Against a fighter of that level? That’s a very dangerous decision.”

The referee’s patience thins quickly, still carrying the irritation from the earlier warning and point deduction. To him, this doesn’t look like a shared hesitation. It looks like Ryoma pushing boundaries again.

“Come on! Fight!” he barks, pointing directly at Ryoma. “Step off the corner!”

Ryoma finally straightens, pushing himself off the ropes. But he doesn’t step forward. Instead, he stays right where he is.

His arms lift slightly, spreading out from his sides, no longer resting on the ropes but still wide, still open. There’s no guard, no urgency, no movement to meet his opponent.

He says nothing, but the message is unmistakable.

I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

Now come and fight me.

“…Hold on a second,” the lead commentator says, his tone shifting as he catches what’s unfolding. “Ryoma’s clearly inviting it.”

“That’s a bold statement,” the second commentator follows, sharper now. “He’s deliberately putting himself on the corner. That’s the worst position a boxer can choose, and he’s choosing it.”

“He’s basically daring Villanueva to come to him,” the lead adds. “After scoring a knockdown, no less.”

“And now the question is, how does Villanueva respond to that?” the second says. “Because if he takes it, he’s walking straight into whatever Ryoma’s setting up.”

The referee’s focus shifts, the earlier irritation no longer fixed on one side. He glances between them, then gestures again, this time more evenly.

“Let’s go! Both of you… Fight!”

But Villanueva doesn’t move either. He knows he needs time, even just a few more seconds for his body to catch up, for that deep, lingering pain to settle enough for him to function properly.

Pressuring from here, rushing forward while his legs still feel unreliable, would be a mistake he can’t afford. So he hesitates.

And that hesitation leaves the referee in an awkward position, caught between two fighters who aren’t engaging for entirely different reasons.

His expression tightens, uncertainty flickering for a brief moment as he tries to decide who to push, who to warn, how far he should go without overstepping.

“Come on, let’s fight!” he calls again, stepping slightly closer.

This time, his voice tilts more toward Villanueva, who stands nearer to him. And that finally forces a reaction.

Villanueva takes a step forward, and the moment he moves, it shows. His footing isn’t clean, the step lacks its usual firmness, just slightly off, just enough for anyone to see that the damage from that liver shot hasn’t gone anywhere.

He’s still hurt, but the situation doesn’t allow him to linger any longer. The awkward standoff forces him to step in and take the initiative. As soon as he reaches range, he starts with two probing jabs, testing the distance more than committing to damage.

Ryoma lowers his arms slightly from that wide, open posture, but still doesn’t bring them into a proper guard. Instead, he makes the smallest adjustments, tilting his torso just enough on the right, then drawing his head back, letting both punches fall short without needing anything more.

“Look at that. He’s not even guarding!” the lead commentator blurts, disbelief creeping into his voice. “He’s slipping those with just upper body movement!”