VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Inside Nakahara’s office, the atmosphere turns strangely tense afterward as nobody speaks for a brief moment.

The television light flickers across everyone’s faces while Shimamura continues walking toward his corner with that loose drunken sway.

There’s disbelief mixed into the silence now, because everyone inside this room understands exactly how abnormal that round just felt.

“…He’s already inside the Zone now,” Ryoma says with complete certainty.

Kenta’s brows tighten immediately. “…This soon? So early in the first round? And he reached it before even taking that much damage at all?”

“Hm…” Nakahara hums deeply while folding his arms tighter. “It seems he’s finally able to enter it at a whim now. Without needing to push himself all the way into danger first.”

The arena remains loud even after the first round ends. Large sections of the crowd continue buzzing from Shimamura’s late counters while replay footage flashes repeatedly across the massive overhead screens.

Onscreen, Shimamura finally reaches the blue corner and casually lowers himself onto the stool after one of his cornermen gestures toward it.

That small moment immediately catches Nakahara’s attention. His eyes narrow slightly, because Shimamura actually responds properly, not like someone completely submerged inside that state.

Franc Donovan crouches down directly in front of him afterward while another cornerman presses an ice pack briefly against Shimamura’s shoulder. And surprisingly, Shimamura actually listens.

Even with that faint thrill still lingering visibly across his face beneath the arena lights, he keeps his eyes focused toward Franc while calmly breathing through his nose.

There is still looseness in his posture, still that strange intoxicated atmosphere around him. But mentally, he remains present enough to process instructions.

“…Wait,” Aramaki mutters quietly while staring at the television. “He’s responding normally.”

Onscreen, Franc speaks calmly while keeping his voice low and economical between the surrounding arena noise.

“Keep it minimalist,” he says. “Don’t chase exchanges.”

Shimamura spits lightly into the bucket near his feet before nodding once.

Franc continues without raising his tone. “He’ll start attacking the body more now. Easier target. Easier way to pin your movement and stop your reactions. Don’t force counters unless he overcommits. Just keep ruining the impact clean.”

Shimamura rolls his shoulders loosely once while staring toward the opposite corner where Elliot is still receiving instructions from Sergei Volkov.

“…He’s getting irritated already,” Shimamura says quietly.

Franc’s eyes sharpen afterward. “Good. Make him greedier.”

Aramaki’s brows slowly tighten while continuing to watch the exchange. “…Is he really in the Zone right now? He’s casually talking to his second like normal.”

“In Shimamura’s case, you can still talk to him,” Nakahara says. “He’s already too used to that sensation…And he can stay near the edge as long as he wants.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “As long as he can feel the ecstacy, he can dive back into the Zone again without much effort.”

***

The second round begins with Elliot Graves pushing forward almost immediately again. Just as Franc Donovan predicted, there is no patience left in Elliot’s approach tonight.

His Soviet rhythm remains disciplined, his footwork still controlled, but the aggression underneath it has clearly intensified now. He wants to break Shimamura before this strange rhythm settles any deeper.

Elliot steps in behind a sharp jab before suddenly whipping a heavy hook toward Shimamura’s left side.

The punch crashes directly against Shimamura’s upper arm…

Dugh!

…hard enough to briefly break his balance sideways.

And almost instantly, the change returns. The adrenaline surges again. Somewhere inside Shimamura, that dangerous thrill sharpens once more.

Elliot immediately follows with more punches from compressed mid-range; jab-cross, jab-lead hook, short straight-upper.

But this time, Shimamura never even lifts his guard. The crowd erupts as he simply sways loosely away from all the punches with awkward, unstable-looking steps that somehow still carry him just outside clean impact range every single time.

Fsh!

Zrrf!

Whff!

“And there’s the drunken movement again!”

“Look at the way he’s slipping those punches without even resetting his stance properly!”

For more than thirty seconds afterward, Shimamura barely throws anything at all. He simply keeps drifting, tilting, swaying, walking awkwardly through Elliot’s pressure while almost never committing to offense himself.

And little by little, Elliot’s pendulum rhythm starts losing its purpose. The distance blur becomes meaningless when Shimamura refuses to bite on the visual traps.

The chance for the step-back counters never appear because Shimamura barely throws punches to begin with. Everything Elliot normally uses to manipulate reactions starts finding less and less response.

“This is getting strange now! Graves is still controlling the pace, but Shimamura isn’t reacting like a normal opponent anymore.”

“And somehow that’s slowing Elliot down mentally! Because the bait for those Soviet counters just isn’t there!”

“And look at Graves now! He’s starting to resemble a pressure fighter more than that elegant Soviet stylist with the smooth pendulum rhythm!”

Elliot continues landing enough clean touches to control the optics of the round.

A straight lands against Shimamura’s guard and partially slips through.

Dsh!

Moments later, after a series of miss punches, another hook crashes into the side of his body.

Thud!

The crowd reacts loudly again as Shimamura steps away awkwardly afterward. But the punch barely seems to affect him at all. It’s still scoring, still visible. Yet, the impact angle had been terrible again.

And with Shimamura refusing to throw meaningful volume back, the round continues leaning toward Elliot on paper.

“If this pace keeps going, Graves is probably taking another round here!”

“But I still don’t think he looks comfortable!”

And indeed, Elliot doesn’t look satisfied at all, because despite controlling the action, he never receives the satisfaction of truly stopping Shimamura’s movement.

Every clean connection feels incomplete. And little by little, irritation begins creeping into Elliot’s rhythm, until eventually, he overcommits.

A jab shoots forward, then a right uppercut, then a lead hook behind it, Elliot dives deeper into range trying to finally trap Shimamura in place.

But instead of evading the first two punches, Shimamura deliberately catches them just to give Elliot the brief sensation of finally forcing proper contact.

Dug!

Dugh!

And that tiny moment of confidence becomes the trap, because the instant the lead hook comes with overcommitting stance, Shimamura leans his entire torso backward unnaturally while swinging a right hand upward from below in one loose arcing motion.

Dhuack!

Elliot’s head snaps upward violently, and the crowd explodes.

“And THERE’S that counter again!”

Elliot freezes for half a second from the impact.

And Shimamura immediately slides forward just enough to drive a compact lead hook into the body followed by a short right hook against the side of Elliot’s head.

THUD!

DSH!

Then Shimamura casually begins walking away again with those same loose drunken steps.

Elliot still manages to fire two more punches before the distance fully opens. But Shimamura simply pulls his right shoulder backward first, then the left.

His torso leaning away awkwardly as he continues drifting outside range while both Elliot’s gloves slice uselessly through empty air beside him.

Elliot’s patience finally cracks, and he lunges forward behind another straight punch, posture extending too deeply this time as he chases the opening.

He feels certain the punch finally lands clean this time. But at the final split second, Shimamura slips away again even from a terrible posture.

The glove only grazes past his right ear, and from that same tilted posture…

Dhuack! Dsh!

A right cross and short lead hook snap sharply into Elliot’s face almost back-to-back. Both punches land clean enough to visibly stun him in place.

“OH! Graves walks straight into another counter sequence!”

“And Shimamura barely even plants his feet for those punches! That’s what makes this so unsettling!”

“Those shots aren’t loaded with full power, but they keep landing clean, and Elliot is starting to feel every single one of them!”

And yes, the only reason Elliot remains standing is because neither punch carries full weight behind it, both thrown from compromised body positions without complete structural rotation.

But the damage still registers. Elliot instinctively rubs at his face while raising his gloves higher now. And then he simply stands there, looking completely unsure how to deal with what’s standing in front of him anymore.

He’s still leading on scoring based on number of cleanly-landed punches. But he isn’t sure for how long he can keep it that way.

Meanwhile, Shimamura’s output has been unbelievably minimal, even his footwork looks economical, like he’s deliberately conserving every ounce of stamina.

But whenever he finally chooses to throw, the punches land so cleanly that they feel more impactful than the dozens Elliot has already poured into the fight.