VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Elliot steps in again behind the familiar pendulum rhythm, swaying lightly before suddenly settling at close range.

Then three compact punches fire straight through the middle in quick succession.

Shimamura absorbs the first two cleanly on his gloves…

Dug. Dug.

…before stepping backward to evade the third.

But this time, the movement no longer looks loose or drunken. His rear foot pivots sharply. Then he slides outside with smooth balanced footwork before stepping back in immediately behind a ducking head movement.

Then he fires a sharp one-two in the middle. Elliot reads both punches well enough to block them cleanly.

Dug. Dug.

But then the third strike comes, faster and sharper. Shimamura’s torso bends fluidly instead of swaying awkwardly, and a compact lead hook snaps into Elliot’s side.

Thud!

Elliot immediately chops a left hand downward in response. But Shimamura has already pulled himself back outside the impact line before the punch fully arrives.

Zrrf!

Shimamura’s defense remains incredible, yet it looks completely different now. He no longer waits for the final split second before slipping danger away by instinct alone.

The movements come earlier, cleaner, born from awareness, balance, and pure boxing fundamentals rather than chaotic reactions.

“And wait a minute… this is completely different now!”

“Look at Shimamura’s footwork!”

“He’s not stumbling around anymore! Those are clean pivots and proper exits!”

“There’s structure behind the movement now!”

Shimamura slides his lead foot forward again, posture balanced beneath him, and suddenly there is visible spring inside his legs when he attacks.

A jab and a cross snap out, then a tight left body blow twisting sharply from the hips and shoulders.

Dug. Dug. Dugh!

Elliot catches all three punches on his guard and elbows. And through the blocks, he feels the sharpness and the sting.

For the first time tonight, Shimamura’s punches no longer feel loose. The entire shape of the fight changes immediately, and Elliot adjusts to it just as quickly.

But strangely enough, the change does not actually make the fight more difficult for him. If anything, it becomes a kind of fight Elliot understands far better.

Shimamura’s footwork now looks cleaner, his combinations sharper, his stance more balanced. Yet despite all of that, he still cannot create the kind of devastating moment needed to end the fight outright. And that reality slowly begins frustrating him.

The rounds continue slipping away toward the tenth with Shimamura growing increasingly impatient in his pursuit of a knockdown, while Elliot remains disciplined behind smart footwork, compact combinations, and carefully calculated risks.

Only in the final ten seconds does the arena descend briefly into madness. Shimamura suddenly surges forward aggressively near the ropes, throwing sharp hooks and crosses toward Elliot’s head while trying to force one final decisive moment before the bell.

“And HERE WE GO! Shimamura’s going for it now!”

“He knows he probably needs something huge here!”

“And Graves just needs to survive these last few seconds!”

Elliot tightens his guard while shifting laterally along the ropes, absorbing most of the punches against his gloves and forearms.

Dug! Dug! Dug!

A few body blows still slip through to the side. But every dangerous shot toward the head crashes harmlessly against Elliot’s disciplined guard.

Dug. Thud! Thud! Dug. Dug. Dug.

“And Graves is staying composed!”

“He’s not taking unnecessary risks anymore! He just wants the finish line now!”

Then finally…

DING! DING! DING!

“THERE’S the final bell!”

“What a fascinating fight!”

“An absolutely bizarre stylistic battle from start to finish!”

“Shimamura created the biggest moments of the fight, especially with that knockdown… but Elliot Graves made unbelievable adjustments after the middle rounds!”

“And honestly, that discipline may have just won him this fight tonight!”

The entire arena erupts into deafening noise afterward. Thousands of people rise from their seats while applause, cheers, whistles, and shouting crash together beneath the bright arena lights after ten intense rounds of tension and adjustment.

At center ring, Shimamura stands still for several seconds while breathing heavily through his nose. And somehow, he looks genuinely upset.

He’s not too exhausted, not hurt too much. He looks better compared to all his previous fights in Japan. But there’s a deep dissatisfaction in him.

Meanwhile, Elliot slowly walks back toward his corner before raising one glove slightly toward the crowd.

There is no wild celebration in him either, only quiet satisfaction as the fight ended almost exactly according to the plan Sergei Volkov built for him.

***

The atmosphere inside the arena remains loud long after the final bell, but neither fighter shows much reaction while standing near center ring waiting for the official decision.

Elliot keeps his gloves resting calmly near his waist while breathing steadily through his nose, still convinced the fight has gone according to plan.

Across from him, Shimamura stands quietly beneath the arena lights with a towel hanging around his shoulders. His expression remains tense and dissatisfied, as if he already understands something the audience does not.

The ring announcer finally steps toward center ring with the scorecards held inside both hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after ten rounds of action, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

The crowd immediately erupts into anticipation.

Then the announcer raises the first card. “Judge Carlos Mendez scores the bout… ninety-five to ninety-five.”

Elliot’s brows twitch slightly at the draw card, a brief look crossing his face as if genuinely questioning what that judge had been watching all night.

Beside him, Shimamura only glances briefly toward the announcer before lowering his eyes again. There is no hope rising in his expression. If anything, he seems to treat it as nothing more than courtesy from one judge before the remaining cards inevitably lean toward Elliot.

The announcer continues. “Judge Matteo Belini scores the bout… ninety-seven to ninety-two.”

This time, Elliot gives a small nod before softly clapping his gloves together once. That wide margin confirms everything he already believes about the fight.

No matter how strange Shimamura looked, no matter how exciting the exchanges felt to the audience, Elliot remains convinced the actual boxing itself had been under his control for most of the night.

Beside him, Shimamura’s expression dims further. He already understands what a score that wide likely means. To him, the final card now feels no more than a formality.

Then the announcer lifts the third scorecard. “Judge Allen Brooks scores the bout… ninety-five to ninety-five.”

For half a second, the arena falls strangely quiet. But the ring announcer proceed with the result based on the judges’ decision.

“Ladies and gentlemen… this bout is ruled a MAJORITY DRAW!”

The crowd explodes instantly afterward. Cheers, applause, whistles, and shouting crash through the arena from every direction as many fans rise from their seats to celebrate the unbelievable fight they just witnessed.

“SHIMAMURAAAAAA!”

“GRAVES! GRAVES! GRAVES!!!”

“THAT WAS INSANE!”

“BOTH OF THEM!”

“SUCH AN INTERESTING FIGHT!

“WE WANT A REMATCH!”

“REMATCH! REMATCH! REMATCH!”

Even people still arguing over the result continue clapping loudly while the noise rolls endlessly across the packed arena.

But inside the ring itself, the reactions remain far more complicated. Elliot immediately turns toward his corner with visible disbelief written across his face.

“That’s ridiculous… How do you score that a draw?”

Volkov’s expression remains colder than angry, but irritation still flickers clearly behind his eyes as he exchanges several heated words with the corner team.

A few moments later, the Russian coach walks directly toward the ringside advisor near the judges’ table.

“That scoring makes no sense,” Volkov says firmly. “One wide card and two draws? Explain that.”

The advisor keeps his composure despite the pressure. “The judges are allowed their own interpretation of effective boxing, Mr. Volkov.”

Volkov’s jaw tightens. “Interpretation?”

“The decision isn’t mine,” the advisor replies calmly. “The judges have full authority over their assessment.”

Meanwhile, inside the blue corner, the atmosphere remains much quieter. Franc Donovan says nothing, neither do the cornermen.

And Shimamura himself remains standing silently with both gloves resting against the top rope. There is no relief in his face despite the official result, only dissatisfaction.

Because more honestly than anyone else inside the arena, Shimamura understands he failed to achieve what he truly wanted tonight.