VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The television broadcast is still replaying highlights from the fight when the argument finally erupts inside Nakahara’s office.

“I still don’t understand how the hell that ends as a draw,” Okabe says while throwing both hands upward. “Forget the draw, honestly, Shimamura should’ve won that fight.”

“Exactly,” Ryohei nods. “Graves spent half the night punching air. The guy looked frustrated from round one.”

“Look at this shit,” Okabe points aggressively toward the television. “Look at Elliot’s face. His cheek’s swollen, eyes bruised. And Shimamura looks like he’s about to do a magazine interview afterward.”

“Yeah,” Ryohei adds, growing more animated now that someone’s agreeing with him. “You can’t tell me the cleaner punches came from Elliot. Every meaningful shot came from Shimamura. Those counters were sharp as hell.”

“Knockdown in round six,” Okabe says immediately. “Biggest moment of the match. That alone changes the entire fight.”

Ryoma finally exhales softly through his nose. “You two sound exactly like drunk football fans after a controversial derby.”

Both of them immediately turn toward him with the exact same irritated expression.

“Congratulations,” Ryoma shrugs. “Shimamura made Elliot miss a lot. Incredible achievement. Defensive masterclass. Truly historic.”

The sarcasm drips so dryly from his voice that even Kurogane snorts quietly from behind the desk.

Okabe narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re judging the fight emotionally because the flashy moments stayed in your head longer,” Ryoma says calmly.

Ryohei scoffs. “Oh, here we go.”

“You keep replaying the knockdown,” Ryoma continues. “The counters, the slips. Fine. But tell me something. Who actually landed more clean scoring blows?”

“Shimamura!” Okabe answers immediately.

Ryoma blinks once. “Fantastic analysis.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Ryoma gestures lazily toward the screen. “Elliot dictated the pace for most of the fight. He scored consistently, controlled the engagements, shut exchanges down whenever he wanted, and since that knockdown, he stopped giving Shimamura clean counter opportunities.”

“He still got hit harder,” Ryohei argues.

“And Shimamura barely threw anything for entire stretches of the fight,” Ryoma counters.

“Because Elliot was scared to engage,” Okabe fires back.

“Because Elliot isn’t stupid like you.”

Okabe clicks his tongue loudly. “That’s bullshit. Shimamura had him looking stupid all night.”

“And that’s the funny part,” Ryoma says. “Shimamura gave everyone the impression he was dominating because every successful moment looked dramatic. But round scoring doesn’t work on aura farming.”

He glances toward Okabe. “He’s lucky the fight ended a draw. A wide decision for Elliot would’ve been completely reasonable too.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Okabe snaps. “You’re just still pissed about your old grudge with Shimamura, so now you’re busy sucking up to that foreigner from London.”

Before the argument can explode further, Nakahara finally reaches his limit. After enduring several minutes of Okabe and Ryohei practically leaning across him every time they bark arguments toward Ryoma, he suddenly rises from the middle of the sofa and forcefully shoves both of them backward with visible irritation.

“That’s enough.”

The room quiets immediately.

“Both of you, get out and go train.”

“What? Why?” Okabe stares at him in disbelief. “Why only us?”

“What about this bastard?” Ryohei points at Ryoma. “Why doesn’t he have to train too?”

“Because I’m not the one with an upcoming fight,” Ryoma says calmly. “And unlike you two, I don’t need cardio training just to survive an argument.”

Okabe clicks his tongue loudly afterward, still glaring toward Ryoma with obvious irritation. Ryohei pushes himself off too, muttering under his breath while grabbing the towel hanging around his neck.

“Unbelievable. Guy watches one foreign boxer and suddenly thinks he’s a judge now.”

Ryoma does not even bother reacting anymore. He simply keeps his cheek resting against his fist while watching the television calmly, completely uninterested in continuing the argument.

“Majority draw my ass,” Okabe mutters, still grumbling all the way toward the door. “Shimamura beat the shit out of him.”

“And the kid somehow scores it for London,” Ryohei mutters.

“Traitor behavior.”

“Disgusting behavior.”

The office door slides open roughly before both of them finally disappear outside into the gym area, still complaining loud enough for everyone remaining inside to hear fragments of the argument fading into the distance.

Near the doorway, Satoru watches them leave while sitting on a small round stool, one hand rubbing absentmindedly against his belly with a quiet amused grin spreading across his face.

“You guys sound like old drunk uncles arguing over Barcelona vs Madrid.”

Then Kenta rises from his seat before stretching both arms overhead with a long exhale.

“Come on, Satoru! Don’t get too comfortable just because you won Rookie King. Go train too.”

Hiroshi nods afterward while already walking toward the exit. And Satoru pushes himself up from the stool with a groan.

Aramaki pats his thighs once, seeming to leave too. But Nakahara immediately stops him with a small gesture.

“You stay here.”

Aramaki blinks. “Don’t I need to go back to training?”

“For now,” Nakahara says while keeping his eyes on the television, “watching this fight benefits you more than the training.”

“Oh, sure,” Aramaki mutters and leans back comfortably.

Only Aramaki, Ryoma, Sera, Kurogane, and Nakahara remain now. And unlike the others, they have valid reason to stay behind.

***

Inside the television broadcast, the atmosphere in the arena changes completely as the camera pans slowly across the crowd beneath darker lighting and louder anticipation.

The earlier chaos surrounding Shimamura and Elliot has already faded into background noise compared to what comes next.

The ring announcer has just finished the final introductions. Both fighters are already standing inside their respective corners; in the red corner, ranked number one by the WBO Liam O’Connell, while in the blue corner, ranked number two Miguel Cabello!”

Another wave of noise crashes through the arena. The vacant WBO world title belt rests on a platform beside the officials’ table, shining brightly beneath the overhead lights.

And inside Nakahara’s office, the atmosphere subtly changes with it. Because unlike Shimamura’s strange spectacle earlier tonight, this fight now serves as something far more important for them; the study material for Ryoma’s future world title match.

Back on the TV, the bell for the first round finally rings.

Ding!

The opening seconds pass without either man rushing recklessly forward. At this level, especially in a world title fight, the first round is rarely about immediate violence. It is about information.

Liam O’Connell begins advancing almost immediately from the center, shoulders rolling lightly as he applies steady forward pressure behind a probing lead hand.

There is nothing explosive about it yet, only slow territorial pressure step by step, subtly trying to claim the center of the ring and force Miguel backward toward the outer lanes.

Across from him, Miguel Cabello circles lightly near the perimeter with compact footwork, posture upright and balanced in that distinctly Cuban style. His lead hand floats loose near chest level while his rear glove stays high near the cheek.

He gives small feints constantly; tiny shoulder twitches, half-steps, brief level changes. Every so often, Miguel subtly dips his lead shoulder while sliding the rear foot forward just enough to almost resemble a brief stance switch.

Then he smoothly settles back into his initial position again. Despite how subtle the movement actually is, Liam visibly hesitates each time it appears.

“That’s annoying to deal with,” Nakahara says quietly. “From that same motion, he can suddenly leap into range, cut an angle, fully switch into southpaw, or simply reset back to orthodox again.”

Cabello casually walks laterally along the perimeter, posture still relaxed while his lead hand floats loosely near chest level.

Then he suddenly stops, shifts back the opposite direction for two short steps, before settling briefly into a lower crouching stance.

That tiny pause immediately draws Liam forward. The pressure fighter steps in behind his jab as he prepares to finally close distance properly.

And Miguel repeats the same subtle movement again; a slight dip of the lead shoulder, the rear foot slides outward wider beneath him, almost resembling the beginning of a stance switch.

This time, however, after softly touches Liam’s jab while ducking, a sharp left hand suddenly shoots upward from the lower position toward Liam’s chin.

Liam blocks it well enough on the right glove…

Dug.

…but his advance halts immediately.

“There’s the problem,” Nakahara says quietly. “That same motion can branch into too many maneuvers.”

Onscreen, Miguel smoothly brings the lead foot back forward again before snapping another quick left toward chest level, landing harmlessly on Liam’s guard.

Dug!

But the second left quickly dips lower before digging sharply into the body.

Thud!

“Good touch,” Sera mutters.

Miguel immediately hops backward with smooth balance before lightly performing a short pendulum step, briefly giving the illusion that he might spring forward into another combination.

Liam braces instinctively, but no attack comes. Instead, Miguel calmly shifts into an L-step exit before continuing to walk laterally around the perimeter again.

“Can you see it, kid?” Nakahara says quietly. “That guy’s mindset in boxing is much closer to yours.”

Ryoma immediately winces with a strange amused look. “He makes one pendulum step and suddenly he’s me already?”

“It’s not about the pendulum step,” Sera chimes in. “It’s the mindset behind his method. And honestly speaking, you’re much closer to him than to Elliot Graves.”

Aramaki frowns slightly. “I don’t get that at all. Ryoma’s style clearly changed after sparring with Elliot Graves. Even this gym started adopting more Soviet-style concepts afterward.”

“So did the Cubans,” Sera replies calmly.

Aramaki blinks once. “What?”

“The Cuban system absorbed Soviet boxing a long time ago,” Sera explains while keeping his eyes on the television. “But they didn’t stop there. They also absorbed parts of the American system too. Timing layers, rhythm manipulation, defensive spacing, reactive entries.”

“To be more precise,” Nakahara adds, “they take every strong boxing science they find useful, then rebuild it into their own structure. And that’s basically how Ryoma has evolved so far too.”

Both Aramaki and Ryoma visibly look unconvinced by the comparison. But they do not bother arguing back anymore, because there is truth in it.

Over the years, Ryoma has absorbed pieces from too many styles already; habits stolen through exchange, timing patterns copied directly from opponents, defensive reactions, footwork rhythms, pressure sequences, layered counters.

Then little by little, he reshaped all of them into something that belonged to him alone and finds his own form.

In a way, that constant adaptation is exactly how Cuban boxing itself evolved through time.