VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

And the more he looks, the clearer it becomes that Tojo’s irritation is no longer something he can conceal.

”Come on,” Tojo snaps, waving him forward. ”Are you just gonna hide behind that guard all night?”

His shoulders rise slightly higher with each breath. Even the expressions in his face carry less confidence and more annoyance.

He takes another step, and Satoru notices Tojo looks more tired than he does. The realization isn’t entirely new. During the clinch earlier, Satoru had also caught the sound of Tojo’s heavier breathing, less controlled than it should have been.

”What’s wrong with you, kid?” Tojo scoffs as he circles in front of him. ”Did you forget how to fight the moment Ryoma stopped holding your hand?”

Satoru doesn’t respond, but this time the remark lingers in his mind longer than before. Throughout the fight, Tojo has brought up Ryoma’s name over and over again. It feels less like simple trash talk and more like something personal.

Even now, despite winning most of the exchanges, Tojo looks more frustrated than satisfied. That’s when Satoru remembers what Sera told him between rounds.

”Your opponent wanted to prove a point.”

”Ever since the opening bell, he has been fighting with an aggression that feels strangely out of character.”

The realization makes Satoru remember the rest of Sera’s advice as well.

Forget the southpaw. Forget the angles.

Just stay disciplined, survive the exchanges.

And let him burn himself out.

The sharp clap of Shigemori’s hands echoes from ringside as he slams the apron repeatedly.

”What are you doing, Tojo! Don’t tell me you are afraid of that kid! Step in and finish your work!”

Tojo’s expression twists with visible disdain. He steps forward once more, abandoning whatever patience he still has left, driving straight into range behind a flurry of punches.

But this time, Satoru meets the assault with a different state of mind. Whether Tojo is a southpaw or an orthodox fighter makes little difference, because Satoru isn’t trying to win the exchange but simply defending. The simplicity of that objective strips away much of his confusion.

Tojo fires combinations toward the head, but Satoru angles his guard well, catching the punches on gloves and forearms before they can land cleanly.

Then a left hook slips toward the ribs.

Thud!

The impact lands, but Satoru absorbs it without opening up.

Another body shot follows.

Dhump!

The punches sting, but none of them force him out of position.

Tojo finds himself throwing more and more punches without getting the reaction he wants. And with every second that passes, Satoru can almost feel the veteran’s frustration growing behind them.

”Tojo’s throwing a lot of punches here!”

”The crowd wants a finish, but this kid just refuses to go away.”

***

As he’s getting closer to the ropes, Satoru subtly adjusts his position, gradually shifting from a squared stance into a more bladed position by dragging his rear foot further back.

It is not really the Philly shell. He has never learned the mechanics of rolling under punches or parrying shots off angles like that.

But he remembers something Ryoma once told him. Against a southpaw, the mirror angle creates problems on both sides, and distance itself can become a form of defense.

From this more bladed stance, the centerline changes, the target no longer as direct, and Tojo’s left needs to travel father to reach Satoru’s head.

Most of Satoru’s torso is now partially hidden behind his lead shoulder, with his left side compactly shielded by his raised arm.

For a while, Tojo keeps pounding away at the left side, trapping Satoru on the ropes.

Dug. Dug. Dugh. Dug. Dugh. Dug.

Impatient, he sends a left hook to the body, but it lands only on Satoru’s left forearm that covers the chest.

Satoru steps in immediately, uses his lead shoulder to shove Tojo back before flaring his left elbow to create space.

The shape of Satoru’s defense begins to irritate Tojo further.

”Kid’s trying to get flashy now, leaning into a Philly Shell.”

He starts pounding at the same side with increasing frustration, trying to break through whatever structure he sees forming in front of him.

”You are just running away from punches.”

”Pathetic…”

”Coward…”

Satoru takes it all without responding in kind. He lets Tojo build momentum, lets him spend energy, lets him dig into shots that don’t change his position.

He cannot slip and roll like Ryoma. But his durability and compact framing allow him to absorb the pressure, especially on the lead shoulder and upper arm, letting the veteran burn himself out in front of him.

No longer able to contain his frustration, Tojo steps in deeper, sliding his rear foot forward and committing to a lunging left hand aimed straight at the head.

His stance becomes noticeably more squared, his torso and chin exposed in the rush forward, and in that moment the structural advantage of the southpaw stance disappears entirely.

The punch lands…

Dsh!

But in closing the distance, Tojo has brought his face dangerously close to Satoru’s right hand, leaving himself fully open in the pocket.

With a compact immediate response, Satoru snaps his right hand into place and knocks Tojo’s head backward.

Dhuack!

”He countered him in the middle of the exchange!”

”Tojo walked straight into it!”

Tojo’s balance breaks for a split second. Before he can recover his guard, Satoru crowds him, stepping in tight and digging heavy shots to both sides of the body.

BUGH! BUGH!

The angle problem is gone now. Inside this range, Tojo is forced into a more squared stance just to stay upright, his defensive structure tightening as he tries to weather the exchange while his legs begin to show signs of instability.

For the first time tonight, Satoru is the one selecting targets freely, mixing his attacks between head and body without needing to overthink angles or stance differences.

Dug. Dug. Bugh! Dug. Thud!

Dug. Thud! Bugh! Dug. BUGH!

Tojo manages to cover his head, but he is not built to absorb sustained punishment to the body at this tempo.

He tries to clinch to stop the exchange, but Satoru slips out with a small pendulum step, circling just enough to change the angle before stepping back in immediately to continue the inside fight.

One thing Ryoma once drilled into him, reinforced repeatedly by Sera between rounds, is that when the fight collapses into chest-to-chest distance, the complications of stance and angle of a southpaw begin to disappear.

”Wait… this has turned ugly for Tojo all of a sudden!”

”He’s been in control for five rounds, and now he’s backing up under pressure!”

”Oh, he answers back… clean hook lands there!”

”And Satoru fires right back! Uppercut, hook upstairs! He’s not letting him breathe!”

”This is exactly what we’re talking about with Satoru! He can lose round after round, and then completely flip the fight in a single exchange!”

”Is this the start of an upset tonight?”

Tojo, who had entered this fight feeling insulted at the idea of being matched with a rookie like Satoru, now finds himself looking anything but dominant.

His guard has been split and reshaped under pressure, his legs no longer responding with the same sharpness they had in the earlier rounds. He tries to answer back, but every attempt is met with heavier punishment from Satoru.

Even the crowd begins to shift with the momentum. The section that once carried Tojo’s supporters grows quieter by the second, while the smaller pocket of Satoru’s fans suddenly finds its voice.

”SA-TO-RU!”

”SA-TO-RU!”

”SA-TO-RU!”

For the first time, Tojo is forced to give ground. He attempts to use his footwork to reset the distance, but the movement lacks its earlier sharpness, his legs no longer carrying the same certainty as before.

He shoots a right jab to the chest to interrupt the advance.

Thud.

But Satoru walks straight through it, closing the gap and driving a heavy shovel punch into the body.

BUGH!

Tojo’s cheeks puff out as he exhales sharply, his breath briefly stolen, his guard collapsing inward as his mouthpiece shifts dangerously loose.

”Damn it… how did it turn into this?”

Satoru follows with another left hand that crashes into the side of Tojo’s head.

Dsh!

The impact swings Tojo off line, forcing him further back.

”No… am I going to lose here?”

”No… I can’t accept this.”

But pride refuses to let the thought settle. He forces his legs to move, retreating toward the ropes with stubborn resistance.

”Not like this.”

”Not against his student.”

Satoru closes the distance again, impatience creeping into his rhythm as he tries to seize what feels like the closing moment of the fight, the opportunity to end it and complete the upset.

”Finish it now, Satoru!” Sera’s voice cuts sharply from ringside.

Hiroshi and Kenta are right behind him, both leaning forward with voices rising in raw excitement.

But by sheer bad luck, Satoru misreads the angle once more, and…

Dhuack!

Tojo’s left hand lands first, snapping into his face and halting everything in an instant.

Satoru still swings both arms forward, but the angle is so wrong, his body is collapsing and eventually drops to the canvas.

For a split second, the blue corner falls completely silent. Satoru’s supporters also go quiet, the noise fading as disbelief settles in, while the entire arena grows restless, a low wave of confusion and reaction beginning to spread through the crowd as people try to process what they’ve just seen.

”Wait… He’s down!”

”That counter came out of nowhere!”

”He was coming forward, and Tojo just timed him perfectly!”

”Another mistake from Satoru… how many times has that been tonight?”

”Can he even get up from that?”

Sera’s expression changes. The excitement drains from his face, replaced by immediate recognition of what just happened.

Without hesitation, he reaches for the towel and throws it into the ring as Satoru is still trying to drag himself toward the ropes.

”Ohh… He’s stopping it!”

”The towel is in! The corner has seen enough!”

Sera rushes in, only to see Satoru standing steady while Tojo walks away hurt.

Relief and frustration mix as Sera realizes the stoppage came too early.

”Oh, lord… did I make the wrong call?”