VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A subtle tension settles over Yoyogi Gymnasium as both fighters remain seated in their respective corners, waiting for the bell. The intensity inside the ring has never dipped, yet the atmosphere in the stands feels noticeably different.

Most of the local crowd can no longer cheer as freely as they did. They came hoping to see their hometown hero dethrone the champion, but the opening round has reminded them just how formidable Arvin Della Cruz still is.

”A fascinating first round for the champion! Della Cruz came in with a completely different look from what we saw in Manila.”

”And that raises the big question going into Round Two. Can Kenta solve it? Because if this pace continues, he’s going to spend the entire fight absorbing those heavy shots instead of dictating the exchanges.”

”Kenta’s corner has had sixty seconds to figure something out. Now we’ll see whether they found an answer... or whether El Martillo has truly reinvented himself.”

Once the action resumes, Kenta immediately settles back into his swaying cadence, circling along the perimeter while flicking measured lefts from long range to keep Della Cruz occupied.

The champion continues stalking him with unwavering patience. Then, seeing his moment, he surges forward behind another heavy left.

This time, Kenta is ready. Instead of retreating, he takes a short step in, catching the punch firmly on his tight right guard while driving a compact left straight into the center of Della Cruz’s chest.

Bugh!

The counter lands with enough force to stop the champion’s forward momentum in its tracks.

Della Cruz resets and comes again, but…

Dsh!

A compact right snaps into the collarbone before the follow-up can develop, forcing the champion to give up a step.

The adjustment becomes obvious. By rebuilding his offense around maximum impact, Della Cruz has traded away much of the layered rhythm and complexity that defined his attack in Manila.

The gaps between his punches are now easier to read. All it takes is the nerve to absorb one punch, and suddenly the answer becomes much simpler.

Della Cruz steps in…

Bugh!

He resets and tries again, but…

Bugh!

Another entry, and…

Bugh!

The same exchange repeats itself, almost like a choreographed sequence, each heavy entry from the champion met by the same short, compact counter.

”Wait a minute... Kenta’s figured something out!”

”He’s no longer trying to stop Della Cruz’s power. He’s striking right through the gaps!”

”And look at the champion! For the first time tonight, he’s the one being forced to reset after every exchange!”

***

That doesn’t mean a champion of Della Cruz’s caliber has no answer. He simply needs to disguise the entry.

A subtle shoulder twitch. A small rhythm change. Just enough feints to plant a moment of doubt before committing.

Then he steps in, hammering a heavy right.

THUMP!

Kenta catches it on his left guard as expected.

Della Cruz immediately drives his left forward, making it look like another crushing hook. Kenta bites, throwing his compact counter. But Della Cruz aborts the punch, immediately slapping Kenta’s glove sharply downward.

PLAK!

”What a simpleton!”

With the lane suddenly open, the champion drives a heavy right straight through.

DSH!

The punch crashes into Kenta’s left cheek, snapping his head sharply to the side.

”What a counter-adjustment from El Martillo!”

”He punished Kenta the moment he started reading the pattern!”

Yet instead of giving ground, Kenta immediately steps forward, collapsing the distance and holds the champions’ hands, before forcing him into a phone-booth exchange.

”Oh, now we’re seeing a fight!”

”Kenta’s finally found a way to answer the champion’s pressure!”

”Della Cruz fires!”

”There’s the counter from Moriyama!”

”El Martillo answers right back!”

”Neither man wants to give an inch!”

The exchange doesn’t last long. Della Cruz quickly realizes the risk of having smaller frame if he stays in close for too long. He wraps Kenta up before slipping in a couple of sneaky short shots, only letting go when the referee steps in to separate them.

Despite that, Kenta doesn’t look at a lost at all. Nakahara’s advice doesn’t neutralize the champion. But at least, it creates something Kenta never had in the opening round: the chance to answer every exchange with one of his own.

He only needs to read the champion’s feints better, and to time his counter more carefully. Sometimes he success and cancels the champion’s advance. But when he fails, and the champion punishes him with a heavy left to face, Kenta simply forces it into an ugly phone booth slugfest.

”They’re standing right in the pocket now!”

”Body shot by Moriyama!”

”Big right hand from Della Cruz!”

”Another counter!”

”And another answer!”

”This has turned into a phone-booth fight!”

”Now we’re talking! Both men are taking shots just to land their own!”

”This is exactly what the fans came to see!”

***

The pattern continues for the next few rounds. Della Cruz keeps forcing his way inside with heavy entries, while Kenta meets them with compact counters before dragging the exchanges into close quarters. Neither man is able to pull decisively ahead.

At least, watching their hometown hero finally stand on equal footing, the tension inside Yoyogi Gymnasium gradually gives way to excitement.

The crowd finds its voice again, each successful exchange from Kenta drawing louder cheers than the last.

”That’s it, Kenta!”

”Keep him there!”

”You’ve got him now!”

”That’s our Kenta!”

”Take that belt home!”

***

The pattern holds until midway through the sixth round, at least until Della Cruz finally reveals what he has been hiding all along.

The deliberate, impact-driven rhythm from the opening rounds was never his new identity. It was a trap, conditioning Kenta to settle into the same measured cadence.

After several rounds of apparent balance, the champion suddenly changes gears. He raises the tempo, stepping in with the brisk, compact rhythm of a Mexican pressure fighter he shown back in Manila.

Four short punches spin out in rapid succession.

Dug! Dug! Bugh! Dug!

But the next punch drives deeper, lingering against Kenta’s guard just long enough to pin it in place, before he can send the heavier ones.

THUMP! DHUMP!

The two heavy shots force Kenta backward despite the block. Before he can recover his footing, Della Cruz suddenly springs in behind another left, surging forward from a low angle.

DSH!

Kenta’s balance wavers for only an instant. But it is all Della Cruz needs.

The champion rips through another tight burst of compact punches, his shoulders rotating sharply from one side to the other.

Dug! Dug! Thud!

Dug. Bugh! Bug! Dug. Thud!

”Oh! Della Cruz is letting his hands go now!”

”Kenta’s in trouble! He can’t stay there too long!”

”Those punches are coming from everywhere!”

”And Moriyama’s forced to cover up! El Martillo is pouring it on!”

But unlike Manila, he doesn’t extend the exchange too long, immediately wraps Kenta up in a clinch, denying him any chance to answer.

Kenta tries slipping in a few small hits during the clinch, but Della Cruz accepts it willingly.

”What’s wrong?” Della Cruz whispers to Kenta’s ear. ”Where’s that savageness you showed me back in Manila?”

The referee separates them, and Della Cruz takes a step back with a confident smile.

”I don’t need anyone to save me,” he says. ”I climbed this far with my own two hands.”

He clearly means the controversial stoppage in Manila. But to Kenta, the words carry another meaning as well.

They remind him that everything people admire about him, everything that overwhelmed Della Cruz back then, only appeared after he entered the zone.

Others may see it as his true potential. Jackson Rhodes was even willing to spend millions to acquire him because of it.

But Kenta knows better. That version of himself isn’t something he can summon through effort alone.

It comes and goes on its own, as though its appearance depends on nothing more than the luck of a dice roll.