VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Aramaki immediately walks straight toward the neutral corner without wasting a second. Since the opening bell, he has kept his mind exactly the same; think less, conserve the mind.

The habit does more than preserve his endurance. It keeps his thoughts grounded in reality, never wandering toward victory, defeat, pressure, or any emotion that serves no purpose, fixed only on what needs to be done.

”Corner… regulate my breathing.”

”Go to the corner, and regulate my breathing.”

Behind him, Rikiya reminds sitting on the canvas, one glove resting against the mat as he steadies his breathing. His head still rings, the world around him drifting slightly out of focus, every muscle in his body throbbing from the punishment.

Meanwhile, the referee’s count reaches him through the ringing, the words muffled beneath the crowd’s deafening roar.

”Three…”

”Four…”

As Rikiya looks up, he catches Aramaki turning toward him. The champion’s face is as calm as ever; no excitement, no anxiety, no anger.

There is nothing personal in his eyes, as though this were nothing more than another sparring session.

Rikiya rises immediately. The determination driving him is no longer fueled by revenge or the desire to settle the score from their last fight.

He no longer sees Aramaki a young fighter he needs to beat before moving to the world stage. Now he sees him as the gate that will decide whether his career moves forward, or ends here.

And if this fight is to decide his future, then he is prepared to spend everything he has, leaving nothing behind to regret.

”Come on, Champ,” he mutters, bringing his gloves up. ”I’m not done yet.”

The referee studies Rikiya for a brief moment, finding no hesitation in his eyes. Satisfied, he waves the count off and steps aside.

”Box!”

”He’s back on his feet!” one commentator shouts. ”Rikiya Miyamoto refuses to stay down!”

”This fight is far from over!” the other roars. ”The champion has scored the knockdown, but the challenger is still standing. We are about to find out whether that knockdown changed the fight... or simply made it even more dangerous!”

Somehow, nothing about Aramaki changes. He leaves the neutral corner without the slightest hurry. With gloves still hanging at chest level, he settles into the same loose pendulum rhythm once he is back within range.

Calmly, he releases only one or two punches at a time, abandoning the long combinations that earned him the knockdown.

Steps in. Jab. Jab. Steps out.

Steps in. Jab. Cross. Steps out.

A slight pivot to the left.

Steps in. Jab. Lead hook. Steps out.

Every punch meets Rikiya’s guard cleanly. Yet Aramaki shows no desire to build on the knockdown.

Whether he is quietly testing the condition of Rikiya’s guard or simply keeping his own emotions and thoughts under control, even Rikiya cannot tell.

”Interesting... Aramaki isn’t rushing at all,” one commentator says. ”After scoring that knockdown, you’d expect him to pour everything into a finish. Is he being too cautious... or is he simply playing with his prey?”

”Either way, he has no reason to hurry,” the other replies. ”There’s still well over a minute left in the round. Plenty of time to finish Miyamoto here... or to make sure the veteran enters the next round in even worse condition.”

To everyone watching, Aramaki’s restraint makes little sense. The commentators search for answers, the crowd waits for another assault, and even Rikiya can’t figure out why the champion refuses to capitalize on the knockdown.

But in the red corner, Nakahara keeps his eyes on the ring, not giving any new instruction. There is nothing mysterious about what Aramaki is doing; he’s simply carrying out the strategy exactly as instructed.

”I never thought the kid I knew could grow this much,” Coach Murakami says with a faint smile. ”Last time, he spent more than ten minutes looking completely lost. Now look at him... calmly controlling Rikiya Miyamoto, the best fighter in this division.”

Nakahara nods. ”He may be an aggressive fighter. But he’s the easiest athlete I’ve ever coached. There was a time he carried everything into the ring. But that day is gone. Now you only give him a job, and he’ll do exactly that.”

Aramaki has never been good at reading complicated tactics, nor does he pretend to understand every adjustment his opponents make.

If there is one thing he has learned from a year of sparring with Ryoma, it is that every fighter carries something into the ring that matters more than technique.

And this time, he knows what Rikiya carries. To Rikiya, this fight is the moment that decides whether everything he has built is enough. As long as Aramaki leaves him that chance, Rikiya will eventually choose to prove it himself.

”Come on, Miyamoto-san…”

”I know you are more than this.”

Eventually, Rikiya gives Aramaki exactly what he’s been waiting for. After more than fifteen seconds of studying the pendulum rhythm, he begins matching it with subtle steps of his own, determined to show the younger man he can play the same game even better.

As Aramaki steps in behind another one-two, Rikiya softly parries both punches while drifting back, then immediately fires the counter.

Dsh!

The punch snaps Aramaki’s head to the side, abruptly stopping his pendulum rhythm and planting him in place.

”That’s it, Miyamoto-san…”

”That’s how you should fight.”

Aramaki’s rear foot drags back half a step, his body tilting with the impact as though the punch has taken far more out of him than it actually has.

Seeing the reaction, Rikiya immediately steps in, convinced the opening is finally there. Perhaps this is the last chance he will ever have to take the title.

His lead foot slides forward, and a short left hook buries itself into the body.

Thud!

Digging both shoes into the canvas, he immediately follows with a right hook toward the head.

But Aramaki calmly lowers his posture, his left glove rising just enough to shield the side of his head.

Dug.

Refusing to let the moment slip away, Rikiya stays planted in front of him, shortening every punch into compact hooks, both feet firmly rooted to the canvas to drive each shot through.

Dug. Dug. Thud! Dug.

What he doesn’t realize is that the earlier stagger was never real. Aramaki simply lets the counter sell the illusion, allowing Rikiya to believe he has found the biggest opportunity of his career.

Blow after blow crashes into guard and body, sending the arena into a frenzy as the veteran appears to be turning the fight around.

”Miyamoto is pouring it on! The champion isn’t firing back!”

”Has the momentum shifted? Is the veteran about to pull off the comeback of his career?”

For the first time since the knockdown, the supporters from Kanagawa find their voices again, roaring as one from the stands.

”Finish him, Rikiya!”

”That’s it! Keep going!”

”He’s hurt! Don’t let him breathe!”

”Take the belt!”

Yet Aramaki absorbs every shot without panic, his head tucked safely behind his guard, letting a few blows pound against his ribs.

Then, with the final thirty seconds approaching, Nakahara slams the apron.

”Enough, Aramaki! It’s your turn!”

Aramaki sees the next hook coming, but pays it no mind. His guard opens completely, both arms already loaded to answer with two hooks of his own.

”Let’s trade this…”

Both hooks explode into each other almost at the same time.

Dsh-DSH!

A split second later, however, only Aramaki’s left hook moves, while Rikiya freezes after the impact.

BAM!!!

The second shot knocks Rikiya sideways.

”He caught him!”

”Aramaki caught him clean!”

Aramaki immediately chases him with an overhand right. Rikiya manages to bring his gloves up, but the punch tears through the guard and slams into his chest.

BHACK!

”What just happened?! Miyamoto had all the momentum, and now he’s the one getting driven back!”

Another left hook rips into the body, with a right cross following straight to the face.

Thud! DSH!!

”Two more clean shots from the champion!”

”Hold on... this wasn’t desperation at all.”

”Yeah, it was a trap. Aramaki absorbed everything just to invite Miyamoto into a close-range exchange!”

Rikiya stumbles backward until the ropes catch him. His legs are barely holding him up, yet his gloves remain high.

”I can’t stop here.”

Aramaki steps in again. The first punch pounds against the guard before a body hook buries itself underneath.

”He’s strong...”

”But I’m not done yet!”

As Aramaki’s next punch crashes into his gloves, Rikiya throws his right hand one last time.

”Miyamoto’s firing back!”

The punch lands flush on Aramaki’s nose.

Dsh!

But Aramaki’s right hand never stops and crashes flush into Rikiya’s face.

DSH!!

A collective gasp sweeps across the arena.

”He walked right through it!”

”Aramaki ate the punch and never stopped throwing!”

By then, Rikiya is already unconscious. His gloves remain raised by instinct alone, leaving the referee to hesitate for a brief moment.

Dug. Dug. Thud! Bugh! Dug.

For once, Aramaki ignores the risk of a counter, looping a wide hook around the guard.

BAM!

There’s no reaction from the veteran, and soon, another hook whips his head the opposite way.

BAM!

”This is disaster! Somebody has to stop this!”

”He can’t defend himself anymore!”

Rikiya still gives no reaction. And Aramaki shows no sympathy either, sending a heavy right straight to the face.

DHUACK!!

The punch snaps Rikiya’s head violently backward, both arms swinging limply to his sides.

Finally, the referee dives between them, waving both arms to stop the contest. At the same moment, a white towel hangs briefly in the air behind him before settling onto the canvas, already thrown from the blue corner by Coach Okada.

DING! DING! DING! DING!