VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Once Cabello steps through the entrance curtain, the arena erupts. A deafening wall of noise crashes over him from every direction.

Tens of thousands of voices rain down from the stands, most of them shouting in rapid Japanese that he cannot understand.

A wide grin spreads across Cabello’s face. ”So this is how they welcome a champion.”

He walks down the aisle with relaxed shoulders and his chin held high, soaking in every second with open arms.

Then, from the spectators lining the aisle, a handful of voices suddenly rise above the rest in broken English.

”You don’t deserve to be a champion!”

”Coward!”

”Go to prison with Ramirez!”

”You tried to kill Ryoma because you are scared of him!”

Cabello turns toward the voices with a puzzled look. Then, as he finally understands what they’re shouting, a different kind of smile slowly spreads across his face.

Far from bothering him, the hostility only makes his grin grow wider as the abuse continues to rain down from every corner of the arena.

When he plants one foot on the ring steps, Cabello even pauses to savor the moment. He slowly turns toward the crowd and cups one gloved hand behind his ear, inviting even more noise.

The reaction is immediate. Even more voices join in, hurling harsher accusations at him.

”Blood money champion!”

”You are just a protected puppet!”

”Ryoma will send you home crying!”

”Japan doesn’t want you!”

”You should’ve shared Ramirez’s cell!”

”Dirty champion!”

Cabello only shrugs. ”Come on... You know I’m innocent. I get it, though. You’re mad because I ended your beloved Renji’s career.”

He resumes climbing the steps and ducks through the ropes, one glove still waving lazily toward the stands, urging them to keep the insults coming.

”What a reception for the WBO World Champion!” one commentator exclaims. ”I’ve never seen Miguel Cabello embrace this kind of hostility like it’s applause!”

”And look at that response!” his partner says. ”He’s provoking them on purpose!”

When he reaches his corner, Cabello’s eyes immediately settle on Ryoma. The broad grin on his face narrows into something colder as his posture lowers ever so slightly.

”Get ready, Japan. You’re about to watch your hero broken... and I’m going to break your hearts all over again.”

***

Even as the ring announcer begins introducing Ryoma as the challenger, Cabello can no longer keep himself still. Every fiber of his body seems to vibrate with excitement.

Like a kid riding a sugar high who simply cannot wait to be unleashed, he bounces around his corner, throwing sharp combinations into the air with childlike excitement.

Jorge Rivera watches him with growing unease before stepping closer and leaning toward his ear.

”Hey, Cabello,” he says quietly. ”I know exactly how you’re feeling. And maybe you’ll be able to fight at your best all the way to the final round. But remember…”

”Save it, Rivera,” Cabello cuts him off without slowing his shadow boxing. ”It’s my introduction next.”

When the ring announcer finishes introducing Ryoma Takeda, the roar from more than fifty thousand fans inside the Tokyo Dome crashes through the arena.

Yet Ryoma remains perfectly still in his corner, his expression unchanged, a sight that only deepens Rivera’s concern.

”Listen to me, damn it!” Rivera says, grabbing Cabello by the arm, ignoring the announcer. ”Whatever that man gave you, it only suppresses your sense of fatigue. It makes you feel like your gas tank will never run empty. But that doesn’t mean you’ve suddenly become Superman. If you let that feeling take control of you, it’ll be a disaster for all of us.”

Cabello only flashes him a carefree grin without stopping his warm-up.

”Relax, Rivera. Relax.”

Rivera exhales through his nose, forcing himself to stay composed. ”Relax after the fight. Right now, stick to the game plan. Drain him as early as you can. Don’t get fixated on his head. Go to the body.”

His voice hardens. ”He may have adopted a more aggressive style, but he’s still not a stamina monster. Take away his legs before he takes away yours.”

Cabello finally stops shadow boxing, not because of Rivera’s words, but because the ring announcer has finished the introduction.

A wave of boos crashes down from every corner, but Cabello throws both arms into the air to acknowledge the crowd.

”Hey, Cabello. Did you hear a word I said?” Rivera asks.

Cabello glances at him with an easy smile. ”I got you, Rivera. I’m hyped, not brain-dead. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

The officials order both teams to clear the corners before the opening bell. Rivera has no choice but to step away, giving Cabello one final look before climbing down from the apron.

On the opposite side, Nakahara leaves Ryoma alone without any advises. From the beginning, he knows there is no need for them.

”Good luck, kid,” Nakahara says before stepping down from the apron.

Ryoma hears him, but he forces himself to ignore it, keeping his concentration sharp, his breathing steady, his heartbeat calm, and his mind clear.

When the referee instructs them to meet in the center of the ring, Ryoma follows the command without delay.

There, he stands face to face with Cabello, staring at the champion’s wide grin as his long tongue slowly runs across his lips, his mouthpiece still resting in his hand.

”Listen to them,” Cabello says.

The referee immediately raises a hand. ”Cabello. Mouthpiece.”

But the champion only smiles, barely acknowledging the warning. ”Fifty thousand people came here to see you win,” he continues, his eyes never leaving Ryoma. ”That’s a lot of hearts for me to break.”

”Miguel Cabello,” the referee says again. ”Put your mouthpiece in.”

Cabello finally brings the mouthpiece to his mouth, still wearing that confident grin as he settles it into place.

The referee looks between them and begins the final instructions. ”I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands at all times. No hitting behind the head, no hitting below the belt, and no holding or wrestling. If I call for a break, you break immediately and step back.”

His eyes move from one fighter to the other. ”Touch gloves now if you wish. Good luck.”

Cabello raises his hand, expecting a touch of gloves. But Ryoma simply steps back, his expression remaining flat and emotionless.

Cabello smiles wider. ”Good. Stay that way. I want to see how long you can keep that face clean.”

The commentators catch the exchange, and they immediately recognize the significance behind it.

”No touch of gloves from Ryoma Takeda.”

”And honestly, can anyone blame him? These two have been heading toward this moment for years. There has been controversy, accusations, and personal hostility surrounding everything that led them here.”

”Exactly. After everything that has happened between Ronin and Miguel Cabello’s camp, nobody should expect a polite exchange inside that ring tonight.”

Moments later, the opening bell finally rings…

Ding!

…and thousands of fans erupt as both fighters immediately step forward, eager to meet in the center of the ring.

Unlike his usual approach, Cabello explodes forward without feeling-out process. There’s no patient observation, no attempt to settle into a rhythm.

Ryoma, however, remains relaxed, his upper body moving with the slow flowing rhythm of a pendulum. He drifts back and forth on his feet, swaying just outside Cabello’s range with a calmness that almost looks unnatural.

Cabello fires the first combination. A sharp jab cuts toward Ryoma’s face, followed immediately by a straight right and a left hook aimed at forcing him toward the ropes.

”Cabello comes out aggressively!”

”This is a completely different approach from what we usually see from him!”

”He’s not giving Ryoma any room to breathe!”

But Ryoma is already gone, not with a sudden retreat, not with a desperate escape. He reads the distance perfectly, lets Cabello’s gloves touches his guard only slightly, and steps out of the line without breaking his pendulum rhythm.

As the hook arrives, Ryoma’s glove rises at the perfect moment, redirecting the punch with a soft parry that makes the impact look almost effortless.

”Beautiful defense from Takeda!”

”He didn’t block those punches. He controlled them!”

However, Cabello’s smile remains on his face. He does not slow down. Instead, he increases the pressure.

A Cuban combination begins to unfold: jab to disrupt vision, cross to break the guard, hook to punish the opening, followed by a sharp uppercut whenever his opponent tries to slip away. It is not just speed. Every punch carries a purpose. Every angle is calculated.

Cabello does not throw combinations randomly; he builds traps, forcing opponents into positions where the next punch is already waiting.

But Ryoma never seems to arrive where the trap is set. He does not try to match Cabello’s speed with speed. He simply reacts earlier. His feet move before the danger fully develops, allowing him to slip away from attacks before they become real threats.

His shoulders sway just enough to avoid the incoming shots. His gloves intercept punches at the moment before they can generate full power.

Strikes that reach his guard loses its weight, not because Cabello lacks strength, but because Ryoma is constantly adjusting the distance between them.

”Look at that distance control! Cabello is landing on the guard, but he isn’t landing clean!”

”That’s the problem when you’re facing Ryoma Takeda. His defense isn’t just his hands. The entire ring distance is part of his defense.”

For the first time, Cabello’s expression changes slightly, not frustration, but curiosity. He has fought elite technicians before. He has dismantled fighters with brilliant footwork and disciplined defense.

But Ryoma’s movements feel different. It is as if every attack has already been measured before Cabello throws it.

For once, Cabello steps in harder, launching a fast and brutal three-punch combination, a left hook ripping toward the ribs before a right hand follows toward the chest, and left hook to the head.

Ryoma’s body bends away from the first punch. His elbow catches the hook before it can sink into his body.

When the third punch appears, Ryoma’s head has already slipped outside the line of attack. And before Cabello can reset…

Dsh!

Ryoma taps his face with a short counter jab.

It is not a powerful punch, not meant to hurt him. It is a reminder, that even while retreating, Ryoma is still in control of the exchange.

Cabello’s eyes narrow as he recognizes it.

”This kid…?”

The way Ryoma controls distance, steals angles, and makes every attack fall just short is the same geometric defense that defines the highest level of Cuban Boxing.

The difference is that, right now, Cabello is the one being trapped by it.