VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The referee steps in to separate them, but Ryoma holds on a moment longer than necessary, using the brief pause to gather his thoughts.

He managed to equalize the exchange through nothing but quick thinking. But one thing has become painfully clear.

His Vision Grid has not only lost its usefulness, but has also become a liability. The prediction it offers now carries the risk of leading him into danger.

”What’s wrong, kid?” Cabello scoffs. ”How long are you gonna hug me?”

The referee pats Ryoma’s arm more firmly. ”Break, Ryoma. Let him go.”

Ryoma finally releases the clinch and takes a step back.

As soon as the referee signals them to continue, Cabello slips right back into the same unusual stance, offering openings almost everywhere.

His upper body sways subtly from side to side, sometimes drifting forward and back without any clear rhythm.

Every now and then, he casually pushes his head a little farther forward, only to dip it away despite no punch coming from Ryoma.

It is as if he isn’t reacting to an opponent at all, but simply moving to a rhythm that exists only inside his own head.

Ryoma’s Vision Grid continues projecting directional arrows around Cabello’s head and body, each color representing a different probability of where it will move next. But none of them ever proves correct.

Sometimes every arrow glows with the exact same color, every direction carrying an equal chance of becoming reality. Other times, Cabello simply keeps his head perfectly still forward for a brief moment, causing every projected path to become wrong at once.

With Ryoma still refusing to throw a punch, Cabello flicks a teasing right hand from below, nudging Ryoma’s guard.

”Why are you so quiet?” he says.

Ryoma slightly widens his guard, raises an eyebrow, and then fires a probing jab that Cabello slips with ease.

”What about you?” Ryoma replies. ”Why’d you suddenly become so defensive?”

Ryoma keeps probing with single jabs, one at a time, casually mixing them with trivial conversation.

”Come on. Trade punches with me.”

He shoots a jab. Cabello calmly parries it with his right.

”I know you’re much better than this.”

Another jab follows. This time, Cabello slips to his left.

Ryoma shifts slightly to his own left before sending two jabs from two different angles.

Cabello only leans takes a step backward and shrugs.

”You wanna trade punches?” he says. ”Make me.”

Ryoma continues at the same measured rhythm. Now he is being forced back to square one, throwing controlled attacks simply to gather information.

Every jab is another question. Every reaction from Cabello becomes another piece of data. He studies how the champion responds, searching for habits, feeding new information into the Vision Grid’s database in the hope that it will eventually refine its predictions.

”Takeda’s putting that jab to work.”

”He’s picking up the pace a little now.”

Cabello keeps moving with the same undisciplined posture, his guard hanging loose, his head constantly exposed, sometimes even drifting forward as if inviting the next jab.

His reactions never repeat themselves either. One moment he parries. The next he dips, slips in a different direction, pulls away, or simply glides back with a subtle pendulum step, and never throws anything back.

”Cabello’s moving well, but he’s still refusing to fire back.”

”He’s reading every one of them so far.”

”The champion looks like he’s waiting for something.”

”The question is... what?”

Cabello knows exactly what Ryoma is trying to do. And instead of hiding the data, he deliberately floods him with it, turning every new piece of information into another contradiction.

”Keep going, kid... Try to figure me out.”

”The harder you try... the more I’ll mess with your head.”

***

After more than a minute of doing exactly that, Ryoma gets almost nothing. There are barely any patterns, no repeating rhythm, despite the form itself being unmistakably Cuban boxing.

Ryoma decides to raise the tempo. He needs to see how Cabello reacts under pressure. Stepping in a little deeper, he chains his jab into a right cross and a lead hook in one tight rhythm.

And that’s his mistake, forgetting the danger of fighting a high-level Cuban system. Cabello slips outside after Ryoma’s second punch and punishes him with a left downstairs.

THUD!

Ryoma’s lead hook only brushes against Cabello right arm, while the champion buries a short body shot into his midsection.

Annoyed, desperate to even the exchange, Ryoma forces out a sharp one-two before fully adjusting his angle.

Cabello simply takes another sidestep, and fires a crisp one-two of his own, snapping Ryoma’s head back.

DSH! DSH!

”Cabello caught him again!”

A collective gasp ripples through the Tokyo Dome. The excitement that had filled the arena only moments ago quickly gives way to anxious silence.

”Takeda’s getting punished every time he extends those combinations!”

”What’s happening here? We’ve never seen Ryoma struggle to find his range like this!”

The thing is, Cabello didn’t actually give up the range. He simply shifted to new angle that deny Ryoma a clean target.

Ryoma freezes for a split second, his jaw tightening. His frustration begins to override his judgment, already urging him to force his way in.

”God damn it…”

Thankfully, the system stops him before he can repeat the same mistake.

>

>

Ryoma aborts his advance at the last instant. The hesitation makes the initial step look like a feint before he quietly settles back into his pendulum rhythm.

Cabello actually reacts to the hesitation as well, making a sharp shift to his left before settling back with an amused smile.

”This is so much fun, kid…”

Cabello widens his stance even further, subtly sliding his lead foot forward until his base looks almost exaggerated.

Then he starts rocking his head with small, cocky bobs, like a gamecock daring another one to charge.

”Come on,” he says, lazily flicking his left against Ryoma’s guard. ”You wanna trade? Let’s trade.”

Then, without warning, Cabello slides his lead foot even deeper, dipping low toward Ryoma’s right side.

Ryoma reacts instantly, about to fire a right uppercut toward Cabello’s head. But the memory of the earlier trap flashes through his mind, making him hesitate.

That brief hesitation is all Cabello needs, and he sends a combination of two lefts; a hook into Ryoma’s body…

THUD!

…followed immediately by a short left uppercut.

Ryoma couldn’t react to the first shot, but manages to catch the uppercut.

Dep.

He steps away, but Cabello immediately gives chase, driving a barrage of straight punches toward the head.

Ryoma has no choice but to shell up behind a tight double guard.

DUG! DUG! DUG! DUG!

”Ryoma’s in trouble here!”

”Cabello has completely taken over this exchange! Takeda can’t get out of defensive mode!”

For once, Cabello manipulates Ryoma’s right guard, intending to send a hook downstairs.

But the bell rings first…

DING!

It cuts through the exchange, bringing the second round to an end.

Cabello pulls his left hand back mid-motion, casually twisting the glove a few times as he turns toward his corner.

”Get serious, kid,” he says over his shoulder. ”The whole world’s expecting more from you. Don’t disappoint us.”

A wave of unease quietly spreads through the local crowd.

For reasons they cannot quite explain, many suddenly find themselves remembering Korakuen Hall. They remember Renji Kuroiwa, kept losing his footing until he looked completely lost inside the ring, unable to make sense of anything Cabello was doing.

The memory alone is enough to tighten countless faces with worry.

”No, Ryoma! You’re better than this!”

”What are you hesitating for?!”

”We know what you can do!”

”Stop holding back!”

”Come on, Ryoma! Knock that arrogant bastard’s head off!”

Ryoma walks calmly toward his corner, his breathing steady, his expression unchanged. If anything irritates him is the panic in the voices echoing from the stands, as though the fight has already slipped beyond his reach.

”What am I hesitating for?” Ryoma mutters under his breath. ”Why don’t you come down here and fight him yourself?”

Nakahara catches the remark the moment Ryoma reaches the corner.

”Not like you,” he says. ”You’re losing your composure awfully early.”

Ryoma lowers himself onto the stool without answering. Sera quietly wipes the sweat from his face while Hiroshi checks the swelling around his cheek before applying a fresh layer of Vaseline.

”To be honest,” Nakahara adds, ”after all these years... this is the first time I’ve seen someone touch your face this many times in just two rounds.”

”I’m fighting a world champion,” Ryoma replies flatly. ”Now leave me alone for a while. I need to rebuild my entire game plan.”

”Sure,” Nakahara says. ”Take your time.”

Ryoma closes his eyes, forcing his mind to work through one new scenario after another.

Every strategy he had prepared for this fight had been built around the conditions he had always fought under. And one of those conditions was the System. With that single condition no longer on his side, every plan he had painstakingly built begins to unravel.

Cabello hasn’t hurt him that much. But now, Ryoma feels his Vision Grid System itself has turned against him.

Before long, an even more dangerous doubt slowly creeps into his mind. He has been relying on the System too much. What if, without that advantage, he simply doesn’t belong at this level?

What if he isn’t the fighter he believed himself to be?