VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Before the doubt can sink any deeper, the System’s familiar casual voice suddenly echoes through his mind.

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”Then what do you suggest?” Ryoma asks the question without opening his eyes.

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A brief silence follows before Ryoma slowly opens his eyes and gives the faintest nod.

”Then turn it off.”

A notification quietly appears across his vision, confirming that the trajectory reading feature has been disabled.

Ryoma immediately turns toward Nakahara. ”Coach, could you raise your hand and move it around?”

Nakahara furrows his brow. ”...What?”

Rather than explaining himself, Ryoma shifts his gaze to Hiroshi.

”You do it, Hiroshi. Move naturally, but keep the pattern tight.”

Hiroshi blinks in confusion, but then obediently raises his hand and begins moving it through a series of compact motions.

”Like this?”

Ryoma watches in silence. The colored arrows that had always projected possible trajectories no longer appear. No predictions, no probability paths, nothing tries to guess where Hiroshi’s hand will move next.

Most of the Vision Grid’s other functions are still working exactly as they should, quietly feeding observational information into his vision. The display is simply much cleaner now.

Even the observational descriptions can be turned off, just as he has always done during a fight, leaving only instability markers, target locking, and spatial mapping.

The X-ray anatomical mapping remains available as well, though it has to be activated manually whenever he needs it.

”So...” Nakahara says. ”Got a new plan?”

”Not yet.” Ryoma shakes his head. ”The plan can wait. There’s something I need to test first.”

***

Across the ring, Rivera continues going over one adjustment after another, calmly explaining what he wants Cabello to do in the next round.

Cabello, however, doesn’t look like he’s listening at all. His eyes remain closed, while his head gently sways from side to side as though he were sinking into the soft couch of a nightclub.

At first, Rivera simply keeps talking. But as the subtle rocking gradually becomes more noticeable, his voice trails off.

”Hey, Miguel. Are you even listening to me?”

Without opening his eyes, Cabello lets out a quiet sigh. ”Can you be quiet for a second, Jorge? An old beat just came back to me. Damn it... now I can’t remember the lyrics.”

”You’re unbelievable,” Rivera mutters, rubbing his forehead. ”We’re in the middle of a world title fight, and you’re worried about a damn song?”

At last, Cabello opens his eyes and turns toward Rivera with an absurdly exaggerated greeting.

”Alo...”

Rivera blinks. ”...What?”

Cabello doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns toward the assistant second and continues talking with a rhythm of old Eurodance tune that’s been stuck in his head.

♪ Alo, aalooo… sunt eu, Picaaasso

Ti-am dat beep si sunt voinic

Dar sa stii nu-ti cer nimic ♪

Rivera can only stare at him in disbelief. Before he can say another word, one of the officials signals both corners to clear the ring.

Cabello rises from the stool. Still humming softly under his breath, he sways his gloves around chest level, his shoulders and head continue moving to the infectious Eurodance rhythm looping inside his mind.

For the moment, all he cares about is keeping the melody alive and the lyric continue before they slip away again, paying far more attention to the tune in his head than to the championship belt resting on the line.

Meanwhile, the buzz inside the Tokyo Dome steadily swells. Every eye remains locked on the ring, eager to see what adjustments the two fighters will unveil.

”This next round feels enormous,” one commentator says. ”Ryoma Takeda needs answers, while Miguel Cabello will be looking to build on that momentum.”

Before he can continue, his broadcast partner lightly taps his arm, his eyes still fixed on the red corner.

”…Hang on. Am I seeing things, or is Cabello... dancing?”

A beat later, the bell for the third round finally rings.

Ding!

Ryoma steps out of his corner with at unhurried pace. Both gloves stay tucked beneath his chin, his compact guard already set for the simpler approach, the forward pressure of a peek-a-boo boxing.

He looks intensely focused, yet across the ring, Cabello seems to exist in an entirely different mood.

Somewhere inside his head, the song already reaches the chorus part.

♪ Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei

Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei

Chipul tau si dragostea din tei

Mi-amintesc de ochii tai ♪

His feet answer the rhythm before the music in his mind even reaches the next line, one small step, then another.

His shoulders bounce lazily. Both gloves rest around chest level, gently swaying from side to side as though he is walking into a nightclub.

His head follows along with the invisible melody, rocking left and right, his eyelids hanging just a little lower than usual, looking almost sleepy.

”Would you look at that? I... don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like this.”

”Miguel Cabello is actually walking to the center of the ring like he’s dancing.”

”…Is he... enjoying himself a little too much?”

”That’s not showboating. He genuinely looks completely relaxed.”

”The challenger looks ready for war... and the champion looks like he’s having the best moment of his life”

The closer he gets to center ring, the less it resembles dancing. Somewhere along the walk, the dance quietly dissolves, becoming Cabello’s Cuban boxing.

Without ever breaking the rhythm, every sway begins flowing naturally into his unorthodox fighting stance. His shoulders loosen. His hips start breathing with each step.

The weight shifts effortlessly from foot to foot, every subtle bounce carrying him into another angle before drifting back again.

Cabello then stops a few steps in front of Ryoma, still smiling to himself.

♪ Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu

Ma-ia-hoo, ma-ia-haa ha ♪

His shoulders roll. His head swings. His lead hand twitches lazily in front of him.

♪ Ma-ia-hii, ma-ia-huu

Ma-ia-hoo, ma-ia-haa ha ♪

Every beat becomes another sway. Every sway becomes another feint. He no longer looks like a boxer preparing to fight. He looks like a man having the time of his life.

Irritated by the blatant disrespect, Ryoma lowers his base and steps in deeper, driving a heavy left from below before swinging an overhand right over the top.

Cabello never breaks the rhythm. His right hand floats upward with the same easy beat, casually brushing Ryoma’s first punch aside…

Dug.

His upper body sways, carrying his left side away from the line.

As the overhand comes closer, Cabello exaggerates the lean before hopping backward, letting the punch whistle past.

The moment both feet touch the canvas again, he resumes bopping as though nothing had happened, sliding his right foot farther out before bringing it back underneath him, his upper body still rocking to that invisible Eurodance rhythm.

”...What a bizarre way to dodge a punch.”

”And somehow... it worked perfectly.”

Ryoma refuses to give him room. Rolling from side to side behind his peek-a-boo guard, he presses forward again and unloads another pair of heavy left hands in a tight rhythm.

Cabello gives away just enough distance to stay safe without ever interrupting the flow of his movement.

Then, before Ryoma can send another blow, he glides outside the line of attack once more, changing the angle by lifting his left knee unusually high before planting the foot wide.

The motion looks less like footwork than another step in his strange dance. And of course, he’s still singing inside his head.

♪ Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei

Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei ♪

The rhythm carries on for another beat before Cabello finally begins flicking out punches of his own, quietly muttering the chorus under his breath.

♪ Ma-ia-hii ♪

A jab.

Dug.

♪ Ma-ia-huu ♪

Another jab.

Dug.

♪ Ma-ia-hoo ♪

A hesitated right upper turns into a feint.

♪ Ma-ia-haa ha ♪

Then he sends a heavy one-two.

Dugh. Dugh.

Every punch crashes harmlessly into Ryoma’s guard. But Cabello doesn’t seem to care whether they score or not. Winning the exchange no longer appears to be his priority.

He simply keeps riding the flow, his feet, shoulders, and head moving to the same invisible Eurodance rhythm as he dances around Ryoma at close range.

Ryoma’s irritation slowly fades, replaced by growing confusion as he clearly hears Cabello quietly singing between every exchange, humming along to a song he himself knows all too well.

Trying to regain control, he tightens his rhythm and steps in again behind a more compact combination.

Cabello simply answers with the same effortless flow; a parry, a slip, and then a subtle angle change that prevents Ryoma from building his combination.

Every defensive movement lands on the same invisible beat, blending so naturally into the rhythm of the same song.

♪ Vrei sa pleci dar nu ma nu ma iei

Nu ma nu ma iei, nu ma nu ma nu ma iei ♪