VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Cabello’s lips curl into a wider grin. Rather than irritating him, the taunt only fuels his excitement. He surges forward again, this time putting more weight behind every punch, making the combinations looser and less compact.

Dugh.

Dug. Dugh.

They are easier for Ryoma to read, but every block nudges his guard out of position, forcing him to keep adjusting his guard.

Cabello steps in deeper. A jab shoots out, then melts into a feint before he suddenly swings to his right, whipping his arm from far below into a heavy bolo uppercut.

Ryoma sees the exaggerated motion clearly. He leans back while dropping his left glove, ready to intercept.

But it’s still another feint, and Cabello instantly lunges in with a stiff left forward.

Ryoma knocks the punch downward, but…

Dhuack!

The glove still slams into the center of his chest, knocking him off balance.

Cabello immediately raises his right shoulder, threatening an overhand. Ryoma tightens his guard, only for Cabello to slip left and whip a left hook around the outside.

For once, fortune isn’t on the champion’s side. The hook misses its mark by the slimmest of margins.

Even so, Cabello uses the motion to pull Ryoma’s right guard out of position before whipping another left hook toward his head.

This time, Ryoma gets enough time to react and ducks cleanly beneath it and fires a sharp left hook in return.

Cabello leans his head away just enough to evade without moving his feet. Ryoma calmly cocks his right glove, and finally, Cabello abandons the exchange, taking a step back.

Shaking his head lightly, Ryoma gives him a faint shrug.

”Try harder, Champ.”

***

For a while, the pattern remains unchanged. Ryoma barely moves, and he throws even fewer punches. He doesn’t even need relentless pressure to make Cabello work anymore.

His disciplined defense, combined with a few well-timed words after every failed exchange, is enough to motivate Cabello to work.

”Try harder, Champ.”

Cabello answers by putting more weight behind his punches, extending each combination by another strike or two.

”Still not enough, Champ.”

The champion responds with even greater intensity. His feet become busier, his shoulders, head, and upper body weaving together in a seamless stream of feints, decoys, and angle changes, each movement blending naturally into the next attack.

”Come on, Champ. Try harder.”

And Cabello tries harder. Yet despite all the extra effort, very little changes. Only a single punch sneaks cleanly into Ryoma’s side. Everything else is anticipated, blocked, and neatly parried.

Cabello’s random movement is still there. The ’sugar’ hasn’t disappeared, and he continues dancing to the Eurodance beat looping inside his head.

Yet after every fruitless exchange, and every taunt from Ryoma, the carefree excitement that had carried him through the previous rounds begins to wear away, little by little.

Before this, Cabello had never cared about the outcome of each exchange. The rhythm was enough. But Ryoma’s taunts quietly give him a goal.

”Cabello keeps changing the picture... but Ryoma keeps painting over it.”

”Block, parry, reset. He’s giving Cabello almost nothing clean.”

”Body... blocked. Head... blocked again.”

”That’s outstanding defense. Cabello is throwing everything at him, and Ryoma just keeps meeting it with the right guard.”

”There’s the feint... the angle change... another hook... And Ryoma’s guard just keeps arriving exactly where it needs to be.”

***

As the final thirty seconds begin, Ryoma finally changes his look. His guard drops slightly beneath his chin, settling into a compact peek-a-boo stance, while fresh energy suddenly returns to his feet.

After two and a half minutes of constant movement, he believes even Cabello’s endless rhythm must have slowed, if only by the smallest margin.

”Now is my turn to work.”

Still, Ryoma doesn’t rush in recklessly. He throws only one measured punch at a time, using each step and each strike to steadily herd the champion toward the ropes and the corners.

”There it is! Ryoma’s finally raising the pace.”

”And look at Cabello… he’s giving ground now. Not because he wants to, but because Ryoma is finally making him work backward.”

But strangely, Cabello’s performance hardly changes. He keeps attacking with the same carefree rhythm, still finding chances to score, and every time Ryoma starts closing off his space, his reactions remain sharp enough to escape before the trap can take shape.

Until, at last, the bell rings...

Ding!

...and not even once does Ryoma succeed in herding Cabello to the ropes or into a corner.

And Cabello seizes the moment to return the favor.

”Heh... try harder, kid.”

Determined not to let the taunt get under his skin, Ryoma keeps walking without giving Cabello another look.

>

>

His entire focus is on staying calm, never realizing he has just overlooked something important about Cabello’s condition.

The Tokyo Dome remains alive with excitement even after the bell, the energy refusing to fade despite the brief pause between rounds.

”I don’t know how else to describe that except world-class boxing.”

”Both men kept throwing, both men kept moving, and the footwork on display was simply extraordinary. Yet despite all those dangerous combinations, almost nothing landed clean.”

”I’ve covered this sport for a long time, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I watched a round this intense without either fighter taking significant damage.”

***

And the fifth round begins with the Tokyo Dome louder than ever, the crowd feeding fresh energy into the fight.

After failing to trap Cabello in the previous round, Ryoma adopts a more proactive approach from the opening seconds. His taunts remain, but they are no longer his only weapon.

Whenever Cabello slows to reset, Ryoma immediately steps in, forcing the champion to move again instead of allowing him even a brief pause.

He still spends every movement economically, throwing only measured punches, but now mixes in more feints and hesitant step-ins.

If Cabello insists on dancing, Ryoma intends to make every step cost him, hoping the final thirty seconds will reveal the first real signs of fatigue.

”This pace is unbelievable!”

”Every exchange feels like it’s one mistake away from changing the entire fight. You can’t blink right now.”

”Ryoma’s asking much tougher questions this round.”

”And every time Cabello answers, he does it by the smallest possible margin. Their punches are missing by inches.”

”Oh! That almost landed!”

”That’s what makes this so nerve-racking. Neither man is giving the other a clean look, but every combination feels one adjustment away from breaking through.”

”Ah… Finally! Cabello catches him clean!”

”Ryoma makes a mistake... but he corrects it immediately!”

”Cabello’s pouring on the pressure now!”

”Look at Ryoma! He refuses to give any ground. Block... slip... another block. That’s extraordinary composure under fire.”

The final thirty seconds arrive, but instead of fading, Cabello somehow raises the pace again. Rather than applying pressure himself, Ryoma is forced onto the defensive, forced to use his legs constantly to escape the champion’s relentless pursuit.

Eventually, Ryoma’s back reaches the ropes, leaving him no choice but to shift into a defensive Philly Shell.

Cabello pours on the offense, while Ryoma rolls, blocks, and repeatedly lets his lead shoulder absorb the impact of heavy punches.

”What the hell is this guy...?”

”I never knew he had this much stamina.”

>

”Fine... let him burn through everything.”

With ten seconds remaining, Ryoma deliberately sets a trap. He lifts his chin ever so slightly, leaving it uncovered as an invitation.

Cabello bites; his right hand starts toward the target.

Ryoma leans deeper into the ropes, already coiling his own right for the counter.

But the champion never commits, and the right stops halfway.

Having read the trap, Cabello instantly pulls away as Ryoma’s counter slices through empty air.

In the same motion, he swings left and drives a hook into Ryoma’s body.

Thud!

Ryoma immediately bumps Cabello back with his lead shoulder, creating just enough room to fire a quick two-beat flicker.

Still, Cabello catches the first punch well, slips beneath the second, and then skips back into open space, his feet immediately falling back into their familiar dance.

”What an exchange!”

”The traps, the feints, the counters... that’s world championship boxing at its absolute finest!”

”And would you look at Cabello...”

”He’s dancing again! I don’t know how anyone can enjoy a fight this intense that much!”

Ryoma remains near the ropes behind a tight cross guard, his left glove protecting the midsection with the elbow angled forward while his right forearm covers most of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed as they study Cabello with growing intensity. For the first time since the opening bell, he senses that something about the champion feels off.

He has already accepted that he’s sharing the ring with an elite fighter. A world champion of Cabello’s caliber isn’t supposed to gas out after only five rounds. Even so, after moving this much without pause, there should have been at least the slightest drop in performance.

But there isn’t. Cabello’s feet and calves are still bouncing with the same lively spring. His breathing has already settled back into a calm rhythm. The color in his face remains unchanged.

His eyes are still as bright and animated as they were at the opening bell. There isn’t even the faintest hint of the fatigue that should have begun showing itself by now.

>

The bell finally rings, ending the round five.

Ding!

Ryoma lowers his guard and walks away from the ropes, his eyes fixed on Cabello.

They cross paths near center ring, and Ryoma simply studies the champion with a quiet, lingering stare, as though he has already reached a conclusion but still lacks the proof.

”My best guess... he’s juiced. I just can’t prove it.”