VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Cabello’s thoughts begin to split, no longer flowing entirely with instinct and the effortless good mood. As Ryoma keeps imitating him, dual exchanges are no longer his only concern.

He also begins wondering whether Ryoma is quietly building a counter trap, waiting to abandon the imitation at the perfect moment.

As a result, although his dance and footwork remain as smooth as ever, every attack now carries the faintest hesitation, each punch leaving his hand only half committed.

When he glides lightly to his left, his shoulders still roll with the familiar Cuban rhythm. Then his lead shoulder twitches, and the jab starts to come.

But halfway through the motion, it dies, while his rear glove has already climbed anticipating Ryoma’s jab. Then he drifts away on a few smooth shuffle dance steps, slips to another angle.

His hips rotate, and this time the jab leaves his hand. But even before it reaches full extension, his head is already slipping off the centerline, and his rear foot begins searching for the next angle.

With Ryoma still imitating every hesitation, every defensive adjustment, and every last-second change of mind, their punches land on nothing. Cabello is already out of punching range and angle. And so is Ryoma.

”He’s so stubborn...” Cabello’s lips curl downward, a faint scowl settling across his face. ”Fine... Let’s see just how stubborn you really are.”

For the first time since this strange exchange began, Cabello makes a fully conscious decision.

He steps into close range, deliberately lifts his right arm high and leaving his own ribs completely exposed while whipping a lead hook toward the right side of Ryoma’s body.

It’s a test to see if Ryoma still imitates him. And yes, Ryoma takes it, deliberately raising his own right arm in the same way while throwing the exact same lead hook.

THUD!

THUD!

”Another dual exchange!” the first commentator shouts.

Both body hooks crash home at almost the same instant. Cabello immediately steps back out, studying the result. And Ryoma steps out as well.

”But hold on... did you notice that?” the second commentator adds. ”They both raised their right arms before throwing their lead hooks.”

”What on earth was that supposed to accomplish? Have you ever seen a boxing match where both fighters willingly opened themselves up just to take the same punch?”

”No... no, I don’t think that was both of them. I think that was Cabello testing how far Ryoma is willing to take this imitation game.”

”...And Ryoma actually followed him all the way.”

As if needing absolute confirmation, Cabello steps in again. Still abandoning every defensive consideration, he plants his feet and firing compact body shots in rapid succession.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.

And Ryoma copies every punch without the slightest hesitation.

Now the two men pound each other’s bodies in perfect synchronization, as though the fight has suddenly become nothing more than a brutal contest of whose endurance will break first.

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

For a while, Cabello’s face twists with almost manic delight as he absorbs each impact without breaking the rhythm.

Little by little, his confidence begins to leak away. His eyes gradually climb from Ryoma’s torso to his face, never interrupting the relentless barrage.

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

”Let’s see how long you can keep this up.”

”Because today… my legs aren’t going to fail me.”

”Not today.”

Around the Tokyo Dome, the crowd no longer knows how to react. More and more spectators find themselves standing without realizing it, while others crane their heads in utter confusion, trying to make sense of the madness unfolding before them.

At least one thing has become undeniable to everyone watching. Ryoma is imitating everything Cabello does, no matter how absurd it becomes. Yet one subtle detail escapes them all; Ryoma isn’t truly matching Cabello’s timing.

He is simply copying it with astonishing speed, always trailing by barely three to five hundred milliseconds. Unable to read Cabello ahead of time, he can only follow. The delay is there, yet far too short for the human eye to perceive.

”...I... I honestly don’t know what to call this anymore,” the first commentator says, letting out a disbelieving laugh.

”Neither do I,” the second replies. ”Is this strategy? Is it pride? Is it desperation? I genuinely can’t tell anymore.”

”I’ve stopped trying to predict what’s going to happen next.”

”At this point... I’m just as confused as everyone else watching.”

And beneath them all, their fundamentals remain completely different. Ryoma may be borrowing Cabello’s flow, but his body has been built upon entirely different mechanics.

Every punch still begins from the ground, driven by his feet, the spring in his calves, the twist of his hips, and the rotation of his shoulders. Those foundations cannot simply be erased.

From the outside, they appear to be throwing the same punches. But the output is never the same.

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

BUGH!

Eventually, Cabello is the first to break the exchange. His right hand suddenly whips upstairs in the shape of a hook for a feint, before the real left hook comes crashing around.

Ryoma follows the feint, yet another difference quietly reveals itself. His head instinctively moves, turning just enough to soften the blow.

DSH!

When his glove hits Cabello’s head a split second later, Cabello cannot produce the same thing.

BAM!!

”Again!”

”Both hooks crash into their respective cheeks in almost the same fashion.”

Outwardly, Ryoma appears to have taken the heavier shot. But somehow, Cabello’s balance breaks first. His vision blurs as he staggers backward, genuine disorientation flashing across his face.

The difference lasts for only a fraction of a second, because Ryoma imitates that reaction as well, wearing the same dazed expression, even to the point following Cabello dropping one knee onto the canvas.

”...What?!”

”They both went down!”

”IT’S A DOUBLE KNOCKDOWN, FOLKS!” the first commentator shouts, nearly jumping out of his seat.

”I TOLD YOU BEFORE…” the second replies, barely containing his excitement. ”This is the inevitable risk of a fight like this! When you imitate every movement your opponent makes, it leads to dual exchange after dual exchange...”

”...And eventually, this!”

”Both fighters crashing to the canvas at the exact same time!”

But another crucial detail escapes everyone inside the Tokyo Dome.

Cabello drops to one knee because his balance genuinely gives way beneath him.

Ryoma drops to one knee simply because Cabello does. His stubborn commitment to the imitation remains absolute, even now.

The referee raises both arms and begins the count.

”Three...”

”Four...”

Still visibly disoriented, Cabello shakes his head, trying to clear the haze clouding his vision. Ryoma imitates the same motion, but there is no haze behind his eyes.

While Cabello’s gaze remains fixed on the canvas, Ryoma’s sharp eyes never leave Cabello for even a moment.

It is the first unmistakable crack in the illusion, and most people finally realize it now.

”...Wait.”

”Look at Ryoma’s eyes.”

”He’s copying the movement... but he’s still watching Cabello.”

”Could it be... Ryoma isn’t nearly as hurt as he looks?”

”Is he really taking the knee just to keep the imitation going?”

The commentators’ confusion reaches Cabello’s ears, and he immediately looks up. The disorientation is gone. His jaw slowly tightens.

Ryoma’s jaw tightens as well. And seeing that reaction from him, a deep scowl spreads across Cabello’s face.

”You damn brat...” Cabello growls beneath his breath. ”Don’t tell me...”

”You damn brat... Don’t tell me...” Ryoma echoes, trailing by barely a fraction of a second, but almost sounds the same voice.

The rest of the words never leave Cabello’s mouth. The anger drains from his face, replaced by naked disbelief.

Color slowly leaves his cheeks before he abruptly pushes himself to his feet.

”You...?”

Ryoma rises as well, wearing the same startled expression.

”You...?”

The referee blinks in visible confusion, his eyes darting back and forth between the two identical reactions unfolding in front of him. For the briefest moment, even he seems unsure what exactly he has just witnessed.

Then professionalism takes over. He quickly steps between them, waves both fighters on, and asks whether they are able to continue. But neither of them seems to hear a single word.

Cabello keeps staring at Ryoma. For several exchanges now, he has been struggling with the feeling that something about this imitation is deeply wrong. But only now does the realization strike him in full.

Ryoma isn’t merely copying his movements. He’s copying his words too. And doing so at the same timing is utterly impossible, unless…

”You...” Cabello stammers once more.

”You...” Ryoma echoes, but unlike Cabello, he completes the sentence. ”...can read my mind?”

Cabello freezes, his face turns even paler as though he has just seen a ghost. One foot instinctively slides backward.

Those were the exact words that had just surfaced inside his own mind. But before he could even say them, Ryoma already had.

And then, for the first time since becoming Cabello’s copycat, Ryoma stops imitating him. While Cabello remains frozen in disbelief, Ryoma’s lips slowly curl into a quiet, confident smile.

”And yes...” he says softly. ”I know exactly what you’re thinking right now.”

Silence swallows the sold-out Tokyo Dome. With more than fifty thousand spectators holding their breath, even the slightest word spoken inside the ring is picked up by the broadcast microphones.

Above the canvas, the giant screen shows nothing but the two fighters’ faces, every subtle twitch of their expressions magnified for the entire arena to see.

Not a soul breaks the silence, each person trapped in disbelief. Even those closest to Ryoma can only stare in bewilderment, wondering whether they have just witnessed something impossible.