VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Rivera’s despair doesn’t last as long as Cabello’s. Unlike the champion, he is watching everything from the outside, detached enough for his thoughts to slowly find solid ground again.

”If he could really read your mind...” he mutters, ”then why did he struggle so much during the first five rounds?”

”How the hell should I know?” Cabello snaps back. ”You’re supposed to be the one telling me.”

Rivera slowly shakes his head. ”I don’t know either. But one thing I’m sure of... he isn’t reading your mind. It’s nothing more than a psychological trick. I’ll give him this… he’s unbelievably good at copying your movements. But that’s where it ends. He can’t steal your creativity.”

He then leans closer until only Cabello can hear him. ”And your bodies aren’t the same. Remember what happened in the locker room.”

Cabello’s expression subtly changes. He tightens the straps of his gloves, then lightly shakes out both legs, testing them for himself.

”You’re still ahead,” Rivera says. ”Let him keep copying every movement if that’s what he wants. Sooner or later, his performance will drop. You don’t have to force those dangerous trades anymore. Just box smart, play it safe, and protect the lead you’ve already built.”

Across the ring, however, Ryoma’s corner has already recognized the unfavorable situation as well. Even Sera can barely hold himself back, clearly wanting to say something, but Ryoma remains seated with his eyes closed, showing no sign of opening them yet.

”Hey, Ryoma,” he says quietly. ”A lot of people might think what you pulled off out there was brilliant. But from where I’m standing... you’re digging your own grave.”

Ryoma reacts ever so slightly, but his eyes remain closed. Seeing no response, Sera glances at Nakahara, his impatience becoming impossible to hide, until Nakahara finally leans forward and decides to speak himself.

”Kid, Sera has every reason to be worried. What you’re doing is far too dangerous. If this keeps going, the best-case scenario is that your performance drops at the same time as Cabello’s.”

He pauses, making sure Ryoma is listening. ”And if your suspicion is right... if Cabello really was juiced... then this fight just became much harder. You’re already trailing on the cards, and if he boxes safely from this point on, you’ll run out of rounds before you run him down.”

But Ryoma simply remains seated with his eyes closed, using every remaining second of the break to recover as efficiently as possible.

Then the official’s voice cuts through the corner.

”Seconds out!”

Only then does Ryoma open his eyes and rise to his feet in complete calm.

He is fully aware of the accumulated damage his body has taken, and he has already accounted for every bit of it. For now, he is confident he can maintain nearly the same level of performance for at least another round or two before the decline becomes impossible to ignore.

Hiroshi, Sera, and Murakami have already stepped down from the apron. Only Nakahara remains, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to leave.

”It’s okay, old man,” Ryoma finally says. ”I’ve already accounted for everything.”

He then turns toward him and gives a reassuring nod. Only then does Nakahara finally climb down from the apron.

When the bell rings for round seven, Ryoma leaves his corner still imitating Cabello, although the swagger that once accompanied the champion’s walk is no longer there. Both men now advance with the measured steps expected of boxers deep into a high-stakes title fight.

Even so, the outline remains unmistakable. Cabello continues circling the ring, doing his best to preserve the shape of his Cuban Boxing, while Ryoma shadows every movement, following him as naturally as yin follows yang.

The sight only deepens Sera’s frustration. ”One day… that overconfidence is going to cost him his career.”

Nakahara lets out a quiet sigh. ”The kid said this is still within his calculations. Let’s put a little trust in that confidence... at least for now.”

”Oh, sure,” Sera replies curtly. ”But you’d better keep the towel ready. It’s not that I doubt him. His safety just comes before everything else.”

***

For the next few seconds, neither fighter makes any attempt to step into striking range. They simply circle one another just outside it, sometimes clockwise, sometimes counterclockwise, everything still dictated by Cabello’s rhythm, fully committed to Rivera’s instructions.

”Look at them,” the first commentator says. ”They’re still moving in almost perfect sync... but everything feels so much calmer now.”

”It does,” the second agrees. ”Do you think both of them are finally feeling the damage? Maybe they’re simply being much more careful.”

”I can’t really say that about Ryoma,” the first replies with a quiet laugh. ”As far as I can tell, he’s still just copying whatever Cabello decides to do.”

”Exactly,” the second says. ”So this isn’t really Ryoma setting the pace. It all depends on Cabello now. And maybe you’re right... he’s the one leading this fight. He doesn’t need to force another dangerous exchange.”

Ryoma is fully aware of it, and he quietly takes advantage of the slower pace, letting his body recover from the accumulation of dual exchanges over the previous round.

At least, one thing still reassures him. The irritation never leaves Cabello’s face. The tightness in his muscles remains visible, unable to fully relax under the weight of the psychological pressure.

Ryoma, meanwhile, continues the imitation with deliberate ease, keeping every movement as relaxed as possible.

When Cabello suddenly forces a smug grin, Ryoma simply copies it with the same confidence.

”I know what you’re thinking,” Ryoma says calmly. ”But are you comfortable with this?”

The prolonged lull quickly begins wearing on the Tokyo Dome crowd, whose patience grows thinner with every passing second.

”Come on! Fight already!”

”Stop dancing and throw something!”

”This isn’t a ballroom!”

”Enough with the mind games!”

”You call this a championship round?”

”What are you waiting for?!”

With neither fighter showing any intention of taking the initiative, the referee finally steps in.

”Enough circling!” he warns firmly. ”This is a fight. Start engaging, or I’ll have to consider it excessive non-action.”

For the first time in a while, Ryoma breaks the imitation. He lets Cabello continue dancing alone, then simply shrugs.

”Come on, Champ. Let’s trade some more. Or... are you afraid of me now?”

Cabello’s brow twitches, and the rhythm beneath his feet subtly changes. Eventually, the dance stops, and he begins edging forward with deliberate caution, inch by inch.

Ryoma quietly slips back into his imitation. Soon, they stand within punching range, both leaning slightly forward in open stances, gloves hovering around chest level, neither willing to blink first.

Cabello’s right shoulder gives a quick twitch, Ryoma immediately mirrors it, and both remain motionless for another brief moment.

The first commentator swallows hard. ”...This is intense.”

”They’re standing right inside punching range,” the second says, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. ”Both in fully offensive stances... and neither of them is moving.”

Then Cabello suddenly snaps out a jab, but quickly stepping off the centerline before the punch has fully extended, preparing for the counter he expects Ryoma to imitate.

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He simply remains in his stance, watching as Cabello recoils as though he’d touched a hot stove.

”What’s wrong, Champ?” Ryoma chuckles with a silly face. ”Why are you so scared?”

The words strike harder than the jab ever could. Now that the entire arena realizes who is truly avoiding the exchange, a wave of boos crashes down from every direction.

”What the hell was that?”

”Oi, Cabello. What’s gotten into you?”

”Throw the damn punch!”

”You’re the champion!”

”Don’t tell me you’re scared!”

The noise pours down upon Cabello from every corner of the Tokyo Dome. Even the commentators can no longer hold back their laughter.

”Can you believe this? A reigning world champion just pulled back a perfectly good jab!”

”I’ve seen champions fight through broken noses and swollen eyes... but I’ve never seen one hesitate because he’s afraid his opponent will punch him the exact same way.”

”Well, after everything that happened in the last round... I honestly think he’s traumatized by those dual exchanges.”

Cabello’s eyes widen in anger. He isn’t afraid of pain, yet he cannot deny the absurdity of what just happened; a movement that should have looked like brilliant defense now makes him appear frightened simply because Ryoma never threw the punch he had prepared for.

And Ryoma’s smug grin only makes it worse, feeding the humiliation until it boils into pure anger. With his pride now thoroughly wounded, Cabello forgets every word Rivera had told him only moments ago.

”Enough, kid,” he growls. ”Come here... let’s trade it out.”

He steps straight back into the line of attack, squaring himself in front of Ryoma with both gloves held openly, practically inviting a slugfest. And Ryoma accepts without hesitation, settling into almost the same posture.

Cabello gives a quick pull with his head, trying to draw a reaction, but Ryoma doesn’t bite. He then rocks the head lightly before rhythmically sways his upper body, and realizes that Ryoma has stopped imitating him.

Then Cabello subtly loads up a lead hook for a feint, and Ryoma actually matches the timing by firing a right straight without hesitation.

”So you’ve finally had enough of playing copycat, huh?”

There is, however, one subtle detail that escapes Cabello entirely. Ryoma is now standing in a southpaw stance, his right foot sitting opposite Cabello’s left.

Still oblivious to the situation, Cabello ducks beneath Ryoma’s punch, rolls out to his own right, and whips a right hook back as the counter.

”Got you, motherfucker!”

But as the hook comes around, he suddenly realizes Ryoma’s head isn’t nearly as close as he thought.

”What the…?”

And Ryoma punishes him immediately, driving a left cross forward.

DSH!!!

”What a counter!” the first commentator shouts in disbelief.

The punch crashes flush into Cabello’s face. It snaps his head backward, sending him reeling before one knee finally crashes onto the canvas.

”He’s down!” the second roars. ”Cabello is down!”

”Unbelievable! That was the first clean punch either fighter has landed this entire round.”

”And it’s Ryoma who makes the reigning world champion take a knee right in front of him!”