VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Seeing that hesitation from Malik, Ryoma decides to use the opportunity to do something else: study how Malik reacts to his punches.

He cuts the distance with a casual walk, then flicks out a light jab.

Dug.

He resets, pivots slightly, and sends another testing jab, this time a little faster.

Dug.

Malik simply brings his guard up for each jab, then lowers it again.

And Ryoma teases him once more.

Dug.

And again.

Dug.

He isn’t thinking about scoring. He’s collecting data, watching how Malik responds to each punch and how he moves after each reaction.

”Suddenly the pace has slowed right down.”

”It has, hasn’t it? Takeda’s barely committing to anything here.”

”Yeah, he looks almost as though he’s not particularly interested in fighting tonight.”

But Malik takes it as an insult, as if Ryoma is deliberately underestimating him with those uncommitted jabs.

After more than fifteen seconds of dealing with Ryoma’s half-hearted jabs, Malik finally loses patience. His pride wins out over his doubt, and he goes right back to applying pressure.

Jab-cross.

Lead hook-overhead punch.

Jab-cross-upper.

He hunts Ryoma with the aggression of a wolf chasing a rabbit, as if the entire bloody forest will starve to death if he doesn’t catch it tonight.

And Ryoma lets him have his moment. He returns to the Cuban defensive geometry, offering his unguarded head as a target, moving and swaying it to guide Malik just as he did before.

Malik tracks the head with a flurry of quick jabs, but Ryoma slips every one of them, keeping his posture bent forward.

Slip!

Slip!

Slip!

Slip!

”He just can’t find him!”

”Takeda’s head movement is making Malik look like he’s punching at smoke.”

Frustrated by the constant head movement, Malik steps deeper and changes levels, aiming for the body.

But Ryoma quickly hops backward, makes a casual L-step, and then offers his head again, almost inviting Malik to have another go.

Malik keeps the hunt, but Ryoma makes it look like a trainer guiding a fighter through mitt work, except Ryoma is bold enough to use his own head as the target.

And this time, it isn’t to help a fighter find his form, but to tear it apart.

”The pressure from Adebayo is absolutely nerve-racking.”

”It is. And Takeda’s defence looks a hair’s breadth away from disaster every time Malik lets one go.”

***

Once the round reaches its final thirty seconds, Ryoma suddenly plants his feet and puts on a long guard. He stays on the line, making no footwork adjustments.

He then sends out a probing jab.

Dug.

Malik blocks it cleanly, but he doesn’t immediately fire back. The movement in his chest and shoulders looks bigger this time.

That is the signal Ryoma has been waiting for to finally apply his own pressure.

Ryoma steps in behind another jab.

Dug.

Then, he sends a one-two, deliberately making it easy to read.

Dug. Dug.

The moment Malik brings up his double guard to cover his head, Ryoma steps a little deeper, selling another one-two toward the head, not to score, but to create an opening.

The left hits Malik’s left glove outward, and the right knocks against his right elbow from the inside.

Dug. Dug.

Once a small gap opens in the middle…

Dhuack!

A straight left flies fast through it and snaps Malik’s head backwards, making the entire arena gasp in surprise.

Ryoma follows instantly, selling another cross down the middle.

Malik tightens his double guard again to absorb the punch, but a lightning-fast lead hook immediately comes around the outside.

Dug. Dsh!

”Ooooh! What’s going on here?”

”Takeda’s suddenly exploded into a lightning-fast combination!

Seeing there are still two seconds left, Ryoma slides his lead foot deeper and sends another left hook to the body.

BUGH!

Malik’s breath hitches, his jaw clenched with anger.

And Ryoma, fully knowing there is no time left for Malik to fight back, has already lowered his guard, leaving a ridiculous amount of space open in front of him.

Malik shifts his right glove outward for a heavy diagonal hook, but…

Ding!

The bell rings, and the referee steps in immediately.

That deliberate opening Ryoma created is now working as another little gimmick, making it look as though he can see the future.

Malik can only stare at him with growing confusion. And Ryoma simply smiles with a naïve face.

”I told you,” Ryoma says. ”I’ve seen your future.”

He then turns and casually walks back towards his corner as the O2 Arena erupts around him.

Whistles cut through the roar, followed by loud applause from the crowd, clearly feeding off the bizarre little spectacle he has just created.

Malik, meanwhile, remains standing where he is, still looking utterly baffled. The sight is so ridiculous that even the two commentators break into laughter.

”What’s going on here? The round is over, and Malik is still standing there!”

”I know. But after what Takeda just told him, can you blame him? He said he’d seen his future, and judging by that face, Malik’s genuinely wondering whether the man actually has.”

When Malik finally makes his way toward his corner, the big screen above the ring shows the replay of the final ten seconds.

It runs through the sequence again: Ryoma’s jab, the one-two, the opening between Malik’s gloves, the straight left, the follow-up cross, and that lightning-fast lead hook.

Then comes the final exchange; Ryoma lands the body shot, and immediately afterwards, Ryoma drops his gloves.

”And you see there…” the first commentator says.

”That’s the curious bit,” the second commentator says. ”The bell goes literally a second after Takeda drops his gloves.”

”Exactly. How did he know? Because if that bell doesn’t ring… Malik has a huge opening right there. He could punish that mistake badly.

”And we’ve already seen the weight behind Malik’s punches. He could’ve ended this fight right there in the first round. What Takeda did looked incredibly careless.”

”Careless? Not when you know there’s no time left for Malik to fire back.”

”So the question is… how the hell did Takeda know the bell was coming? Can he really see the future?”

”I’d rather not make myself look stupid by actually believing that. But honestly… how else do you make sense of it?”

***

In the blue corner, Malik still looks unsettled. More than twenty seconds have passed since he dropped onto the stool, yet his breathing has not fully settled.

His eyes remain fixed on the white canvas. His thoughts keep branching in different directions. And beneath all of them is that same uneven pounding in his chest, the same strange rhythm he felt when he woke from last night’s nightmare.

Before him, Darren bends forward, studying his face for a few seconds before giving his shoulder a firm shake.

”Hey, Malik… what’s gotten into you? It’s only one round, but you look like you’ve just watched the bloody apocalypse.”

”One round…?” Malik mutters.

”I know he’s a tough champion,” Darren adds. ”But things aren’t that bad. You’ve been through worse than this.”

Malik blinks, still looking trapped in his confusion.

The mention of one round only leaves him more disoriented, because somehow, that first round had felt exactly like the nightmare he had last night.

That same sensation of helplessness. That same exhausting stretch of time where every attempt to break free only seemed to lead him deeper into it, until the feeling of desperation had become almost endless.

Darren’s firm shake seems to jolt him out of it, almost like waking him from the nightmare all over again.

But the sensation is still there in his chest.

It hasn’t gone away.