VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Malik’s head is caught against Ryoma’s right fist while the rest of his body is still being carried forward by the momentum of his gazelle punch.

His upper body then folds around the impact, thrown backward until his back slams hard into the canvas.

Blugh-bugh!

The arena erupts in a collective roar, then instantly fractures into screams and stunned gasps as Malik crashes onto the canvas.

”OH, MY GOD!”

”HE CAUGHT HIM!”

”RYOMA JUST STOPPED HIM DEAD!”

For a heartbeat, the entire building seems to hold its breath before the noise surges again; louder, wilder, and almost disbelieving.

”I honestly don’t know how to put that sequence into words.”

”First, Adebayo does something rather questionable, Takeda starts protesting to the referee, and then… suddenly… Adebayo is on the canvas.”

”I think the referee’s just as confused as we are. Look at his face!”

The referee blinks, looking momentarily lost in the chaos, before finally straightening as the situation clicks back into place.

”D-down!” he announces. ”Neutral corner!”

He immediately looks toward Ryoma, only to realise the champion has already walked away and is standing near the neutral corner.

The referee looks awkwardly back toward Malik, and then begins counting.

”Four…”

”Five…”

Malik is already trying to rise, sitting slightly tilted to his right with one elbow planted against the canvas for support. Blood runs from his nose, his face dazed and disoriented as he drags in heavy, uneven breaths.

”Six…”

Malik suddenly pushes himself upright, but the abrupt movement sends his body swaying hard to the right. He staggers like a drunk before his right glove catches the canvas again, keeping him from falling.

He tries to steady himself, but the effort only makes him stumble farther toward the right, the referee following closely beside him.

”Seven…”

Malik finally reaches the corner and slumps against the turnbuckle, still tilting heavily into the corner pad.

”Eight…”

But his hands remain down. The referee takes one look at him, then finally waves both arms.

”OHH! IT’S OVER!”

”THE REFEREE HAS STOPPED THE FIGHT!”

”AFTER ALL THAT STRUGGLE, MALIK CAN’T BEAT THE COUNT!”

The arena explodes again as Ryoma calmly walks back toward his corner, raising one hand in triumph without much celebration, as though the result had never been in doubt.

Malik, however, somehow still manages to look genuinely disbelieving, staring after the referee as if he has just witnessed the most absurd decision imaginable.

”What…?” His face wrinkles in disbelief. ”Why did you stop? Ref?”

The referee simply turns away and starts walking. Malik immediately follows, his legs wobbling beneath him like a drunkard’s, but his protest remains relentless.

”Hey! Why are you ignoring me? Why did you stop it? I can still fight!”

The referee doesn’t even look back. He only shakes his head and waves one hand in denial.

”Hey!”

Malik keeps after him, still trying to steady himself with every step.

”I can still fight! This is too soon! Why are you stopping it?”

Yet Malik’s insistence only makes him look more ridiculous. Everyone in the arena can see the state he is in: his face battered, blood still running from his nose, his balance barely under control as he leans toward the referee with every protest.

Laughter spreads through the crowd, though a few voices try to encourage him rather than mock him.

”Don’t force it, Malik! Look at yourself, mate!”

”What are you supposed to do in that condition? You can barely stand!”

”Don’t be so hard on yourself, Malik! There’s no shame in losing here!”

”You just went up against the greatest champion ever!”

Even the two commentators laugh, though only briefly. One of them clears his throat and settles back into his commentary.

”Well, this is certainly not what anyone expected. We’re not even two minutes into the second round, and Ryoma has already ended the fight. That is incredibly early for a world-title fight.”

”Yes, completely unexpected,” his partner replies. ”But what if all of this was actually within Ryoma’s calculations?”

The first commentator turns toward him. ”What do you mean?”

”You know what I mean,” the second says. ”Ryoma said yesterday that this fight wouldn’t last more than four rounds. And then he went even further, claiming he would rewrite history because he already knew what the future held, and that he had the ability to end things earlier than history said he would. Like a fortune teller seeing what’s going to happen… and then deciding to create his own version of reality.”

The first commentator lets out a short, almost incredulous laugh, clearly more entertained than convinced.

”You can’t be serious. We just saw what happened. It was all chaos in the moment. Even Ryoma couldn’t have reacted to Malik’s deliberate foul before he started protesting to the referee.”

”Well, what if I told you that was part of Ryoma’s calculation too?”

The first commentator laughs again. ”Yeah… right. It could be. Or it could just as easily not be.”

He glances toward the ring. ”But one thing is certain: Ryoma has retained his title in spectacular fashion. Not even two full rounds. Far too short for a world-title fight. But judging by the noise in this arena, I think these people have enjoyed every second of it.”

As though completely unconcerned with Malik’s feelings, the arena continues celebrating, showering Ryoma with applause and congratulatory cheers.

In one small section, something else begins. A group of spectators who have seemingly adopted Ryoma as their own starts singing the same old hymn once chanted by the Cruel King Army back in Tokyo.

♪ Cruel King! Cruel King!

Our forever King!

Three bullets couldn’t bring you down!

Now go and take another crown! ♪

It is the same hymn once sung during Ryoma’s campaign to claim the world title.

But now, with Ryoma already standing as the WBO world champion, the words sound different to him. It’s almost perfectly aligned with what comes next: the pursuit of becoming undisputed.

A faint, amused smile touches Ryoma’s face. He shakes his head, almost unable to believe they are already singing it again.

”Do they really not realise Elliot’s title is the one I’m taking next?”

Kurogane’s voice comes from behind him. ”That’s assuming Elliot can even keep his title against Caleb Mercer.”

Ryoma shrugs. ”I know he’ll win.”

Meanwhile, officials, a ring girl, and the announcer already step into the ring, with the announcer holding a microphone.

Nakahara quickly wraps the WBO championship belt around Ryoma’s waist, preparing for the victory ceremony.

Ryoma remains in his corner for a few moments, seemingly ignoring everything the ring announcer is saying. His eyes stay fixed on Malik, who still looks almost comically lost in his denial.

With a faint sigh and an expression of boredom, Ryoma leans slightly toward Kurogane. ”I know you were just trying to pad my record with a low-risk opponent. But next time, find me someone a little more challenging.”

Kurogane glances toward Malik. ”Did he disappoint you?”

Ryoma looks at him.

”You disappointed me.”

Kurogane pauses.

”Sorry, sorry… I’ll do better next time.”

***

Meanwhile, in one of the locker rooms, Elliot Graves and his team remain gathered around the flatscreen, staring at the replay in disbelief.

”Kid had the audacity to make a bold prediction…” Martin says. ”…and he actually fucking did it.”

Meanwhile, Elliot continues staring at the flatscreen for several moments before turning toward Sergei with a faintly teasing smile.

”Well, Sergei? Is that convincing enough for you?”

Sergei turns to him, his expression flat.

”What?”

”You know what I mean,” Elliot says. ”Ryoma gave us a plan for beating Caleb Mercer. And it wasn’t some vague bullshit, either. He laid it out round by round, complete with alternatives for different scenarios.”

He turns his attention back to the flatscreen. ”And you saw how he finished Malik. That ending certainly looked like a mistake Malik made in the middle of chaos. But everything that happened before it? Almost exactly what he described during our discussion two days ago.”

Sergei says nothing, offering no argument as his mind drifts back to the last discussion he had with Ryoma’s team.

He had helped them extensively, providing a mountain of footage and material on Malik, including fights from his amateur days and even the Olympics. From all of that, Ryoma had built his strategy with several alternative scenarios depending on how the fight unfolded.

And, just as Elliot had said, those two rounds had followed one of those scenarios almost perfectly. Sergei had simply never expected the final part to come so quickly.

”Well, let’s get prepared,” he says, moving toward the bench and picking up his mitts. ”Whatever the strategy is, it won’t mean a bloody thing if your body can’t execute it.”

He turns back toward Elliot, his expression now serious, though his thoughts are not on Caleb Mercer.

His mind has already moved beyond the next fight, toward the possibility that one day Elliot will have to stand across the ring from Ryoma himself.

And the thought leaves him far less comfortable than he wants to admit.