VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For more than thirty seconds, Ryoma does nothing but flick simple jabs, never setting up for the Phantom Jab.

Umemoto blocks every jab cleanly, and with each successful defense, he gradually begins to feel safe enough to look for a counter.

Without realizing it, he is already walking into a simple setup from Ryoma, who never fully retracts his left hand after each jab.

Then Umemoto blocks another jab and immediately follows Ryoma’s retreating left with a cross counter.

But Ryoma, never fully pulling his left, cleverly holds off the cross on the forearm, and drives a compact right uppercut.

THUNK!

Umemoto’s head snaps upward.

But he forces out a left hand of his own.

Ryoma slides his rear foot sideways, shifts his head to slip the punch…

…and fires a left on the solar flexus.

THUD!

But still, Umemoto forces out a sharp right hook upstairs.

Ryoma ducks, rolls left while throwing a right punch to the body, then a left hook to the head.

THUD! DSH!

”Four tight counters from Ryoma! Fast, sharp, and deadly clean!”

”Umemoto kept firing after every shot! But Ryoma paid him back every time without dropping his tempo!”

Ryoma goes back to controlling the distance with his left, throwing one punch at a time while continuing to circle the perimeter.

When Umemoto commits again, Ryoma slips without giving ground, tempting him to chain his combinations.

And again, Ryoma sends back a clean counter through every exchange.

Dsh! THUD!

Slips.

THUD! DSH! BUGH! DSH!

”Look at that accuracy from Ryoma!”

”He’s finding the opening in every single combination Umemoto throws! His reactions are unbelievably fast!

”That is clinical boxing! Umemoto is throwing sharp combinations, and Ryoma is answering every one of them with absolute precision!”

”How does he keep finding those gaps so quickly?!”

The same rhythm continues for several moments, with Ryoma circling with his jabs, Umemoto suddenly attacks with another fast and sharp combination, and Ryoma counters every punch smoothly and cleanly before moving back out.

Umemoto’s supporters are growing increasingly desperate, while the Osaka journalists find themselves caught between irritation and admiration. They still hate Ryoma, but the cleanliness of his boxing is something they simply cannot deny.

”Damn it… he’s not wasting anything.”

”Umemoto keeps forcing his way through, but that kid keeps making him pay for every single one.”

”Look at him. He’s not even panicking. That bastard looks completely comfortable.”

”You can hate him all you want, but you can’t watch that and call it anything except excellent boxing.”

”Shiiit… I still want Umemoto to knock that brat’s head off.”

”Umemoto is still on this. And I know exactly how terrifying that man can be.”

***

Inside the ring, Ryoma’s counters continue to pile up damage, keeping the rhythm to the next round, and to the round after that.

But none of them is devastating enough to finally put Umemoto on the canvas.

And the more Umemoto keeps fighting through those increasingly desperate-looking exchanges, the sharper his fighting instincts become.

If you believe in the idea that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, then Umemoto may be the closest thing to its living embodiment.

In fact, Ryoma has been deliberately targeting the most dangerous points on Umemoto’s body: the ear, the base of the jaw, the solar plexus, and the chin.

But even when those shots get through, Umemoto reacts within a fraction of a second, shifting just enough to avoid the worst of the impact.

”How is Umemoto still getting through this?!”

”Ryoma has been picking him apart for rounds now. Just watching it is enough to make your spine tingle!”

”But somehow, Umemoto is still fighting back!”

”He answers every one of Ryoma’s counters with something of his own. His effort seems futile so far, but you have to give the man credit for it!”

Yet Umemoto is not merely throwing back out of desperation. Every time one of Ryoma’s counters lands, Umemoto immediately sends something back, forcing Ryoma to react before he can do anything more with the punch.

Ryoma has to slip, evade, or find his way out almost immediately after every clean connection. He never pushes himself to follow through, add his weight, or turn those precise counters into something heavier.

The punch lands, and Ryoma is already moving again.

Dsh!

Slips.

Dsh!

Rolls.

Thud! Bugh!

Slips, and gets out.

To everyone watching, it is advanced boxing at its most technical: precise, efficient, clinical, and almost impossibly clean.

But if the Phantom Ryoma were standing in that ring right now, watching every exchange along with the referee, he would have nothing but contempt for it.

Soft.

Coward.

No conviction.

Touch him, then run.

Is that really all you’ve got?

But those voices are gone now. The urge to be cruel is gone with them. Worse still, Ryoma is beginning to feel sorry for Umemoto.

Please stop.

Dsh!

Just stay down.

Dug. BUGH! THUD! DSH!

Someone needs to stop this.

Look at him.

Look at his face.

Dsh! Dhuack!

Someone, please… stop this fight.

His boxing ability has not disappeared at all. He still moves like a world champion, with the same precision, timing, and control that brought him to the top.

But the man fighting in that ring now is not the Cruel King.

This is Ryoma as he truly is.

The gentle Ryoma.

The kindhearted Ryoma.

The man who still has a conscience.

A sense of mercy.

And the instinct to care when another human being is suffering.

And that gentler side of Ryoma blinds him to one crucial fact. For a while now, Umemoto has barely felt any pain from the punches landing cleanly on him.

Ryoma’s attacks have rhythm and precision, but no decisiveness. And that relentless rhythm, combined with such clinical accuracy, is quietly giving Umemoto exactly what he needs to unleash the beast inside him.

Instead of being forced to retaliate after every punch, Umemoto finally gets to react to an incoming shot on his own terms, timing it for a simultaneous exchange.

BAM!!!

”Oh! They trade in the pocket!”

”Finally! For the first time, Umemoto hits home!”

Their hooks collide against the sides of each other’s heads. But the lack of decisiveness in Ryoma’s punches is immediately reflected in the impact.

Umemoto is the first to build on the momentum, sending a sharp sequence: left hook, right uppercut, left straight, right hook upstairs, left body blow.

Ryoma returns to defensive mode, ducking under the first, catching the second, angling out, ducking again, and stepping away.

”Woo! That’s sick!”

”Look at how he reacts to that devastating combination!”

Ryoma then takes a half step-in for a counter.

But Umemoto brings his head forward and drives down with an overhead slam, putting his entire weight behind his right hand.

Another simultaneous exchange explodes.

DSH!

BAM!!!

Both fighters freeze for a beat.

Umemoto is bent forward, while Ryoma staggers back, his rear foot trembling.

”Oh! That one got through clean!”

”Ryoma’s foot is shaking! What the hell just happened?!”

The atmosphere inside the arena changes instantly, the noise from the crowd dropping into a tense murmur as thousands of eyes remain fixed on the two fighters.

Ryoma is clearly the one who absorbs the heavier blow, yet the punishment Umemoto has accumulated over the previous rounds finally catches up with him, leaving him unable to capitalize on the opening.

By the time Umemoto manages to throw again, Ryoma has already recovered his footing, retreating several steps and bringing his guard back up.

”Damn it…”

”That was dangerous.”

”It seems he’s gone deep into the zone.”

The moment Ryoma recognizes what is happening, his mind begins working through every possible trick he can use against the weaknesses that emerge when someone enters that state.

He knows Umemoto’s fighting instinct is now operating at its absolute peak, his body driven almost entirely by an adrenaline rush.

And he also knows that a boxer in this condition can become dangerously reckless, throwing himself into exchanges with little regard for the consequences.

Within a single second, Ryoma’s mind produces countless maneuvers to trap Umemoto.

Draw him into a counter.

Force him toward the ropes.

Bait the right hand.

Attack the liver.

Fake the retreat.

Break his rhythm.

Intercept the rush.

Turn his aggression against him.

But those dozen ideas no longer come through the cold, detached calculations he once relied on. His thought process is becoming contaminated by emotion, and the control he had over it is beginning to unravel.

Instead of giving him a solution, the sheer number of possibilities leaves him trapped between them, his thoughts colliding faster than he can separate one from another.

Then the panic attack takes hold. Ryoma just stands there like a malfunctioning robot. His decision-making deteriorates into complete confusion.

He simply stares at Umemoto, his head stuttering, his eyes snapping rapidly from one point to another with almost rigid precision, as if mechanically tracking every opening and every piece of his guard that could be manipulated.

”Wait… look at Ryoma’s head.”

”What the hell is that movement? His head is twitching like he’s trying to process something!”

”And Umemoto is moving in now! He’s getting closer, but Ryoma isn’t moving! He’s just standing there!”