VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

His words cut deeper than any punch. Aramaki freezes, the color draining from his face, desperation seeping through his hard exterior.

He has admired Ryoma’s boxing since the Interhigh days, studied it, envied it, believed it to be the ideal form. The rhythm, the grace, the perfection he could never reach.

But with arms too short, that kind of elegance was never meant for him. His path is different, brutal, stubborn, all grit and muscle and pain. It is not pretty, but it is his.

This fight has been his dream, a chance to prove himself against the man he once admired. But now, that admiration curdles, bitter on his tongue.

“Aramaki!” Masato Kanda’s voice cracks like a whip. “The hell are you doing over there?”

Aramaki snaps back. Lowering his stance, he begins weaving his head again.

No more reckless lunges this time, no more blind charges, just measured steps forward, the relentless march of a man refusing to break.

Ryoma dances, snapping out jabs. Most are caught or brushed aside, but some slip through, smacking against Aramaki’s cheeks and brow.

The gap between them is undeniable. But still…

“I want to see… how far my boxing can take me.”

Aramaki doesn’t flinch. He absorbs every punch, and keeps moving.

Dum, dum, dsh!

Dug, dum, dum, dsh!

Every exchange is cruel. For every two or three he blocks, one finds its mark and tears through his guard. His head jerks back, sweat bursts into the lights, but his legs keep pressing forward.

Spectators begin to wince. Their faces twist as Aramaki’s swelling temple blooms darker, as his cheek bruising deep and ugly.

This should be a fight between two rookies. But Aramaki looks less like a challenger and more like an offering.

Slowly, the crowd begins to shift. And the cheers for Ryoma falter, replaced by a tide of unease.

“This is… too much.”

“It’s been more than a minute, and he still hasn’t touched him.”

Then, almost shamefully at first, voices rise.

“Hang in there, Aramaki!”

“Don’t give up yet!”

“You can do it!”

The shouts scrape raw from their throats. Some sneer at the pity, dismiss it as cheering for a man already lost. But others begin to be moved.

Then comes the most painful truth. Ryoma’s Vision Grid, his inhuman system, a cheat code masquerading as skill, keeps locking onto Aramaki’s right eyelid.

“That’s… a good idea.”

Ryoma narrows his focus, drilling his aim into that single point. His punches aren’t heavy, but the crisp snap, snap, snap batters the same patch of flesh, over and over.

The skin begins to balloon. Aramaki’s right eye swells, the lid puffing until it drags down his vision.

Ryoma glides back two steps, head tilting as if he were an artist inspecting unfinished work.

Then His Vision Grid flickers to life.

***

[Vision Grid: Target Scan]

Zone Lock: Right Orbital Region

Edema Expansion Rate: Accelerating

Obstruction Probability: 82% (rising)

Conclusion: Right eye function is collapsing.

Recommendation: Continue concentrated strikes. Blind spot will reach total blackout within 90 seconds.

***

A smirk curls across Ryoma’s face, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. But he has no intention of waiting ninety seconds for the swelling to finish its work.

He isn’t some naïve rookie banking on luck. Behind the polished technique, Ryoma was once an obsessive boxing geek who studied every angle, every feint, every dirty trick the sport allowed.

“This much advantage is enough for me.”

Instead of pounding the blind spot further, he shifts gears, closing the distance with a sharp pivot, slipping to Aramaki’s left, the clear side.

Aramaki sees him there, clear as day. His body reacts, his arm snapping out in a right hook. But before he can fully swing…

BAM!

A blow slams into his temple from the opposite side, the blind side, the side he never saw.

The shock tears through him before he can even register it. His head whips, his balance shatters.

Eventually…

Down!

Spectators gasp, then followed with loud cheers. The arena noise trembles.

“That’s it!”

“He finally did it!”

The referee lunges in, pushing Ryoma back toward his corner. The count begins, sharp and merciless.

“…Three!”

“…Four!”

“…Five!”

A thunderclap shakes the canvas as Masato Kanda slams his palms down on the apron, voice raw enough to tear his throat.

“ARAMAKI! GET UP!”

He pounds again, fists rattling the floor like war drums. His face twists with rage and fear, spit flying as he shouts.

“You hear me!? THIS ISN’T HOW YOU END IT! ON YOUR FEET!”

Every word slams through the air, a lifeline hurled across the ring to the broken fighter still struggling on the ground.

Aramaki rises at the count of eight, steady on his legs. His balance holds firm, no tremor in his stance.

It wasn’t the damage that dropped him. It was the shock, the blow he never saw, the impact he had no time to brace against.

Even now, his expression shows more bewilderment than pain, as if he’s still piecing together what just happened.

“What… was that? What hit me?”

His gloves hang loose for a second before he forces them up to chest height. The crowd roars at the sight, some in relief, some in doubt.

The referee steps in quickly, holding out a hand as if to steady him.

“Walk to me. Come!”

Aramaki blinks. He shuffles a step forward, shoulders still heaving.

The referee leans in, eyes locked on his. “You alright?”

Aramaki nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You know where you are?”

“Korakuen Hall, rookie king first round.”

The ref studies him for a breath, then nods and steps aside, chopping the air with his hand.

“Box!”

The crowd erupts once more, and Aramaki settles back into his stance. He is still shaken, still foggy, still confused, but refusing to bow.

Ryoma advances again, his rhythm unchanged, smooth footwork, spearing jabs, the same sharp hit-and-run style. He doesn’t even rush things.

“Okay… let’s keep this for a while.”

Aramaki knows his right eye is swollen, the vision there clouded. But Ryoma is still visible, clear and whole. He can still track the flow of punches, every flick of either hand.

He weaves through the jabs, slipping, ducking, stepping in. A few counters lash out, short lefts, and a heavy right hook. Ryoma could easily slip them, but instead he blocks, forearms catching the blows on purpose.

The impact sends a thrill through Aramaki’s chest. It feels real, solid, a reminder that his punches can still land.

“I’m fine! I can still fight!”

But what he doesn’t see is the game behind it. Ryoma is deliberately staying in range of his good eye, disguising the flaw, hiding the trap.

The pattern continues, normal jabs, nothing unusual, nothing to betray that Aramaki’s vision is compromised. Then suddenly, Ryoma pivots toward Aramaki’s left and flashes a right, a twitch in his knuckle.

“Come eat this!”

It’s not a real punch, just a feint.

Aramaki reacts at once, left arm raises up to block, but…

BAM!!!

A fist slams into his right temple. Again, a punch he never saw.

His whole torso whips sideways, his body rattling with the shock. Only by clutching the ropes and locking his thigh does he stay on his feet.

“That punch…? I couldn’t see it?”

Only now does the truth sink in. The blind spot is real, and the confusion only deepens.

And before he can gather himself, Ryoma’s right knuckle is already crashing forward, straight toward his face.