VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara’s lips curl into something rare, a naïve smile. He and Hiroshi are still standing ringside as their boxer walking calmly back to the neutral corner after dropping Kanzaki.

Hiroshi exhales, almost laughing through the release. “One week… and he’s already got it. I didn’t think he could master it this fast.”

His hand trembles with pride. The endless drills, the late nights, the doubt, it all blooms in this moment. Ryoma’s flicker isn’t a gamble anymore. It’s real.

But Nakahara’s thoughts cut deeper. To him, it’s not just the flicker. He’s watching a nineteen-year-old control the ring with nothing but his left.

First as an orthodox out-boxer, then as a flicker stylist, and finally as a tight in-fighter. Three disciplines, one hand.

“He who rules with his left…” he mutters, “…rules the world.”

Hiroshi blinks, not hearing him clear. “What?”

Nakahara flinches, clearing his throat.

“N-nothing…”

He knows how stupid it sounds. But for a moment there, he dared to dream big for once.

Across the ring, the blue corner is silent. Tsuchida doesn’t even bark instructions. His shoulders sag against the ropes, eyes fixed on the canvas.

Earlier he told Kanzaki to force his way inside, to eat the lashes if he had to. But when his boxer finally managed it, he let rage take over. One wide reckless swing, and Ryoma turned it into a perfect trap.

Tsuchida knows that wasn’t chance. That was a deliberate set-up, a rookie reading the moment like a veteran.

“Too much,” he mutters, voice almost swallowed by the crowd. “This is too much. We never trained him for this.”

His face is completely clouded with desperation. He doesn’t even think about telling his boxer to get up.

But still, Kanzaki moves. Groans ripple through his chest as he plants a glove, pushes to his knees.

And gasps rush through the arena, not in admiration, but in disbelief. Everyone sees the futility. Everyone knows he’s finished. But Kanzaki won’t stay down.

Hatred smolders in his veins. Ryoma stole his style, his Interhigh glory, his legacy. And now, with those cutting words, he feels Ryoma is trying to steal his very will.

“How… dared him?”

His pride won’t allow it. Pride won’t let him accept that humiliation.

It’s just his left… not his right.

His teeth grind as he staggers to a knee.

I’m fine.

One more push, and he rises, swaying but upright nonetheless.

I won’t allow him beat me down with just his left.

The referee steps in, holding up his fingers for the count, eyes locked on Kanzaki.

“Six… seven…”

By eight, Kanzaki steadies, shoulders rising with heavy breath.

The referee gestures, palm out. “Show me you can go on.”

Kanzaki lifts his gloves, forcing strength into his arms even as they tremble. His glare doesn’t waver.

“Don’t you dare stop this,” he growls, voice rough but sharp. “I’m not done yet.”

The ref studies him a beat longer, then nods, waving the fight back on.

Kanzaki staggers a half-step forward, still glaring at Ryoma through bloodshot eyes. He refuses to die flat on the canvas. Better broken on his feet than shamed on the floor.

Ryoma sees it and almost welcomes it. The corner of his mouth lifts. He doesn’t want it over yet.

“A knockout here would be mercy,” Ryoma mutters, barely audible. “And you deserve no mercy. Not after calling me weak and soft. Not after what you did to Nakahara.”

Nakahara snaps from the corner, urgency in his voice. “Kid! This is your chance! Don’t give him time to recover!”

But Ryoma doesn’t answer. He walks out of his corner with casual steps, deliberately slow, letting Kanzaki draw another breath. The crowd leans forward, sensing the pause.

“Let him gather his pride,” Ryoma thinks, expression unreadable. “Let him stand taller, so I can slam him down harder.”

Nakahara grips the ropes, frustration flashing across his face. “Why isn’t he going in? Why’s he letting Kanzaki breathe?”

Kanzaki steadies on his feet, but the fury in his chest burns hotter than the ache in his ribs. He sees Ryoma’s reluctance, refusing to press the attack.

To Nakahara, it’s confusing, why would his boxer hold back when victory is within reach? But to Kanzaki, it’s something worse. It’s mockery.

“He’s… he’s looking down on me?”

Kanzaki’s lips curl, rage drowning reason.

Instead of using the lull to recover, he lunges forward, head low, fists swinging wild. Less a boxer, more a thug demanding a brawl.

From the blue corner, Tsuchida’s voice tears out in frustration. “The hell… Kanzaki, you moron! Are you stupid or what?”

Kanzaki barrels in, throwing a wide hook. Ryoma doesn’t even lift his guard, only waiting. When Kanzaki steps into his range…

Pak!

A compact jab snapping straight to the nose. Kanzaki halts mid-swing, stopped cold.

Both Nakahara and Tsuchida look baffled. Ryoma could have ended it right there with a cross or hook. Instead, he chooses a clean, simple jab.

Ryoma doesn’t explain, of course. He just keeps firing. One, two, three, fast and heavy jabs in the orthodox rhythm, drives Kanzaki backward step by step.

Kanzaki’s legs tremble, his guard clamped high, rooted in the center of the ring. He can’t move forward. He can barely breathe.

And still, Ryoma taunts him between the blows.

“Is this the boxing style you’re so proud of?”

Dsh! Dsh!

Two jabs slam into the guard, but then the third whips sideways, a flicker snapping across Kanzaki’s cheek.

Dsh!

“Hey… open your eyes. Look again.”

Smack!

Another flicker slaps Kanzaki from a different angle.

“Is it really yours?!”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Kanzaki lunges, pressing forward.

But Ryoma sends more orthodox jabs, but now mixed with flicker strikes, blending them at will. Every lash is a reminder that Kanzaki’s so-called “style” no longer belongs to him alone.

He pounds Kanzaki’s guard and face, not giving him space to breathe.

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

Each strike comes with a lash of words.

Dsh!

“Tell me!”

Dsh!

Another jab crashes through, and Ryoma’s voice cuts sharper than the fists.

“Say it! Whose style is this?!”

Pak! Snap! Smack!

A flicker slaps across Kanzaki’s eyelid, then another from a different angle.

“Whose style is this, Kanzaki?!”

The crowd roars, sensing the humiliation layered over the punishment.

Kanzaki’s knees buckle, his guard quakes, but Ryoma keeps whipping jabs and demanding the answer, each punch hammering the same question.

“Whose style is this?!”

Finally, the bell rings, ending Kanzaki’s torment.

The referee wedges himself between them, but Ryoma’s assault doesn’t stop. It just shifts from his fists to his tongue.

“So high and mighty, are you? As if you were the perfect boxer alive!”

“Shut your mouth!” Kanzai shoots back.

“Like boxing itself belonged to you?” Ryoma adds.

“You’re still just a damn kid,” Kanzaki spits. “Go back to your mom’s dirty barbershop and cry to her!”

Ryoma freezes mid-step, eyes narrowing. “Not my mom… you bastard.”

Fury takes him. He strides forward despite the bell, and Kanzaki snarls, stepping out of his corner to meet him.

“Come on, brat! I’ll shut you up myself!”

The referee shouts a warning, but neither man stops.

The bell is forgotten. The rules are forgotten.

The crowd erupts to its feet, the arena trembling as the two are about to collide.