VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Unlike the end of second round, it isn’t just fatigue on his face. Kanzaki’s spirit is cracking wide open. He no longer sees a way to win.

Tsuchida leans close as the cutman works, trying to inject life back into his boxer.

“You did good that round,” he says, voice rough but urgent. “You finally landed those body shots. Keep at it. They’ll wear him down, kill his legs. Just keep grinding and you’ll see it pay off.”

But Kanzaki doesn’t answer. His breathing slows, but his eyes… they are flat, blank and cold.

Tsuchida freezes. He’s seen this look before, and he knows, the boxer in front of him has broken inside.

Meanwhile, in the red corner, there isn’t much for Hiroshi to do. Ryoma’s face is clean, no swelling, no blood, no real damage to wipe away.

The corner feels calm, almost too calm. And still, Nakahara doesn’t look satisfied. Arms folded, his scowl lingers, not at Ryoma’s body, but at the way he’s handling the fight.

“You let him dig to the body,” Nakahara snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the lull. “What the hell was that?”

Ryoma waves him off. “Part of the plan.”

Nakahara studies him for a moment, then exhales. He knows Ryoma’s sharp enough to have a reason, but it doesn’t ease the tension.

“Fine. I won’t press it. Just answer me this. Can you still use your legs through the last round?”

Ryoma rolls his ankles lightly, shifts his weight, then stands halfway as if testing his balance.

“Don’t know how, but I think I can keep moving even if this drags all the way to six.”

Nakahara rubs his chin, a quiet thought spilling out. “Maybe it’s the flicker. You didn’t move much in the first two rounds. It saved your legs.”

Ryoma chuckles. “And besides… his punches aren’t as hard as Aramaki’s.”

“Of course not,” Nakahara mutters. “He isn’t built like a power puncher.”

The referee calls both Seconds out. But before sliping through the ropes, Nakahara leaves one last advises.

“Don’t take his punch lightly. Weak or not, if you let him in, it can still stack up. End it clean if you see the chance.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just smirks, his eyes flashing. His Vision Grid already told him what words can’t: Kanzaki’s already broken inside.

In the blue corner, Kanzaki pushes himself up from the stool. His eyes are blank, icy cold, fixed on nothing.

Tsuchida doesn’t bother either. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing, only slipping through the ropes with the cutman.

From the broadcast table, the commentators lean in as the seconds clear out.

“Here we go, folks, fourth and final round!”

“Kanzaki’s still standing, but he’s taken heavy punishment. If he wants this, he’s gotta dig deep now.”

“And Ryoma… he’s been in control since that knockdown. Can he close the show, or will Kanzaki turn it around at the very end?”

Finally, the bell rings.

Ding!

The referee chops the air.

“Box!”

Kanzaki raises both gloves, but something is wrong. He isn’t crouching low like an in-fighter, nor bouncing light like an out-boxer. His stance is hollow, caught in-between, body moving without conviction.

Ryoma smirks and slips into motion, dancing on his toes, out-boxer smooth. He peppers Kanzaki with crisp left jabs, testing.

Dsh!

Dug, dug, thud!

But Kanzaki doesn’t fire back. He only stalks, one slow step after another. His stride drags, his arms heavy.

He reacts only on instinct, sometimes flinching, sometimes lifting a guard, sometimes his head lulling back when the jab snaps his face.

There’s no rhythm, no intent. His body just moves forward, like a lifeless shadow refusing to stop.

Ryoma tilts his head, watching the man in front of him.

Then his Vision Grid flickers into life.

***

[SCAN: SUBJECT – KANZAKI]

Movement: sluggish.

Counter-response: minimal.

Pride status: 0%.

PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE: NUMB.

Will to fight: extinguished.

***

The grid flickers out, and Ryoma’s lips curl. His chest brims with something darker than relief.

It’s satisfaction. This is what he’s been after since the opening bell. Not just victory. Not just a knockout.

No, you don’t deserve that honor.

Dsh!

A stiff jab smacks Kanzaki’s cheek, snapping sweat into the air.

I’m the boy you judged as weak.

Dsh!

The swollen eyelid takes another lash, forcing it half-shut.

The one you told to quit.

Dsh!

The glove cracks across Kanzaki’s jaw, his head jerking aside, body stumbling forward on slow lifeless steps.

But I kept climbing. Kept proving my worth.

Dsh!

A whip-quick jab digs into the temple. Kanzaki’s knees buckle, then stagger back into motion.

And look at you now…

Dsh, dsh!

Two more strikes slam into the same eye, swelling it shut, leather thudding like a drumbeat of humiliation.

Where’s your pride, Kanzaki?

Where’s that arrogance you wore like armor?

Ryoma keeps circling, feet light, left hand snapping out again and again. Each jab isn’t thrown to finish, but to torment. To remind Kanzaki with every sting, this isn’t just a fight anymore. It’s an execution of pride.

Three rounds. That’s all it took. And you’ve already turned into this.

***

The crowd roars with every jab that snaps against Kanzaki’s face. At first, they cheer for Ryoma’s precision, each landed punch feeding the rhythm of the arena.

Some voices even rise for Kanzaki, calling out for him to hold strong, to keep chasing, to never give in.

“Stay in it, Kanzaki!”

“Don’t give up, the chance will come!”

But as the seconds drag, the cheers fade. The truth settles on them.

Kanzaki isn’t throwing back anything. He’s only walking forward, eating leather, his gloves trembling against his swollen face.

Ryoma peppers him with measured shots. Not too heavy, never enough to finish, but just hard enough to sting, to keep Kanzaki standing in humiliation.

Pak! Dsh! Pak!

Eventually, Kanzaki’s legs betray him. He stumbles, dropping to his knees.

The referee steps in, beginning the count.

“One!”

“Two!”

Ryoma lowers his gloves, smirk sharp, and finally speaks.

“Come on, senpai,” he scoffs. “That was just a jab. How can you drop from that?”

The crowd gasps at the venom in his voice. Kanzaki blinks, looking dazed as the numbers echoing.

“Three!”

“Four!”

And his mind begins to spiral.

Kaede’s face flickers first, her smile, her voice as she dragged Ryoma to him years ago.

“Kanzaki, this is my friend. Ryoma. Would you like to teach him boxing?”

That’s the brat who stole his chance from approaching his first crush. Grinning so naively like he’s never experienced any hardship in life.

“No! You’re too soft for boxing. You don’t belong here.”

“Four!”

Then he remembers the Interhigh final. Ryoma standing with a medal, something he couldn’t achieve as his Interhigh final was against Fujita Michihiro, who is now the Super Featherweight champion.

His own excuse: Ryoma had it easy. The bracket was weak.

“Five!

Six!”

But deep down, he’d felt the bile of jealousy. He wanted Ryoma gone, wanted his face out of Kaede’s light.

But now here he is, on his knees before him.

“Seven!

“Eight!”

Kanzaki pushes himself up, stubborn. His pride won’t die kneeling.

“You okay?” the referee asks. “Can you still go on?”

But Aramaki just shoves him away.

Finally, the fight resumes.

Box!

Kanzaki throws at last, wild hooks, straights, anything to prove he isn’t finished.

Ryoma just grins, slipping away with ease. “That’s it! More like that. Didn’t you want to break my nose?”

Then he drops his guard, tilts his chin forward, offering it.

“Here it is! My nose! Come and break it!”

Kanzaki snaps, lunging. His fist cuts through the air, but…

Dshh!

…Ryoma’s left counter slams into his face first.

Kanzaki’s head snaps back, blood and sweat spraying under the lights. His body follows a beat later, collapsing to the canvas like a puppet with its strings cut.

Ryoma waves his glove dismissively, mocking. His voice tears out, sharp enough to cut glass.

“Who’s soft now?!”

The referee dives in, counting again. Kanzaki struggles, groggy, but he rises once more.

And Ryoma doesn’t stop. He peppers him, each strike punctuated with venom.

Dsh!

“That’s only my left…”

Dsh!

“And you can’t even withstand it!”

Dsh!

“Tell me, Kanzaki!”

Pak! Dsh!

“Who’s soft now?!”

The commentators’ voices falter.

“This… this isn’t about winning anymore.”

“Ryoma’s not finishing him. He’s torturing him.”

“This is hard to watch.”