VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

This time, Noguchi doesn’t plan to retreat, not after tasting the canvas once already. The shame of that knockdown lingers in his memory, a ghost he’s desperate to banish. He surges forward first, snapping punches out of that crooked, hybrid guard.

Ryoma blocks them with ease at first, tight shoulders, quick parries, simple fundamentals holding strong. But then Noguchi’s trick shows itself. None of his punches are thrown to land clean.

Each one paws, shoves, pries, worming between Ryoma’s guard, pulling his arms wide like a crowbar wedged into a door.

And then…

Zrsshh!

…a real straight pierces the seam he forced open, sliding like a blade through cloth.

Ryoma jerks his head back, the glove grazing across his shoulder instead of his chin. Close. Too close.

Noguchi’s grin, once mocking and loose, is gone. What replaces it is colder, sharper, a mask of intent. His eyes don’t wander anymore, don’t dance around the crowd. They’re locked on Ryoma with a predator’s narrow patience.

He presses forward again. Paw, shove, punch. Paw, shove, punch. A rhythm designed not to score points but to erode, to irritate, to chip at the edges of Ryoma’s timing.

With every repetition, the fight drifts further away from the clean lines of boxing, further into something rougher. A grapple here. A shove there. Short exchanges that look less like strikes and more like the opening grips of a brawl.

A commentator’s voice cracks through the broadcast, faltering, uneasy. “This doesn’t even look like boxing anymore…”

“Now that you mention it,” the other replies, his tone half-laughing, half-dismayed. “Yeah. It’s like watching a judoka hunt for grips. Or a wrestler dragging the fight into his world. But why wear gloves if that’s what you want? This is… this is ugly.”

The audience doesn’t know whether to boo or cheer. Their noise is muddled, some jeering, others still roaring just because fists are moving.

In the ring, Ryoma hammers back, refusing to yield. He drives into the narrow gaps with hooks, sharp compact blows meant to punish the clinch before it closes.

Noguchi turtles up, forearms tight, absorbing. And then, with snake-like speed, he slithers back into the clinch, his own punch melting seamlessly into the grab.

And from there…

Dug, dug, dug!

…short punches. Sneaky. Hidden in the embrace.

To the ribs. To the ear. A knuckle scraping the jawline.

None of them devastating, but all of them corrosive, annoying, irritating as hell.

The referee crouches low, eyes narrowing as if he’s inspecting, but nothing comes. His lips are shut, his hands still.

Then Ryoma’s Vision Grid hums alive, cold warnings slashing across his mind.

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Ryoma growls under his breath, twisting violently. He wrenches his arms free, shoving off with both forearms. For a moment, space opens.

But Noguchi isn’t done. The instant separation appears, he sneaks in a cuffing shot behind Ryoma’s ear, cheap and quick. Then he barrels forward again, pressing chest to chest, dragging the fight back into his swamp.

This time, the fouls are naked. A body shot digs into Ryoma’s ribs, delivered inside the clinch, followed by a sly rabbit punch cuffing the back of his head.

Dsh!

The blow lands flat, thudding against the base of his Ryoma. Not heavy, but sickening.

And again…

Dsh!

…this one clipping the nape of his neck.

Ryoma’s balance rattles. His vision fuzzes for a heartbeat.

“You bastard…” Ryoma snarls through clenched teeth.

His jaw tightens, fury building under his skin like steam in a kettle. He pushes, struggles, but Noguchi clamps down harder, refusing to release. It’s a python’s embrace, squeezing and striking at once.

From the red corner, Nakahara and Hiroshi erupt, their voices slicing through the wall of noise.

“What the…?! That’s a foul!”

“Hey, ref! How the hell do you let that slide?!”

But the referee’s face is stone, still just standing there, watching. The crowd’s roar swallows the red corner’s protests, and tonight, the noise is not Ryoma’s ally.

The spectators aren’t booing because they don’t see the fouls. What they see is endless clinch after clinch, a fight that looks more like stalling than boxing.

“Quit hugging and fight!” someone bellows.

“I didn’t pay to watch wrestling!” another shouts, drawing laughter from a pocket of the arena.

Noguchi doesn’t care. He never does. He keeps smuggling his dirty little shots into the clinch, knuckles jabbing ribs, cuffing ears, even pressing his forehead against Ryoma’s temple, nudging dangerously close to the eyelid. Small cruelties, hidden from most eyes but not from Ryoma’s.

Finally, frustration breaks through the stands. One voice roars above the rest.

“Break them already, ref!”

“That’s way too long!” another follows.

“Are you blind, or what?!”

Only then does the referee stir. He slaps at Noguchi’s arm with a lazy pat and slides between them.

“That’s enough! Break!”

Noguchi lets go, slowly, reluctantly, like a man giving up a meal halfway eaten.

The referee chops a hand down.

“Box!”

But Noguchi doesn’t back off. The moment the order leaves the ref’s lips, he thrusts his crooked arms forward again, prowling forward, fishing to snare Ryoma before the younger man’s fists can even launch.

The Vision Grid pulses another cold flash.

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Ryoma shifts weight to his back foot, slides a step, and snaps his flicker jabs. Thin, rapid-fire strikes to intercept.

The commentators leap on it instantly.

“Here it comes, folks! Ryoma’s flickers are back!”

“Is this the answer to Noguchi’s endless clinching?”

“He has to keep him at bay somehow. Maybe this’ll do it!”

But Noguchi’s arms are already swatting, pawing, disrupting. He doesn’t defend like a boxer. He reaches like a grappler, each hand a hook to smother punches before they bloom.

Ryoma’s jabs sting his forearms, but their full snap never detonates. A few slip through, but half-strength, half-born. Because a punch’s power only peaks at the very end of its extension. When it’s cut short midway, it dies before it flowers.

Noguchi steps left, then right, prowling like a crab. His crooked arms keep nudging, guiding Ryoma’s shots off course, smothering every follow-up before it can chain. And little by little, inch by inch, he eats space.

Ryoma stiffens his shots, heavier jabs, mixing a cross behind them. They connect, but not flush, not bone to bone. Noguchi always disrupts in mid-motion, shoving at the wrists, absorbing with ugly efficiency.

***

Gradually, Ryoma’s rhythm broken apart like shattered glass. To the casual eye, Noguchi’s method looks clumsy, even cowardly. But to those who know the darker shades of combat, it is effective. Maddeningly effective.

With every shove and tie-up, Ryoma finds himself giving ground. Step by reluctant step, his back bends toward the edge of the ring.

And then…

Tud!

…his shoulders brush the ropes.

The realization stings more than the punches. He has been intimidated backward, not by power, not by skillful footwork, but by something as cheap as clinching.

“Tch…”

His annoyance hardens into resolve. Ryoma drops low again, coiled in his crouching stance, body loaded for close range. If Noguchi wants it ugly, then ugly it will be.

“You wanna play dirty… fine. Let’s play dirty.”

The words have barely left his lips when the Vision Grid surges alive, followed with the inner voice inside his skull.

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The sudden “upgrade” almost startles him. But Ryoma doesn’t flinch. His eyes sharpen, his resolve hardens.

If this is the game Noguchi insists on playing, then he’ll meet him there—stride for stride, trick for trick.