VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It’s unsportsmanlike from Ryoma, hammering Noguchi while he offers the glove.

The crowd reacts in a messy blur, some gasp, some cheer, some laugh in disbelief. But no one protests. Not the stands, not the blue corner, not even the referee.

In the blue corner, Maruyama buries his face in his hands, desperate. His fingers dig into his temples, nails whitening. He wants to complain, to find a way to spit fire at referees and commissions. But here his voice dies in his throat.

“This… isn’t fair…”

But what can he say? Was it dirty? Of course, it’s ethically filthy. But a foul? No. Ryoma hasn’t broken a rule. The ref had resumed the fight.

Each fighter should always protect themselve in the ring. But Noguchi pushed his luck too far.

And Noguchi already racking up fouls, Maruyama has no ground to stand on. He feels that bitter truth sink in his chest, heavier than the punch itself.

In the ring, the referee just blinks, Adam’s apple bobbing hard. His eyes flick to the commission table, then snap back to Ryoma.

But Ryoma is already in the neutral corner, arms loose at his sides, glare fixed on the ref like a knife pressed to the throat.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Ryoma barks. “Start the count, stupid!”

The ref falters. “D… down…” His hand wavers.

“One…”

Ryoma narrows his eyes, watching the HUD in his Vision Grid.

“Two…”

“Three…”

“Four…”

By the time the referee raises five fingers, Ryoma’s system clock already shows eight. The count is crawling, deliberately slow.

Ryoma scowls. “Why don’t you help him up too? So I can punish him even more.”

Finally, Noguchi stirs. Knees dig into the canvas. The ref halts the count before he’s even on his feet. He crouches over him, lifting Noguchi’s gloves, steadying him like a crutch while pretending to check his condition.

“You okay?”

Noguchi’s face twists, anger buried under fog. His lips barely move. “…Y…yes…”

The ref nods, holding him longer, tugging at his gloves. “Step forward. Show me you’re fine.”

Noguchi staggers a half-step, legs wobbling, arms trembling just to keep a guard. He’s still half-conscious, barely upright.

The crowd murmurs, tension spilling in waves. Some chant for a TKO, others gasp at the delay.

But the referee straightens, chops his hand through the air, and waves it on.

“Box!”

The commentators pounce, voices colliding with the roar of the hall.

“Unbelievable… Noguchi’s even standing after that barrage!”

“But look at him, he’s barely holding up. His legs don’t look steady at all.”

“The question now… can Noguchi survive over a minute like this, or is Ryoma about to finish what he started?”

Back in the ring, Noguchi’s mask has cracked. The ugly grin that carried him through earlier rounds is gone, leaving only a hollow shell. His eyes glaze over, glassy and unfocused, as if he’s staring at something far behind the ropes.

His guard trembles in front of him, not a defense but a puppet’s arms held aloft by invisible strings.

His knees won’t lock; they bend and sag, swaying under his weight like a tower ready to collapse.

The crowd senses something wrong with him. The roar dulls into a restless rumble, the kind of noise that hangs between excitement and pity.

“Come on, Noguchi, keep your hands up!” someone yells, voice cracking with desperation.

Another voice cuts sharper, crueler: “He’s done! Just stop it already!”

And Noguchi just stands there, suspended in a cruel moment, maybe praying the bell will save him, maybe praying Ryoma will end it quick.

But Ryoma doesn’t rush. His gloves stay low, his steps deliberate. He stalks, not charges, as if savoring every inch of ground between them.

The Vision Grid scans, cold text scrolling across his senses, and a voice pings in his head.

>

>

>

The verdict is absolute. Noguchi cannot last.

Ryoma exhales through his nose and takes a slow step, not forward but sideways. The crowd murmurs, restless, confused.

One commentator blurts out, “What’s this? Is Ryoma holding back? Showing mercy?”

Another cuts in, “Or is he about to do what he did to Kanzaki, drag it out, toy with him?”

Meanwhile, Ryoma’ Vision Grid offers a new prompt.

>

When Ryoma sees Noguchi like this, his mind flickers back to his own misery, his previous life. The same Noguchi, battering him, breaking him down until he could barely stand.

After that bitter loss, the images haunted him, not just in sleep, but in daylight too. Waking or dreaming, he kept replaying it; what he should’ve done, what he wished he could’ve done, how badly he wanted to do such and such.

And now, here he stands, having a second chance, the very moment where he can return every ounce of that resentment. But the system now tells him to show mercy.

“Damn it…”

Ryoma clicks his tongue, and then flicks his eyes to the blue corner, calling out, voice low but clear.

“Protect your fighter! Pull him out before I break him.”

But Maruyama only scowls, hatred burning back at him.

Ryoma’s jaw tightens. He turns and approaches Noguchi with measured steps, flicking out a few testing jabs against the trembling guard.

>

Ryoma drives a straight right directly onto the guard. Noguchi’s arms sag under the impact, his body pitching against the ropes.

Ryoma exhales. “Fine…”

He begins to mix his punches, compact, precise, threading through gaps in the wilted defense. A hook snaps the chin, a shovel hook digs low, another cross splits the guard.

He isn’t throwing bombs. These are sharp, clean shots, enough to end the fight without destruction, something that may force the ref to stop it with TKO.

Ryoma even pauses mid-combination, throwing his hands out wide toward the ref, palms up, and then pointing at Noguchi with a sharp jab of his glove.

“He’s finished! Stop it already, ref!”

The ref should stop it. Everyone knows it. But even as more than ten punches slip through unanswered, the man in black does nothing.

Noguchi’s head jerks back, his body sagging, only the ropes holding him up.

“Damn it…” Ryoma snarls. “Don’t blame me if he’s broken after this.”

He plants his feet, hips twisting as he loads something heavy.

That’s when the ref finally steps in. Not to wave it off, but to pry Ryoma back and shout out.

“Standing knockdown!”

The arena howls in disbelief.

And the ref just starts the count, or perhaps, saving Noguchi by giving him more time to rest with slow counting.

Ryoma’s glare cuts across the ring, cold and sharp, locking on Maruyama.

“What are you waiting for?! Look at him!”

Maruyama is shaking, but makes the decision anyway, throwing the towel into the ring. And the crowd erupts, half in relief, half in thunderous release.

Up in the booth, the commentators shout over the noise.

“There it is! Finally, it’s over!”

“And did you see Ryoma? He practically begged the referee to stop it earlier. No toying this time, no cruelty.”

“The so-called ’Cruel King’… for the first time, showing mercy.”