VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ayano climbs the ladder. The ring announcer clears his throat, starting the introduction a moment later than he should have.

“And now, from the prestigious Kawahara Boxing Club!

The undefeated powerhouse, the MVP of the All-Japan Rookie Tournament!

At twenty-one years of age, standing one-hundred seventy-four centimeters tall!

Officially weighing in at sixty-one kilograms!”

“With a flawless professional record, nine fights, nine wins, all by knockout!

The pride of Chiba… Kobayashi ’The Destroyer’ Ayano!”

But Ayano doesn’t wave or smile. The noise around him fades as his gaze fixes on Ryoma, eyes narrow, burning with a bitterness that borders on hatred.

Then, all at once, the lights flare back to full. The entire arena glows bright again.

The referee steps forward, motioning both fighters to the center. He glances at each of them before speaking, clear and steady, his voice carrying through the mic.

“All right. You both know the rules. Protect yourselves at all times, obey my commands at all times. No low blows, no holding, no hitting after the break. Fight clean, and fight fair.”

He gestures lightly between them. “Now, touch gloves, and come out fighting.”

Ryoma extends his gloves forward; calm, professional, unbothered.

But Ayano doesn’t move. His face is tight, his glare unbroken.

After a long moment, he simply steps back, eyes never leaving Ryoma’s.

Ryoma doesn’t force it. He just bumps his own gloves together once, relaxed.

He then takes his position, bouncing lightly on his toes.

His shoulders loose, his rhythm easy, as if he’s already in the flow of the fight.

Across from him, Ayano stays rigid, his stance high and narrow, gloves half-raised but not yet a boxer’s composure, more like a brawler’s intent.

The referee checks both corners once more, and then raises his hand.

DING!

The bell rings, sharp, cutting through the tension.

And the commentators jump right in, their voices rising over the roar of the crowd:

“Here we go… the long-awaited main event of the night!”

“Two of Japan’s brightest young fighters, one from Kawahara, one from Nakahara Gym, finally facing off in the professional ranks!”

“Ayano, the undefeated Destroyer, nine wins, all by knockout… and Ryoma Takeda, the Chameleon, fast, precise, impossible to read!”

Ayano finally settles into his stance; low, crouched, shoulders tense as he begins to stalk forward.

Ryoma, in contrast, tilts his body slightly to the side, taps his gloves together once, and slips into motion; light, rhythmic, already in his flow.

He doesn’t open with his trademark flickers. Ayano may only be a centimeter taller, but that difference in reach feels larger in the ring.

And with that solid frame, Ayano looks even more imposing under the lights.

So Ryoma keeps to the perimeter, feet light, circling, measuring. He tosses out light jabs, fast, probing, not meant to land but to test distance and rhythm.

Ayano hasn’t stepped in yet, but each missed jab forces him to stay centered, locked inside Ryoma’s pace.

“The atmosphere here at Ota Gym is electric,” one commentator fills in the tension. “This is more than just a fight. It’s pride, legacy, and the question of who really rules Tokyo’s lightweight scene!”

The crowd can already see it. Ryoma’s out-boxing him, setting the tempo, dictating the ring from the outside.

***

After more than ten seconds watching Ryoma’s half-hearted jabs, Ayano finally takes the initiative, showing a bold movement.

He pounces forward, sudden, explosive, like a lion breaking from its coil.

Both arms swing into motion: the left shoots first, rising from low to high, more a smashing upper than a true uppercut, while the right follows from above, a chopping arc meant to crash down through guard.

It’s not a clean one-two, more a double strike, both hands surging from opposite angles, meant to crush and overwhelm in a single rush, a predator’s leap inside human form.

Despite the near-simultaneous swing, Ryoma finds the narrow gap between the two punches.

He catches the left on his guard, feeling the weight behind it, then slips cleanly past the right, turning just enough for the glove to graze his cheek.

And the commentators erupt:

“That’s Ayano’s pounce! His signature entry, two angles, one rush!”

“And Ryoma read it perfectly! Look at that reaction time!”

Ryoma’s expression shifts for a brief moment, the shock in his eyes betraying the sheer force that came through that blocked left.

Ayano sees it, and a grin stretches across his face. He rolls his wrist, twisting his knuckles in the air, a silent boast, “you felt that one, didn’t you?”

The crowds grow restless. But Inside Ryoma’s head, the noise fades.

This is what he’s been waiting for. The thing he’d seen again and again while studying Ayano’s fights.

The pounce, the pressure, that reckless confidence that somehow always works.

Ayano’s boxing is bold, almost crude, straight lines, raw aggression. And yet no one ever made him pay for it, like they freeze before him.

Ryoma exhales slowly, circling back into space, his eyes steady.

He’d long suspected there was more to Ayano’s flawless win streak, and that single exchange confirmed it.

It’s not the speed. It’s the presence, that crushing weight Ayano brings when he steps forward.

It’s the kind that makes you hesitate before the storm hits.

He starts testing the distance again, snapping out a few jabs, light, just probing shots. Ayano reads them all, parrying and slipping with ease.

Dug! Dug! Dug! Dug!

Then, the moment Ryoma’s rhythm stalls, Ayano pounces.

It’s the same motion, same rhythm, same vicious double strike, left low, right high.

Ryoma’s Vision Grid flares crimson. He sees it coming, clear as day, but still, his heart hammers against his ribs as that left hook closes in.

The pressure hits like gravity itself, freezing the air around him.

BUG! BAM!!!

He blocks both this time, arms shaking from the impact.

“This is Lightweight?”

Ayano drives in another straight. Ryoma raises a double guard, leaping back on instinct…

BOOM!!!

The punch crushes into his guard, shoving him into the ropes.

Ayano doesn’t let up. One step forward, then hooks, wide and relentless.

Ryoma slips the first, then the second, but the rest smash through his defense, one after another.

Four consecutive blows pound him deeper into the ropes, the steel cords bending under his weight.

Finally, Ayano’s rhythm falters for a heartbeat, and Ryoma seizes the opening.

Dsh!

A sharp, compact jab snaps into Ayano’s face. It’s not heavy, but it’s clean.

The sting halts him just long enough for Ryoma to slip away, drawing a breath of air and circling out to center ring.

Now he’s back on his toes, bouncing lightly, reestablishing distance, his eyes locked and steady again.

The commentators fill the moment, voices riding the tension between exchanges.

“Beautiful recovery from Takeda, timing that jab right through the pocket.”

“He’s showing that trademark composure. Even under fire, he’s thinking.”

“Still, that power from Ayano… if one of those hooks lands clean, it could end this early.”

Ayano turns, eyes blazing like a hungry beast. That grin of his says it all, you can’t run. You’re trapped in here with me.

Ryoma reads the message clearly. But his composure doesn’t waver. His gaze stays sharp, steady, already dissecting, comparing, measuring this moment against every fight and spar he’s endured before.

He’s sparred with Renji Kuroiwa before, the former Japanese Lightweight Champion, a man infamous for his knockout power.

Ayano’s punches feel just as heavy.

But what shakes him more isn’t the power.

It’s the presence.

Even Renji, a seasoned champion, didn’t feel this overwhelming back then.