VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The crowd buzzes in restless confusion, their murmurs clashing with the rhythmic clapping from Ryoma’s fans.

As for Ayano’s supporters, most are frozen in disbelief. The first knockdown, they brushed off as a fluke. But now, after the second one, they can’t deny what they’re seeing.

The so-called coward, the boxer they mocked for “running away” from the East Block Rookie King final, is now toying with their All-Japan Rookie MVP.

But not everyone shares their confusion. Down at the journalists’ row, those who have followed Ryoma’s career from the start don’t look surprised at all.

If anything, their eyes gleam with realization.

During the first round, they had wondered what Ryoma was doing, why he looked so passive, so uncharacteristically quiet.

Now they understand.

“What do you think, Tanaka?” Sato leans over, eyes still on the ring. “That first round… was he really adjusting to the lightweight division, or was he holding back?”

Tanaka arches an eyebrow. “Knowing his nature, I thought he was adjusting… but now?” He shakes his head, watching Ayano struggle on the canvas. “Now I doubt it.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t just adjusting,” Sato says quietly. “He was studying Ayano’s patterns. His habits. Maybe even setting up a trap, something complicated.”

“Complicated?” Aki blinks, and then smirks. “Come on, Sato-san. Sure, Ryoma used that offensive version of the Philly Shell in the first knockdown, different from Junpei’s style. But there’s nothing ’complicated’ about that.”

“You don’t get it, Aki.” Sato’s voice lowers, eyes sharp. “You’re only looking at the technique. And I get it, you are still young. But if you really want to follow Ryoma’s journey, you better learn to read the psychological tricks behind his boxing.”

Aki frowns. “Psychological game? Seriously? Since when can you read a fighter’s mind mid-match?”

“True, I’m no mind reader.” Sato’s tone turns almost amused. “But you don’t need to be. Not with someone like Ayano. And as for Ryoma… we’ve watched him long enough.”

“He loves playing with his opponent’s head,” Tanaka adds. “Remember Kanzaki? Noguchi? Or how he basically gave Serrano a private lesson mid-fight?”

Aki falls silent.

Mind games inside the ring, those are the tricks of seasoned veterans, not twenty-year-olds still climbing the ranks.

But when she thinks back to Ryoma’s past fights, especially during the rookie tournament, Sato’s and Tanaka’s words make sense.

There were always moments when Ryoma seemed to toy with his opponents’ emotions as much as their rhythm.

“He spent the entire first round studying Ayano,” Sato continues. “Not just his form or movement, but his nature, his pride, his confidence in his punches.”

“He made Ayano believe he was scared,” Tanaka says, smiling faintly. “That he was running away. The crowd’s jeer added seasonings to that plan. Ayano fully believed it, ate the bait. And Ryoma punished him for being overconfidence.”

***

Moments later, they see Ayano finally rises to his feet, and the referee signals the match to continue.

From the red corner, Takashiro shouts instructions, and Ayano lifts his gloves in response, defiant.

Ryoma steps forward, composed, and snaps out a 1–1–2 combo again, two measuring jabs and a cross, all aimed at the gloves.

DUG! DUG! DUG!

“You see those punches?” Sato says, catching Aki’s attention. “Most rookies would rush in after a knockdown, trying to finish the fight immediately. But Ryoma’s different. He’s holding back. Those punches are light, measured. They aren’t meant to end the fight.”

“Holding back?” Aki frowns. “I thought he just didn’t have the power to trouble a lightweight.”

Sato chuckles. “No, his frame actually fits this division perfectly. Honestly, he could even move up to Super Lightweight if he wanted.”

“So you’re saying… he’s intentionally pulling his punches?”

“Exactly.” Sato nods.

Tanaka leans in, adding his voice. “But don’t mistake that for arrogance. He’s not underestimating Ayano. If anything, he’s being careful. It’s only the second round. Ayano could still land a desperate counter.”

“Right,” Sato agrees. “What he’s doing right now is testing. He’s gauging how much damage Ayano’s really taken. He could easily slip inside and land clean shots, but instead, he’s hitting the guard, observing how each impact shifts Ayano’s balance.”

Then Ryoma finally throws a lead hook to the body, slipping it through the gap, but still testing. Ayano reels, and then immediately swings his right.

Ryoma pulls his head back just in time, and then sends another 1-1-2 combos, forcing Ayano to raise his guard again.

And then slips in another lead hook, this time hitting Ayano’s head from the side.

“You see that!” Sato says, smiling faintly as Ryoma keeps prodding Ayano with the same controlled rhythm. “That’s the kind of ring IQ you don’t see in rookies. We’ve been saying it all along. Ryoma’s never belonged at rookie level.”

Ryoma starts adding more weight behind his punches, not all at once, but gradually, every hit carrying a bit more intent. But still measured, still sharp.

It looks almost like a textbook mitt drill, precision jabs, clean crosses, slipping shots through Ayano’s stiff guard, each motion practiced to perfection.

And then, the strange part begins. He starts calling out numbers of his punches like he’s in the gym.

“One-two!”

A jab and a cross.

DUG! DUG!

Then…

“One-two-three!”

A jab, a cross, and a left hook.

DUG! DUG! DSH!

Ayano’s head snaps sideways as the hook lands flush on the temple.

Ryoma goes back to his rhythm, 1-1-2, two jabs and a cross to the gloves.

DUG! DUG! DUG!

Then he pivots smoothly, murmuring, “Seven-six-three.”

A dipping left hook.

A right uppercut slipping from beneath the guard.

And a left hook upstairs.

BUG! DHUAK! DSH!

All three connect clean, body, chin, and temple.

Ayano’s guard stays high, but his legs buckle; his stance shakes, his head rolling to the side from the last impact.

Ryoma keeps the rhythm, still calling out his combos. Ayano hears every number, and it grates on his pride.

The nearby boom mics start catching Ryoma’s muttering between blows, faint, but clear enough to pick up in the broadcast.

The commentators glance at each other.

“Wait… is he calling his punches?”

“Yeah, I hear it too…”

“That’s insane. Either he’s treating this like a sparring drill… or he’s toying with Ayano.”

“Or both. Listen to that rhythm. It’s like he’s training in the middle of a live match.”

Ayano should be able to predict them; the numbers are clear cues. But being on the opposite side of the pattern throws his timing off completely. His mind stalls, just a fraction too slow.

***

Then, little by little, Ayano adjusts, matching the rhythm. His guard begins to move in sync.

DUG! DUG!

DUG! DUG! DUG!

The crowd roars as Ayano begins blocking every punch cleanly.

“What a brilliant adjustment!” one commentator shouts. “Ryoma’s trying to mix his shots, but Ayano’s catching all of them!”

“Yeah! He’s not just power, he’s got real defense, too!” another adds.

Ayano smirks behind his gloves, confidence returning. He knows Ryoma’s giving cues with those numbers, but he doesn’t care. He’s using them, taking all the credit, basking in the crowd’s approval.

“Stupid… calling out your own punches like an amateur. Like asking to be countered.”

He doesn’t realize it’s just another setup.

Ryoma’s smirk deepens, eyes half-lidded, calm.

>

This time, Ryoma keeps calling the numbers, but the punches don’t match.

“1-1-2.”

Instead of two jabs and a cross, he throws two hooks upstairs and a right uppercut slipping under the guard.

DSH! DSH! DHUAK!

And then he calls, “3-6-3.”

But it’s three straights to the face: two lefts and one right cross.

DSH! DSH! BAM!

Ayano’s guard shatters. He keeps reacting to the wrong cues, his defense lagging half a beat behind.

“What’s happening here?!” a commentator shouts, nearly rising from his seat. “Ryoma’s chaining one impossible combo after another; head, body, and head again!”

“And Ayano’s losing it completely!” another adds. “Just seconds ago, he blocked everything… now he’s missing every shot… like he’s reading from the wrong script!”