VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the journalist row, Tanaka and Sato watch as the red corner unravels. They can’t hear the words from this distance, but Ayano’s gestures, his flaring arms, his tense posture, say enough.

It’s a heated argument, no doubt about it.

“I don’t know if this is still part of Ryoma’s mind game,” Sato mutters, resting his cheek on his knuckle. “But just look at what’s happening over there.”

“You heard the kid’s voice, right?” Tanaka chuckles. “He actually spelled numbers, in the middle of official fight.”

“Of course,” Sato replies. “Everyone did. Even the commentators spelled it out for us.”

“He really messed with Ayano’s head,” Tanaka says, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t recall anyone ever pulling a stunt like that. And look what it’s done. Ayano’s whole team is falling apart now.”

“And look at the blue corner,” Sato gestures with his chin toward the opposite side. “Completely calm. That kid’s just sitting there, watching. If the red corner keeps putting on that kind of spectacle, Ayano’s going to end up dancing to Ryoma’s rhythm all over again.”

Back in the ring, Ryoma’s gaze stays locked on Ayano’s lips. The crowd is still noisy, and no one can clearly hear Ayano’s debate with his trainer.

But Ryoma’s Vision Grid translates every word Ayano speaks, along with fragmented bits of Takashiro’s whenever his mouth comes into view.

>

>

>

>

>

The plan was to eavesdrop on their strategy and come up with a countermeasure. But there’s no strategy in the red corner, just a heated argument, pride clashing with pride.

Even with half the words missing, Ryoma can fill in the rest: the frustration, the wounded egos, the widening rift between fighter and coach.

Instead of calculating his next move, their argument pulls him inward, into introspection. It’s like looking into a mirror, one that reflects the man he used to be in his previous life.

Watching Ayano now is like seeing an echo of his old self; proud, stubborn, reckless. And the truth is, he hasn’t fully shed that part.

Even after regressing, he’s still impatient, still hard-headed, still prone to taking reckless bets just to prove a point.

“What’s going on over there?” Hiroshi murmurs, his voice soft but enough to pull Ryoma back to the present.

“Pride…” Ryoma exhales, his tone calm but heavy. “It makes you fight the wrong enemy… sometimes, it’s your own corner.”

Nakahara glances at him, catching the weight behind those words. Ryoma isn’t just talking about Ayano, it sounds like a reminder meant for himself.

Then Nakahara’s eyes drift toward the red corner. He doesn’t need to tell Ryoma to learn from Ayano’s downfall. He already knows that.

If anything, Nakahara realizes he has something to learn too, from Takashiro’s mistake.

Takashiro was the one who built Ayano’s pride, fed it until it consumed him. And now, using his own ego to break it down, he’s only adding more fuel to the fire.

Finally…

“Seconds out!”

The referee’s voice cuts through the tension, signaling both corners to clear the ring. But Takashiro still hasn’t managed to make peace with his fighter.

“For your own good…” Takashiro says hoarsely, forcing his tone to stay steady. “Use your left. Don’t just swing for the fences. Jab, study him, and buy yourself time to recover.”

“Seconds out!” the ref calls again, louder this time.

“Hear that?” Ayano fires back, his glare sharp. “It’s time for you to leave, dipshit.”

Takashiro freezes for half a breath. “What did you just say?”

“Second out!”

“I know!” Takashiro snaps, voice cracking with frustration. “I heard him the first time!”

He finally steps through the ropes, muttering under his breath as the bell is about to ring.

Then the commentators pick it up, their voices doing their best to smooth over the spectacle.

“Uh-oh… things don’t look too good in Ayano’s corner,” one of them says with a half-laugh. “I don’t think that’s what ’corner advice’ is supposed to sound like.”

“Maybe they’re trying some new motivational technique,” the other chimes in.

“Whatever it is, it’s not working. That kind of tension can kill a fighter’s focus before the bell even rings.”

“Meanwhile, look at the blue corner. Ryoma’s as calm as ever. He’s practically meditating while the other side’s having a soap opera.”

The crowd laughs lightly at the banter, though the tension in the ring stays razor-sharp.

***

The bell finally rings.

Ding!

And just like that, the third round begins, with one corner united in quiet focus, and the other already split down the middle.

Ayano leaves his corner with heavy strides. He’s not fully recovered, bruises and swelling still mark his face, and his breathing hasn’t evened out.

His arms hang low, movements stiff, gloves only half-raised. There’s not a single sign he plans to follow Takashiro’s instructions.

Across the ring, Ryoma hasn’t moved far from his own corner. His gaze isn’t even on Ayano yet. It lingers briefly on Takashiro.

He can see it clearly: the embarrassment, the anger simmering just below the surface.

He knows what happened. He saw the insult from Ayano’s lips: the ’dipshit’, not something you ever call your coach, not mid-fight, not in front of your own crowd.

As someone carrying a thirty-year-old soul inside, Ryoma feels a flicker of instinct, the urge to teach this arrogant young boxer a lesson.

Ayano charges forward when he should’ve been recovering.

The distance between them gives Ryoma time, enough to plan, to set a trap if he wants to. But he doesn’t do it.

Instead, he bumps his gloves together, shifts his weight, and starts to move, fluid and rhythmic, almost playful.

“Running away again?” Ayano snarls. “Get over here and fight me, you coward!”

Ignoring his own condition, Ayano lunges forward with his signature entry; both arms cocked for that crushing two-hook assault.

But his legs can’t support the momentum. The pressure’s gone.

Ryoma reads it instantly, and fires off a quick pair of jabs.

DSH! DSH!

Both land clean, snapping Ayano’s head back twice. Still, Ayano swings the crushing double strike, wild and desperate, both hooks cutting through empty air.

SWSSH! ZRSSH!

Ryoma’s already circled away, pivoting lightly to the side before peppering his face again.

DSH! DSH! DSH!

Three jabs in rapid succession. Ayano flinches, but refuses to lift his guard. Stubbornly, he keeps hurling heavy blows, forcing his battered legs to drag him closer.

Ryoma slips away with surgical ease, and steps in again to deliver another two jabs…

DSH! DSH!

…then steps back out as Ayano’s hooks slice the air again.

“Marvelous footwork!” one commentator beams. “That’s pure textbook hit-and-run right there!”

The rhythm repeats for more than a minute. Jab, miss, jab, miss, never once does Ryoma throw his right, or mix in a feint.

Just the left, fast, sharp, and measured. Every punch timed perfectly between Ayano’s wasted swings.

It’s a silent lesson, a demonstration of fundamentals, a reminder that you should respect your corner. And as he teaches Ayano a lesson, Ryoma carves a note for himself:

This is what happens when arrogance outweighs awareness.

At the red corner, Takashiro watches in silence. He could call out to his fighter, shout reminders. But he doesn’t.

He’s told him everything he needs the most. But Ayano’s ego refuses it, still clinging to his destructive punches.

What Ayano needs now is someone to remind him of the cost. And deep down, Takashiro feels grateful that Ryoma has taken that role for him.