VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The noise inside Ryōgoku Kokugikan rises like static, a restless mix of excitement and impatience.

Aramaki leans forward, eyes wide, practically vibrating in his seat. Behind them, Okabe and Ryohei can’t stay quiet, shouting over the crowd, not because they care about the fight, but because Ryoma happens to be rooting for the wrong guy.

“Don’t hold back, Shinichi!” Okabe yells. “Crush him early!”

“Yeah, don’t let that old man breathe!” Ryohei adds, cupping his hands. “End it before his knees give out!”

They make sure he hears them, laughing under their breath.

“You can’t always win, genius.”

“Guess that coin of yours landed on the wrong side this time. No way Jurobei’s walking out with that belt.”

But Ryoma doesn’t even look back. He just sits there, calm, calculating, watching the ring like it’s a chessboard instead of a boxing match.

He’s pulling for Naegi Jurobei, not just because of the bet, but because Jurobei fights the way Ryoma respects: disciplined, methodical, the kind of boxer who turns violence into geometry.

Jurobei is the kind of opponent Ryoma wants someday, a boxer who tests his thinking, not just his jaw.

The bell finally rings.

The commentator’s voice cuts through the roar, smooth and theatrical:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the first round begins! A long-awaited showdown between two of Japan’s top lightweights… Naegi Jurobei and Shinichi Yanagimoto.”

“Ranked second and third for over three years, yet they’ve never met in the ring until tonight. It’s as if fate has been saving this clash for the championship itself!”

The crowd surges, phones rise, and for a moment, Ryoma allows himself a small knowing smile, the kind gamblers wear right before the first card turns over.

***

Down in the ring, Jurobei takes the center, reading distance perfectly, cutting off the ring with tiny steps, jabbing to control the pace.

Yanagimoto’s fast and looks energic; his southpaw stance creates awkward angles, but Jurobei neutralizes it with timing and footwork.

It’s a big stage, and the crowd isn’t cooling down even for a beat. But the fight stays polite, without anyone losing their composure.

They trade jabs, mixing feints with a few missed hooks, still battling for ground at the center. But unlike, Yanagimoto’s constant movements, Jurobei looks more idle, not throwing too many punches, not making too many movements.

Some might see it just an old man conserving his stamina. But other now, it’s output calculated by instinct after years of fight experience.

Ryoma comments quietly, breaking down the strategy to Aramaki: “He’s still studying now. Classic old-school rhythm. At a stage this big, you can’t let the crowd disrupt your mind and composure. Often the fight ends with just one mistake.”

Aramaki, half-understanding, nods like he’s watching art he can’t quite interpret.

Yanagimoto shifts gears, upping both his tempo and volume. The jabbing contest is over.

Now he comes forward with combinations, stiff jabs, straight crosses, no feints, no patience, just a steady mechanical assault.

Jurobei doesn’t retreat. He engages, his stance steady, his output measured as ever. But the pressure forces him to move more, block more.

A few punches slip through his guard, not clean, but enough to stir the crowd. Still, he answers every flurry with something in return, just enough to keep the balance from tipping.

And then…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the noise.

Jurobei lowers his gloves and walks back to his corner, calm and unshaken, breathing steady.

Yanagimoto drops his hands with a short heavy inhale, one deep breath that betrays how much he poured into that round.

He turns for his corner, shoulders loose, confidence intact. He isn’t tired yet, far from it. But it’s clear that he burnt more calories compared to Jurobei.

To the untrained eye, he owned the round. From the commentators’ table, one of the announcers leans toward the mic, voice rising over the crowd:

“And that’s the end of round one! Strong start from Shinichi Yanagimoto, the younger fighter using his speed and volume to press the veteran Jurobei early.”

“Exactly,” his partner adds. “Yanagimoto showing no fear here. He’s forcing the pace, taking advantage of that youth and stamina. Jurobei’s solid, but he can’t just defend forever.”

The crowd reacts in agreement; cheers, claps, flashes from cameras. But to Ryoma, and likely the judges, it’s still even.

“He threw more punches,” Ryoma says, almost to himself. “But most of them were wasted.”

Aramaki blinks, still riding the noise of the crowd. “What? You mean Jurobei won that?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “No one’s winning yet. Jurobei didn’t waste a thing. The old man’s already collecting data, figuring him out without giving up ground.”

Aramaki squints, still not convinced. “Huh? Doesn’t look that way to me. You’re saying even though he barely threw anything, he still kept the fight even?”

“Yeah, he’s being efficient,” Ryoma says, eyes still fixed on the ring. “Next round, you’ll start seeing the difference.”

***

And just as Ryoma predicted, the balance starts to tilt in the next round.

It isn’t obvious at first. Jurobei simply throws a bit more, moves a bit sharper, looks just a little livelier than before.

And Yanagimoto has to raise his pace again just to stay even.

At least, by the end of round two, Yanagimoto’s aggression gives him the edge. He finds gaps in Jurobei’s guard, landing a few clean body shots that make the round look his.

Jurobei tries to even it up, but the bell cuts him short.

Ding!

Yanagimoto raises his glove with a confident grin, breathing hard but satisfied. He’s convinced his approach is working now.

From behind Ryoma, Ryohei can’t resist a jab.

“Yeah, see that? That’s Yanagimoto’s round! Your old man Jurobei can’t even keep up!”

Ryoma just chuckles, leaning back, arms crossed.

“Funny,” he says lightly. “Someone who’s supposed to be my senior can’t even see what’s happening in front of him.”

Ryohei bristles. “What was that, punk?”

“Just shut up and watch,” Ryoma cuts in coolly. “You’ll see what kind of price Yanagimoto’s gonna pay for winning that round.”

He’s not the only one noticing. At ringside, veteran journalists exchange quiet looks, wondering how long Yanagimoto can keep this pace.

Even in the blue corner, the mood shifts. The coaches still cheer him up, still smile, but their eyes flicker with worry.

When the referee calls for seconds to clear the ring, one of Yanagimoto’s cornermen lingers a moment too long, glancing back with a tight jaw.

And Ryoma catches it instantly.

“You see that?” he says, nodding toward the ring. “If he’s really got the upper hand, why’s his corner looking like that?”

Ryohei and Okabe trade looks, uneasy now, but they don’t answer.

Because the change comes fast. By round three, Jurobei is dictating the rhythm.

Yanagimoto keeps pressing, still aggressive, but every rush gets broken apart. Jurobei slips, pivots, counter-jabs.

It’s as if Yanagimoto’s fighting smoke. More of his punches miss now. Even when they land, they glance off or get absorbed into Jurobei’s guard, followed by neat, surgical counters.

“He is killing him slowly,” Ryoma mutters, amused.

***

The crowd’s roar doesn’t fade, but the tone shifts, more cheers now for the veteran.

Round four, Yanagimoto’s face starts to puff under the eyes.

Round five, his tempo is still high, but his reactions are dulled, timing off by fractions.

Then, in round six, he overcommits, throws a heavy left rear from too far out, desperate to turn the tide.

And…

Dsh!

Jurobei snaps a compact jab straight into his face, disrupting everything; balance, timing, intent.

Yanagimoto, caught mid-motion, still tries to force the left through, only for…

BAM!

…runs face-first into a crushing right hand.

He drops.

The crowd erupts.

And Ryoma shoots to his feet, turning to his seniors, grinning wide, eyes blazing.

“See?! Do you see it now?” he shouts over the noise, hand gesturing to the ring. “That’s the difference between me and you guys!”

They glare, too annoyed to reply.

Ryoma smirks, arms still crossed.

“I might be younger,” he says, “but my boxing IQ’s the best in Japan. If I were in there, that fight would’ve ended in round four.”