VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kobo’s steps are small, and his guard stays high, pressed tight over his temples. His breathing is still ragged, but the rhythm has steadied.

Across from him, Ryohei glides sideways. His eyes narrow, feet whispering against the canvas as he circles, patient and predatory, like a hawk that still wants to study its prey before the dive.

The crowd murmurs restlessly. The thunder of the Cruel King’s Army has dulled into a low simmer, a noise of anticipation more than excitement.

Then, a single voice pierces through the quiet:

“Come on, Ryohei! Finish him! Beat that cocky brat!”

It’s enough to ignite movement.

Ryohei closes the distance and begins probing again, sharp jabs, short, stiff, snapping against Kobo’s raised gloves.

Tch! Tch! Tch!

Each impact lands dull, absorbed by Kobo’s guard.

Kobo answers in kind, flicking lefts and compact crosses, his form tighter than before. Every punch snaps back into guard instantly, his arms moving like springs chained to his jaw.

For a moment, it’s not war but chess, violence in rhythm, caution in motion. Both are waiting, calculating, looking for a mistake.

Then Ryohei changes pace. He throws a burst of jabs upstairs, forcing Kobo’s gloves to rise.

“Now…” he grits his teeth. “Why don’t you feel this?”

He dips left, quick and smooth, and digs a short hook into Kobo’s ribs.

Bug!

The sound is thick and dull. Kobo jerks, air bursting from his lungs.

Ryohei doesn’t chase. He resets, resumes circling.

But that single blow told Kobo everything he needed: what his corner said earlier was true.

And when the same pattern repeats, Kobo is ready.

Ryohei pins his guard high with a series of stiff one-two. Then he dips again, glove low, body twisting for another liver shot…

Thud!

The punch lands clean, but before he can pull back, Kobo’s right hand snaps up like a coiled spring.

Dsh!

The counter cracks across Ryohei’s cheek.

He staggers a step back, head snapping sideways, blinking at the sudden sting.

A follow-up hook whistles past his chin, but Ryohei already retreats, back in rhythm, back in control.

“That’s too risky, Ryohei…” Sera mutters under his breath.

Ryohei falls back into his pace, circling, flicking lefts, throwing crosses that touch air and glove alike. But this time, he no longer steps too deep.

And Kobo, still recovering, lets him. He keeps his guard high, patient, only striking when needed to break rhythm.

The result? It becomes a duel of patience, strategy devouring emotion.

And for the crowd, it’s agony.

***

The restless murmurs swell again. The wild energy that once filled the air begins to fade, replaced by a rising wave of frustration.

“Come on, Ryohei! Push him!”

“End it already!”

“Don’t play with him, just finish the job!”

Even the Cruel King’s Army, once disciplined and united, starts to sound impatient, scattered, and disappointed.

They sharpen, turn personal.

“Stop dancing, Ryohei!”

“Even Ryoma fights bolder than this!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be his senpai?”

“What, scared of a rookie?”

Not just at Ryohei, their insult is also thrown at Kobo.

“Hey, red corner! You just here to block?”

“Minato’s prodigy? Ryoma wannabe, aren’t you?”

“You’re just a knock-off version of Ryoma!”

“Four knockouts? Against who?!”

Every word gnaws at them both.

Ryohei feels the irritation rise in his chest. Hearing them compare him to Ryoma stirs something in his chest. His jabs grow sharper, his footwork heavier.

And Kobo too, feels his own anger boiling. His nostrils flare, his teeth grit.

The calm collapses. Both of them.

Their jabs turn into hooks, their distance shrinks. Each left meets another, each cross cuts the air.

They no longer care if the punches land clean. Only that they hit something.

The crowd erupts once more, finally fed. Every grazing shot earns a cheer, every exchange a roar.

“That’s more like it!”

“Don’t stop!”

“Just kill each other already!”

The technique dissolves. Precision gives way to anger and irritation. Every step forward is met with another, every blow answered by two.

Each time Ryoma’s name mentioned, the fight only turns uglier.

Their rhythm is finally gone, replaced by chaos.

***

When the bell finally rings, both corners erupt in scolding, commands barked, towels flying, ice pressed to faces.

And then, for a brief moment, order returns. Both fighters rise for the next round calmer, determined to think.

But sadly, the crowd never lets them. They still mention Ryoma’s name. And neither fighter likes to hear it.

“Just end it already!”

“Yeah, that’s right! Go home, and let us see Ryoma fight!”

Not just Kobo, even Ryohei hates it too.

Every shout, every chant seeps under their skin, until once again, patience burns away, and the fight descends back into a brawl.

“Calm down, Ryohei!” Sera snaps. “Use your legs more. Regain your rhythm first.”

Unfortunately, in the middle of the third round, madness drives them into another dual exchange…

Dhuak!

They hit each other’s face. And the crowd gasps, before cheering wildly.

Both fighters finally stop the brawl, reeling, staggering. Once their eyes lock again, they look even angrier than before.

“You son of a b!tch!”

“Yeah… bring it, clown!”

They collide again, hooks, uppercuts, crosses, thrown wild and desperate. Sweat flies with every blow.

Shiki watches from the red corner, arms crossed, irritation shadowing his face. But his eyes gleam, seeing how his fighter’s stubbornness is paying off. Kobo’s heavier frame absorbs punishment better, his endurance holding.

On the blue corner, Sera notices it too. And his composure finally cracks. “Ryohei, you idiot! Stop trading and reset! Don’t just hit… read him, roll, and get away!”

But Ryohei doesn’t even hear him.

The roar is too loud. The adrenaline is too thick.

Every time their fists collide, the crowd surges higher, a storm feeding itself on pain and sound.

***

When the bell finally rings to end the fifth round, both men sag into their corners, faces swollen, breath ragged, nostrils streaked with blood.

Shiki greets Kobo with a calm nod. “Good job. You’re turning it back in our favor.”

Kobo gulps air between words. “He’s good… damn good. I hit him with everything I have, and he’s still standing.”

Shiki nods once, acknowledging. “That’s what real fighters do. Respect it. Learn from it. Drop the ego. Take what you see and make it yours. You are still young. Endure it, grow from it.”

Kobo nods, breathing steadier now, anger slowly hardening into focus.

Across the ring, Sera doesn’t wait. The second Ryohei sits, he grips his shoulder and explodes.

“What the hell was that?! You had him! And you threw it away for a damn street fight!”

Ryohei exhales hard, shame in his eyes. Sweat runs down his temples; his chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm.

“You think this is how we fight?” Sera goes on, his voice slicing the air. “You think you’re Ryoma now? You think you can trade like him and come out fine? You’re not built to win on chaos, Ryohei. You win on control!”

Ryohei lowers his eyes, jaw tight. “Yeah… I lost my focus.”

“No,” Sera snaps. “You lost your temper. You let the crowd drag you into their madness. You let him drag you there. You…”

Then he stops. Ryohei’s breath is still rough and shallow. Lecturing more won’t do him any good.

Sera exhales slowly, frustration bleeding into worry. “You stupid bastard… how long can you last?”

Ryohei doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head faintly, sweat flying.

“Two more rounds?” Sera presses. “Can you last that much?”

“Maybe…” Ryohei whispers. “But I don’t think my footwork will last that long. I need to end it next round. If I don’t… he’ll beat me for sure.”

Sera narrows his eyes. “End it? How?”

Ryohei looks up at him, face pale, but eyes sharp. “Counter.”

Sera freezes. His brow twitches. “Counter? You’ve been eating half his punches since round two. You’re thinking counter now? You’re not Ryoma. You can’t…”

“I know!” Ryohei snaps, his voice trembling. “You think I don’t know I’m not Ryoma? You think I’m proud of that? You think I enjoy being the guy he crushes every damn spar? You think I like hearing them keep bringing his name into my fight? This is my fight, damn it.”