VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

On the other side of the ring, Yuichi Soda feels the irony settle like a weight on his chest. Just a minute ago, he’d spoken with full confidence, that Ryoma’s tiring himself out, that his legs would burn before the halfway point.

But now, watching Ryoma stand motionless across the ring, gloves loose at his sides, breathing perfectly measured… he realizes just how wrong he was.

It’s not recklessness he’s seeing. It’s control.

All this time, they thought inexperience would be Ryoma’s undoing, that a fighter who’d never gone deep into a ten-round war would drain himself chasing an early knockout. That he’d burn out before the halfway bell.

But instead, Ryoma had managed his pace like a seasoned veteran. Three slow, methodical rounds to learn. The fourth, a clean shift in tempo, all offense and movement. Even now, he’s slowing down again, not out of fatigue, but choice.

Yuichi feels a cold prickle at the back of his neck. Their plan, to let Sekino’s experience grind the younger man down, to win by attrition, is quietly crumbling in front of him.

“Tch… damn it,” he mutters under his breath. “We had the right plan. Sekino’s supposed to wear the kid down. All he needed was to keep landing those body shots, make it count. And now look at this… he let the tempo slip right out of his hands.”

His tone isn’t loud, but the edge in it is unmistakable, not anger at Ryoma, but at Sekino’s failure to make their strategy work.

But Shiki doesn’t share his frustration. “It’s not that simple anymore,” he says quietly. “That kid’s… he’s just different.”

Yuichi glances at him, half expecting an excuse, but Shiki’s tone is steady, almost analytical.

“He cracked Sekino’s two-beat flicker and the reversal shotgun jab back in the second round,” he continues. “And when Sekino tried that sly elbow trick, he answered it with a clean trade. Technique, composure, rhythm… even his reads are sharp.”

There’s a pause, as if he has to force the words out. But finally, Shiki exhales and shakes his head, the admission heavy in his voice.

“He’s not just fast or talented. He’s complete. From here on, Sekino’s going to need something close to a miracle just to stay in it.”

Yuichi doesn’t answer right away. For the first time tonight, as both men stand watching the ring, the red corner feels smaller, like the balance of the fight has quietly tilted away from them.

***

The fourth round rolls into its middle minute. The rhythm remains Ryoma’s, but he doesn’t rush or dance wildly like before.

His legs move smooth and measured, every step purposeful. The hit-and-run, the slide in and out, they’re still there. But its calmer now, stripped of excess.

Ryoma isn’t forcing the tempo anymore. He isn’t chasing anything.

“This round is already mine. Can I take another break?”

>

“Come on… just a bit.”

Ryoma flicks a jab to Sekino’s guard, then takes a few steps away, and lowers his hands, drawing a steady breath.

But Sekino won’t let Ryoma have it. He charges in, forcing the pace, trying to summon back the rhythm that once belonged to him.

Sekino looks for an opening to bring the two-beat flicker and the reverse shotgun jab alive again. But Ryoma never gives him the chance.

>

“It’s my idea… Don’t act like it was yours, damn it.”

Each time the setup begins with a few jabs, Ryoma catches the first and slides away before the trap can even form. No exchange, no engagement. Nothing for Sekino to work with.

Sekino presses, growing tenser with every failed sequence, while Ryoma moves with a quiet ease, conserving every ounce of breath.

And then… the final ten seconds tick.

Yuichi slams the apron, signaling his fighter.

But Ryoma already seizes it first. His feet light up again, the bounce returning, the rhythm tightening.

He pushes forward with sudden precision.

Dug! Dug!

Dug! Dug! Dug! Dug!

Jabs and crosses, the full barrage crashes against Sekino’s guard. Most are caught by the lead shoulder or forearm, but Ryoma keeps the rhythm alive, each strike heavier than the last.

Then Sekino parries a cross with his right. In that instant, Ryoma steps in deeper, twisting his hips to drive a short, brutal left hook into the exposed core.

No guard this time. The punch lands clean.

Thud!

Sekino’s body jolts; his stance buckles half a step back as the breath escapes through gritted teeth.

Right at that moment, a commentator bursts out, voice sharp with excitement.

“Ryoma finally finds a crack in the shell!”

Ding!

“And the bell saves Sekino from the Cruel King’s punishment!”

***

Ryoma doesn’t step away immediately. He exhales once, hard through his nose, his right fist raised in front of Sekino’s face.

It’s not a taunt. It’s a statement.

And the arena erupts. The Cruel King’s Army ignites again, their chant thunderous and unified.

From ringside, the commentators can’t help but laugh over the noise.

“He’s doing it again!”

“That rookie’s making a statement right in front of Sekino… and he’s earning every cheer in here!”

Sekino doesn’t say a word, because he can’t.

For a moment, he meets Ryoma’s eyes across the short distance, and then turns away first, burying the resentment beneath a blank mask.

Ryoma stays where he is, still and sharp, watching every step Sekino takes back to his corner. The Vision Grid begins the scan, parsing the small details that the naked eye might miss.

***

[SCAN REPORT]

Stride: steady, but shortened by 8%.

Posture: upright, yet hips show delayed rotation recovery.

Breathing: stable, though exhale intervals lengthen.

Perspiration: elevated, sweat density increased by 14%.

Conclusion: sustained damage to the core; cumulative fatigue rising.

***

>

Ryoma exhales once, letting that data settle, and turns to walk back to his own corner.

Kenta and Hiroshi are already waiting, towel in hand, bucket ready. The moment he sits, the routine unfolds with seamless efficiency.

Hiroshi kneads Ryoma’s calves and thighs, loosening the muscles that have carried him so far. Kenta presses an ice pack gently to the back of his neck, letting the chill soak into his spine.

Sera hands him a bottle, and Ryoma swishes water in his mouth, spits, then leans back with steady breathing.

“How’s the footwork holding up?” Nakahara asks quietly.

Ryoma rolls his ankles once, flexing them under the stool.

“Still fine,” he says. “If it stays like this, I can keep dancing until the eighth, maybe more.”

He pauses, voice steady but focused.

“But before that… I’m going to drain him first.”

Nakahara nods with a faint smile, giving Ryoma’s thigh a light pat, a quiet gesture of approval that says more than words. Pride swells in his chest, reluctant but undeniable.

This kid… no, this boxer, isn’t like the others. Ryoma’s composure, his adaptability, and that icy focus in his eyes, it’s the mark of someone who’s already crossed the line between potential and proof.

For a fleeting moment, Nakahara lets himself imagine it: Ryoma standing under the bright lights, the Japanese champion belt over his shoulder. The thought alone makes his chest tighten with something close to joy.

But he shakes it off at once, snapping himself back to reality. That kind of thinking, even for a second, is dangerous.

Ryoma catches the look, of course. And he smirks, tilting his head. “What’s wrong, old man? Dreaming a world title match already.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Nakahara fires back. “This fight’s still a long way from over. Sekino’s no pushover. One mistake and we lose everything. You get me?”

“Heh…” Ryoma chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Tell that to yourself. You’re the one who already looks like we’ve won the fight.”

Then his gaze hardens, the smirk fading as the edge returns to his voice.

“This fight’s far from finished. I saw it in his eyes… he’s gearing up for a slugfest next.”