VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Hiroshi reacts instantly, dropping into a crouch in front of Ryoma, worry written all over his face. But Nakahara stops him with a sharp look and a steady voice.

“Don’t get worked up. Act normal. Massage his legs the same way we’ve been doing since round one.”

Hiroshi hesitates, then nods. He understands, shows no panic, no tells the other corner can read.

He puts his hands on Ryoma’s calves and begins working them with the same steady rhythm as before, forcing himself to keep his expression light.

Kenta sets an ice bucket behind Ryoma’s neck, and then wipes the sweat from his shoulders. Sera follows in with a water bottle, tapping Ryoma’s arm lightly. Ryoma takes it, swishes a mouthful, and spits cleanly into the bucket

“So,” Hiroshi says casually, as if nothing’s wrong, “still planning to dance all night?”

Ryoma lets out a faint smirk, the kind meant to mask strain without overstating confidence. The tension around them thins, at least for anyone watching.

“If I keep the pace, I can manage another two rounds. But the old man can take a punch, I’ll give him that. I’m not betting on him folding anytime soon.”

“That was only the fifth,” Nakahara reminds him. “Half the fight still ahead. Can you last another five?”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow, amused. “Isn’t that the wall I’m supposed to break?”

He leans back slightly and draws in a slow breath, eyelids lowering as he slips into thought. Even while the Cruel King’s Army erupts into another booming chant, Ryoma doesn’t waver.

“Long live the Chameleon King… Cla-clap-clap!

Crown of the cruel, rule of the ring! Cla-clap-clap!”

The noise washes over him without claiming an inch of his focus. Their chant is for the persona in the ring, the monarch they believe him to be. It doesn’t intrude on the quiet calculations he’s making beneath that crown.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re sharper, his verdict already decided.

“He’s hurting too. All the shots I landed are catching up. I’m slowing the tempo next, save it for later. Let them think my legs are gone.”

Sera frowns, the worry he hides behind a stern expression slipping through. “That’s a dangerous bluff. We only just took the momentum. They dominated the first two rounds, and you won the last three, but it’s not a comfortable lead. If you stop using your legs now, you might hand the advantage back.”

Ryoma shakes his head, unbothered. “I won’t give him anything. I’m going to approach it like the early rounds, but his tricks won’t work on me anymore. Five rounds are enough to read him. And he’s taught me plenty.”

A slow smile curves at the corner of his mouth, the expression carrying a quiet confidence rather than bravado.

“Next round, the Chameleon starts shedding skin.”

***

The red corner is quieter than it should be, not focused, just worried. They aren’t discussing adjustments or new angles; there are no diagrams drawn in the air, no last-minute reinventions.

Their plan was made before the fight began, and all they can do now is hope it finally starts paying off.

Sekino sits hunched on the stool, chest still rising and falling in uneven pulls. His breathing hasn’t settled since the exchange in the corner, and the exhaustion clinging to him is no longer something he can hide.

The bruises around his cheekbone have darkened, swelling along the ridge of his brow, enough that the cutman works with tighter urgency, pressing, wiping, and sealing the skin with new Vaseline.

Yuichi and Shiki stay close, voices low but insistent, trying to pour belief back into their fighter.

“It’s working,” Yuichi says, as if saying it enough will make it true. “You’ve been digging that body since the second round. He won’t be able to run much longer.”

Shiki nods, adding a steady reassurance. “That kid spent too long grandstanding before he walked back to his corner. He was buying time. He’s hurting more than he wants anyone to know.”

Tsuchida clicks his tongue, shaking his head at the memory. “Trying to fool us like we don’t know what a body shot does. Who does he think we are?”

They keep talking, layering certainty over doubt, trying to keep Sekino’s mind tied to the idea that their original plan is still unfolding exactly as intended.

But Sekino’s silence says more than their words. He keeps his eyes down as the cutman works, shoulders heavy, breath still refusing to settle.

They can tell he’s listening, of course he’s listening. They just don’t know whether he believes them.

The exchange in the corner has left something in him. Ryoma withstanding his body blow, even aiming for a trade, and beat him while he should be the one cornering the kid.

And then those words:

“Careful, old man… I might give you the same treatment I gave Kanzaki.”

The memory hits like a bruise pressed too hard. Kanzaki’s collapse, the humiliation their gym carried afterward, the whispers that followed them for months.

That was exactly the reason Sekino moved up a weight class in the first place, to chase the boy who disgraced them, to restore the pride that slipped through their hands last year.

But now, while Yuichi and Tsuchida keep talking, brushing Ryoma off with easy dismissive lines, Sekino’s mind drifts somewhere darker.

What if I end up like Kanzaki too?

Shiki notices the shift first. He cuts off the others, steps in close, and drops into a crouch in front of Sekino, forcing eye contact.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “what’s going on? Did his counter hurt you that much?”

Sekino closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No. I can take more. You know I’ve taken harder shots than his.”

Shiki pats his thigh with a firm, confident tap, as if anchoring him back into the present. Sekino nods, but the doubt doesn’t fully leave.

The referee calls for the corners to clear. Sekino rises, and Tsuchida pulls the stool away with practiced speed.

The cutman and Shiki gather the remaining gear, and Yuichi gives Sekino’s shoulder a reassuring slap as he steps out.

“He’s got to be exhausted by now. Take back the lead this round. We’ll figure out how to punish him after.”

Sekino nods, but when he turns his gaze toward Ryoma, something cold curls at the edges of his thoughts.

He’s already falling behind. This is the first time he’s unsure if he can reclaim control.

He can absorb punishment, but Ryoma can take it just the same. And whenever he dragged Ryoma into a slugfest, Ryoma always won the exchange.

The bell for the sixth round finally rings.

Ding!

Sekino steps forward, ready to test Ryoma’s legs again, only to stop short and looks surprised.

Ryoma isn’t bouncing, isn’t circling. He moves to the center with a steady, measured step and eases into a tight Philly Shell: weight sunk, shoulders rolled, left hand dangling low, right hand snug beneath his chin.

From ringside, the commentators jump in immediately:

“Hold on… Ryoma’s not moving the same!”

“Is he abandoning the footwork?!”

“Sekino might have forced the fight he wanted after all!”

The plan Ryoma prepared to fool his opponent actually sparks a flicker of hope in Sekino’s chest.

It’s working.

The plan is working.

Those body shots are finally taking effect…