VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The bell’s echo fades, but the arena doesn’t loosen. It buzzes instead, low and restless. Voices overlap, arguments forming in the dark rows. The press section rustles with movement, pens scratching faster now, pages already marked with question marks.

In the stands, expectations split.

“He’s gotta press now!” one of Aramaki’s supports shouts.

“That’s his fight! He should get inside next!”

The answer from Hanazawa’s supporters comes immediately, and it’s harsher.

“Enough playing around with that kid!”

“End it already, Hanazawa!”

“Crush him!”

Finally, the referee steps forward, voice sharp, practiced.

“Seconds out.”

Chairs scrape back. The corners peel off, leaving the fighters alone with the space again.

Aramaki rises first, rolling his shoulders once. His eyes stay forward now, steady.

Hanazawa pushes up a heartbeat later. He straightens, cracks his neck to one side, then the other. The grin doesn’t come back this time.

He glances once toward the red side of the stands, hears the shouting.

“End it, Hanazawa! Stop playing!”

And he snorts under his breath. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m bored too.”

Round Two

The bell rings.

Ding!

Hanazawa steps out of his corner immediately, not fast, not rushed.

He moves like a hunter slipping into tall grass, head low, shoulders loose, feet quiet. His eyes never leave Aramaki. There’s no grin now, no more teasing. It’s enough warming up, time to work.

He rolls his shoulders once as he advances, chin tucked behind that battered forehead after years of fighting ugly.

Hanazawa isn’t smiling anymore. Whatever patience he’d been spending in the first round has run out.

Across from him, Aramaki has claimed the center this time. His feet settle where the ring feels widest, stance breathing instead of locking.

The tightness from earlier is gone. His mind is clear, and it shows in the way his lead foot glides.

Then a probing jab snaps out.

Dug.

Hanazawa catches it lightly, and slips with a small turn of the head.

Aramaki follows with another jab, stepping in behind it, textbook and clean. He adds a right straight this time, proper alignment, shoulders turning, hips following through.

Dug.

Dug. Dug.

Hanazawa blocks, giving ground half a step, and still circling, still measuring.

Aramaki stays with him, cutting the ring the way he’s been taught, feet sliding instead of chasing.

Jab. Step. Reset.

He throws a simple one-two again, then a hook that skims the guard, not forcing anything.

“That’s… different,” one commentator says, leaning forward.

“Yeah,” the other replies, voice tightening with interest. “We’re not seeing the usual Aramaki here.”

“For a guy known as an in-fighter, this is almost unheard of.”

The jab snaps out once more, steady as a metronome, and for the first time all night, the crowd murmurs; not with noise, but with recognition.

For the first thirty seconds, it looks almost ordinary. Two fighters at mid-range. One pressing with structure. The other yielding just enough to read.

But Hanazawa’s eyes never leave Aramaki’s chest, and his head keeps dipping lower with each step.

“Tch.” He exhales through his nose, almost annoyed. “You’re an in-fighter, aren’t you?”

He circles once more, slower now, disdain creeping into his voice.

“Since when do you fight like this?” he calls out. “Quit pretending you’re fancy. Come on.”

A grin flashes, sharp and ugly. “Let’s slug it out.”

Aramaki doesn’t answer. The jab comes again, controlled and measured. His rhythm holds for a few more beats.

Then Hanazawa stops indulging it. “Fine! I’ll just force my way in.”

He blocks Aramaki’s jab. And the moment Aramaki’s arm retract, Hanazawa steps along, sliding inside the space Aramaki leaves behind.

Aramaki raises his guard, expecting a punch coming. But no, Hanazawa’s forearms wedge in, pinning Aramaki’s elbows before they can reset.

Suddenly, there’s no mid-range left. It’s chest to chest now. And a ripple runs through the blue side of the stands.

“That’s it, Aramaki!”

“This is your fight!”

“Go!”

This is where Aramaki usually thrives, except it doesn’t feel right this time.

Hanazawa clamps down, arms heavy, framing, stealing space. His head drives forward, rough, shoving into Aramaki’s neck, and then grinding up toward his cheek.

The pressure is constant, invasive, denying air and sight at the same time.

Aramaki tries to sneak a short punch inside. Hanazawa sees it, tilts his head sharply, just enough. His forehead clips Aramaki’s cheek, not hard, not illegal, just disruptive.

The punch dies halfway, Aramaki’s form broken.

And Hanazawa bends his knees a fraction before a compact hook snaps into the body, tight and unseen, thrown from under Aramaki’s line of sight.

Thud!

Aramaki’s breath jolts.

Before he can adjust, the head is there again, pinning his neck, tilting, grinding, forehead bumping his cheek once more as another short body shot digs into his guts.

Bug!

Ugly. Efficient. Smothering.

Aramaki is trapped, struggling in the very space where he’s always been strongest.

This is Hanazawa’s world. Aramaki tries to reset his posture, to find his form again, but Hanazawa never gives him the space.

The head keeps coming, ugly and relentless; bumping, grazing, grinding along his cheek and eye socket, just enough to blind and irritate.

And the punches keep sneaking in.

Thud!

Bug, bug! Thud!

Up in the journalist row, Tanaka’s pen slows. “This shouldn’t look like this,” he mutters, eyes locked on the ring. “That space in there… that’s supposed to be Aramaki’s world.”

Tanaka exhales. “But he can barely do anything now.”

Beside him, Aki leans closer, brows knitting. “Why? He’s an in-fighter, right? That’s where he’s strongest.”

“Because he can’t see,” Sato says quietly. “Look at Hanazawa’s head. He’s using it like a shield. While Aramaki’s vision is blocked by forehead and pressure, Hanazawa’s hands are free to work.”

In the ring, another body shot from Hanazawa lands, tight and unseen.

“Those punches,” Sato continues. “They’re short. Cruel. And Aramaki never sees them coming.”

Tanaka nods slowly, following the shape of it. “And look at their posture,” he adds. “Aramaki’s being held upright. His spine’s straight, no crouch, no bend in the knees. He lands scoring punches too. But there’s no way to drive power up from the legs like that.”

“Meanwhile,” Tanaka finishes, voice grim, “Hanazawa’s got everything he wants. Sight. Leverage. Angles.”

Aki swallows, eyes flicking back to the canvas. It’s experience versus habit. And right now, experience is winning.

***

When Aramaki tries to carve out room with his forearms, Hanazawa answers immediately.

A compact hook snaps up to the head.

Dsh!

Aramaki’s head whips sideways.

Before he can settle, Hanazawa’s forehead is there again, pinning Aramaki’s head into his neck, forcing him upright.

But Hanazawa himself stays low beneath him, knees bent, balance perfect.

From there, he does whatever he wants, digging hooks into the ribs, snapping shots upstairs, working at will inside the space Aramaki can’t escape.

When Hanazawa hears Aramaki’s breathing turn ragged, he finally shoves him away, creating space.

It isn’t mercy. It’s punishment.

Before Aramaki can even think to use the distance, Hanazawa’s left shoots out, palm smearing across Aramaki’s face, clearing the line, steering his head just enough.

Then the right follows straight through the opening.

Dhuack!

“Oh…!” a commentator blurts, shock cutting through his voice.

Aramaki’s head snaps back violently, lips red with blood.

He stumbles two steps, boots scraping canvas, but he doesn’t fall. Instinct kicks in. He plants his feet, drags his balance back under him, and brings his guard up again.

“Use your left!” Nakahara’s voice cuts through the noise. “Don’t let him walk in! Keep him at bay!”

Hanazawa hears it. He scoffs, lips curling. “Keep me at bay? Then how’re you planning to fight me from out there?”

Aramaki listens anyway. He resets, his feet loosen. The stance widens just a touch. He settles back into mid-range, breath steadying as his lead hand comes alive again.

Hanazawa clicks his tongue and steps in, timing the retreating left, ready to smother the space the moment Aramaki’s jab pulls back.

Except this time, Aramaki doesn’t stay there.

He shifts into a pendulum rhythm, back just enough to make the distance lie, then slides the lead foot forward again, dropping his level.

The jab shoots out, not to the head, but straight to the body.

Thud!

It spears into the solar plexus, catching Hanazawa mid-step, right as his weight commits forward.

Hanazawa’s breath jerks. “You brat…”

But he still smirks, still half-dismissive, weaving instinctively as he searches for his way back inside.

“Good punch, I must say.”

But Aramaki doesn’t retreat. His pendulum stops.

He sinks lower, stance coiled. The left hand stays extended, not jabbing now, but aiming, rigid like a stake driven into the space between them.

Hanazawa’s eyes track it. Measure it. Plan around it.

“Cheap trick,” he mutters, lips curling in disdain.

He simply slaps Aramaki’s left aside, easy. But just as he works his way inside, the surprise springs.

Aramaki’s right hand suddenly uncoils from the rear like a serpent, exploding upward from a low angle.

Dhuack!

Compact. Snapping. Vicious.

Hanazawa’s head snaps back hard. His right arm fires on reflex, punching nothing but air.

“What was that?!” a commentator shouts, disbelief flooding his voice.

“That… that’s a cobra shot!” the other yells. “He snapped Hanazawa’s head clean back with a cobra shot!”

Hanazawa stumbles, boots scraping as he gives ground for the first time.

And Aramaki is already stepping in.

This time, without hesitation.