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VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Chapter 373: Stealing Tricks? No, Stealing Tempo · Nov 03, 2026

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Chapter List (1045)

Page number / 21

351 Chapter 351: The Double-Edged Sword 2026-11-03
352 Chapter 352: What Each Corner Protects 2026-11-03
353 Chapter 353: Ugly vs Beauty 2026-11-03
354 Chapter 354: Saved for Later 2026-11-03
355 Chapter 355: At the Edge of Focus 2026-11-03
356 Chapter 356: The Dark Pressure 2026-11-03
357 Chapter 357: What Is Worth Betting On 2026-11-03
358 Chapter 358: What the Record Doesn’t Show 2026-11-03
359 Chapter 359: The Moment It Stops Being Your Fight 2026-11-03
360 Chapter 360: On the Edge of Sanity 2026-11-03
361 Chapter 361: Tight. Tight. Tight 2026-11-03
362 Chapter 362: Beast Unchained 2026-11-03
363 Chapter 363: The Line He Crossed 2026-11-03
364 Chapter 364: A State You Can’t Force 2026-11-03
365 Chapter 365: The Pendulum, Solved 2026-11-03
366 Chapter 366: Respect, Paid in Blood 2026-11-03
367 Chapter 367: Out of Sync 2026-11-03
368 Chapter 368: Rite of Ancension 2026-11-03
369 Chapter 369: Two Undefeated, One Record Breaks Tonight 2026-11-03
370 Chapter 370: When the Crown Meets the Storm 2026-11-03
371 Chapter 371: Recalibration 2026-11-03
372 Chapter 372: The Storm on Hold 2026-11-03
373 Chapter 373: Stealing Tricks? No, Stealing Tempo 2026-11-03
374 Chapter 374: Playing Between Beats 2026-11-03
375 Chapter 375: Three Seconds Without Air 2026-11-03
376 Chapter 376: The Weight Carried by a Champion 2026-11-03
377 Chapter 377: What Those Ten Second Took 2026-11-03
378 Chapter 378: No Safe Space in the Ring 2026-11-03
379 Chapter 379: At the Cruel King’s Feet 2026-11-03
380 Chapter 380: Just a Few Steps Away 2026-11-03
381 Chapter 381: Stolen Space 2026-11-03
382 Chapter 382: Mercy, So They Say 2026-11-03
383 Chapter 383: Was It Really Her? 2026-11-03
384 Chapter 384: Non-Negotiable Conditions 2026-11-03
385 Chapter 385: Strength Seen by a Child 2026-11-03
386 Chapter 386: Habit Without Intention 2026-11-03
387 Chapter 387: The First Real Offer 2026-11-03
388 Chapter 388: Lines Drawn 2026-11-03
389 Chapter 389: In Good Faith 2026-11-03
390 Chapter 390: When the Surprise Changed Hands 2026-11-03
391 Chapter 391: A Reply Without Memory 2026-11-03
392 Chapter 392: Authority Without Consent 2026-11-03
393 Chapter 393: Where Respect Reveals Itself 2026-11-03
394 Chapter 394: Not as Humble as They Look 2026-11-03
395 Chapter 395: You Can’t Run Forever 2026-11-03
396 Chapter 396: Only Ryoma 2026-11-03
397 Chapter 397: When Silence Is Defiance 2026-11-03
398 Chapter 398: Polished Smiles, Sharpened Knives 2026-11-03
399 Chapter 399: No Room for Denial 2026-11-03
400 Chapter 400: The Moment Slips Away 2026-11-03

The referee waves both corners clear, voice firm, signaling the end of the break and the start of round two.

Trainers step back together, stools whisked away, bottles lowered, hands off shoulders, leaving the canvas open and quiet again bare.

As both fighters loosening their arms, a low murmur rolls through the arena, anticipation tightening as thousands lean forward in their seats.

“Round one favored Ramos on activity,” one commentator says. “But Ryoma’s reads changed late. If that pressure returns, we’ll see answers.”

“Yup…” the other one nods. “Either Ramos turns it up, or Ryoma drags him into deeper water. Second round will tell who blinks first tonight.”

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round Two.

Both fighters step out at once, feet light, eyes sharp. They drift toward the center, not rushing, not yielding.

The middle of the ring offers space, angles, control. But right now, avoiding a mistake matters more than claiming territory.

They stop a few paces apart and set their stances.

Ryoma settles first. The Philly Shell is gone. He stands orthodox now, mid-range. His rear foot locks into place while the lead foot slides in a narrow lane, back and forth like a small pendulum.

The stance isn’t wide, almost neutral, balanced. Shoulders loose. Gloves hang just below chest level, swaying subtly in time with his lead foot.

Ramos halts and squares up as well, but his eyes linger on Ryoma’s posture. He recognizes it immediately. The same frame Kenta used last fight.

A casual smile tugs at his mouth. “Dropping the shell already?”

Ryoma lifts an eyebrow. “Crowd’s bored. And I’m bored too.”

Ramos glances sideways at the arena. “Now that you mention it…”

Virgil calls out from the red corner. “Ramos! Where the hell are looking at?”

Ryoma sees the opening, and seizes it immediately; a compact one-two snaps out.

Ramos reacts just in time, gloves flashing up as he steps back once.

Dug. Dug.

But there’s no surprise on his face. He simply resumes the conversation like nothing happened.

“They do look bored,” he says. “Why not make some noise?”

He tightens his rhythm, and steps half an inch forward.

Then three straight punches fire from mid-range, spearing and rigid, the tempo compressed and sharp.

Ryoma slides his lead foot back slightly, gloves jutting forward just enough to be touched.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

He shifts left, changes the angle, and the pendulum returns; only the lead foot sliding, shoulders loose, gloves swaying lazily in front of his chest.

Ramos follows, adjusts, bounces once, and throws the same three-punch spear. Again, Ryoma gives ground just pulling his lead foot just half a step.

He’s almost squaring up now, but gloves still offered forward, inviting contact.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

To Ramos, he’s still in range. So he doesn’t think about pushing deeper.

What he doesn’t fully realize is that Ryoma is already blurring the distance, reshaping the range to erase his disadvantage inch by inch.

The pendulum stays subtle; shoulders loose, gloves swaying lazily to blur the true distance between his head and Ramos’ reach.

Still, he keeps baiting him to step deeper. “That’s hardly enough to make any noise,” he says.

Ramos’ eyes narrow slightly. He isn’t green enough to miss what Ryoma is doing.

He sidesteps, small and cautious, eyes tracking the lazy sway of Ryoma’s gloves. He knows the distance is being blurred, the true range disguised by rhythm and illusion.

But knowing it doesn’t solve it. Without a clean read, his reach advantage starts slipping. Step too deep, and Ryoma can touch him. Stay too shallow, and he’s just punching gloves.

From the booth, a commentator picks it up, almost lazily.

“This fight’s gone quiet all of a sudden. Not much punches thrown… just words.”

As if on cues, Ryoma changes the pattern. His pendulum widens. Both feet move now, still subtle, back and forth in a tight pocket.

“You’re taking too long…” he says.

The Soviet rhythm reveals itself.

Ryoma slides forward deeper, still swaying. The first left floats out; lazy, half-hearted, falling short on purpose. Ramos reacts anyway, tightening his right guard.

The second jab snaps fully, and a right straight follows.

Dug. Dug.

Then Ryoma slides back out.

Ramos doesn’t linger. He sidesteps to change the angle, but Ryoma adjusts smoothly, never breaking rhythm, and slides in again.

Same cadence; Lazy first jab. Then the sharp jab and right.

Dug. Dug.

Blocked again, but this time Ramos fires back with a sharp hook.

Ryoma simply slides away, letting it carve air.

The pattern repeats. Ryoma doesn’t rush, keeps the same steady beat, letting Ramos get comfortable reading it.

Three cycles pass. Each time Ryoma steps in, Ramos answers with a hook; reacting instead of pressing, forgetting his trademark barrage.

On the fourth cycle, Ryoma changes it. He slides forward only half a step, hesitates, right shoulder brushing close.

Ramos twitches, caught between firing back or waiting.

Ryoma doesn’t pendulum forward this time. Instead, only the lead foot slides, and his stance shifts smoothly…

Whsst!

A flicker snaps out.

Ramos blinks and raises his glove.

Dug.

Blocked.

Then the two-beat flicker comes alive. The left veers sideways without retreating, snaps back, and then reverse to the Detroit Piston jab.

Dsh! Dug.

The first slaps Ramos’ cheek, the piston on hit the glove.

Then Ryoma steps in with the rear foot, and drives in a right straight to midsection.

Thud!

He slides out, but only briefly, and slides half-step in again. Two-beat flicker jabs. Reverse Detroit Piston. Rear foot forward, and a straight to midsection.

Dug. Dsh! Dug. Thud!

Same cadence. Same targets. Soviet rhythm fused with the two-beat flicker smoothly.

Ramos can only tighten his guard in the middle, absorbing two slaps to the cheek and two clean body shots.

“There it is,” a commentator says. “Ryoma’s found a pattern… and Ramos is stuck answering it.”

Ryoma settles back to safe range. The pendulum shrinks again. Rear foot locked. Lead foot swaying.

He looks at Ramos, inviting. “You should stop holding back now, before you regret it later.”

Ramos’ eyebrow twitches. He takes the provocation for what it is; teasing from someone who makes a habit of stealing other people’s weapons.

He wants to stay restrained. It’s too early to let Ryoma read his timing.

Ryoma has been stacking clean blows for too long now. And Ramos’ hesitation lingers; no longer by choice, but from confusion.

Up in the press seats, Sato leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You see it?” he murmurs.

Kenta nods slowly. “Yeah. Ramos isn’t fighting his own fight anymore.”

For almost two minutes, Ramos hasn’t pressed his opponent with his trademark tight barrages. The nonstop pressure is gone.

Instead, he’s been answering, adjusting, and waiting, reacting to Ryoma’s sway rather than imposing his own rhythm.

“He’s been pulled in,” Sato says. “That slow cadence… it’s lulling him. Hypnotizing him.”

Kenta exhales. “Ryoma’s not just stealing exchanges. He’s stealing the pace. Smart kid. He makes Ramos simply forgot to throw.”

Aki blinks, eyes drifting between the two veterans as their words sink in only halfway. She looks back to the ring, then to them again, searching for something more obvious.

Ramos is still there, still upright, still composed.

Yet she can’t quite grasp why he’s gone so quiet, why the pressure everyone expects just… isn’t coming.

Below them, Ryoma continues to sway lazily while Ramos stands in front of him, caught between timing and hesitation, fighting a rhythm that no longer belongs to him.

If Ramos won’t be provoked into revealing his true tight barrage, then he’ll be dragged into this slower cadence instead.

One way or another, the fight is drifting, quietly and deliberately, exactly where Ryoma planned it to go.

“I know,” Ryoma replies in his mind. “It’s still part of my plan.”

“Yeah, yeah… Our plan.”

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