VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Moments later, Jade finishes his final set. The heavy bag sways in front of him, chains rattling softly as he exhales through his teeth and lets his gloves rest against the leather.

His chest rises and falls, sweat tracing slow lines down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. For a few seconds, he just stands there, forehead nearly touching the bag, humming under his breath as if the rhythm of his training hasn’t quite let go of him yet.

He steps back, rolls his shoulders loose, and reaches for a towel from the bench. He drapes it around his neck, wiping at his face as he moves with the same easy energy he’d had when he walked in.

Like the workout sharpened him instead of draining him.

“Jade,” Mark calls from the mezzanine above.

Jade tilts his head up, squinting against the lights. “Yeah?”

“After you clean up,” Mark says, “come upstairs before heading out.”

Jade grins. “What’s this? Did I miss a memo? If this isn’t about food, I’m filing a complaint.”

“Just make it quick,” Mark replies, already turning away.

Jade laughs, unbothered. “No promises.”

A few minutes later, he emerges from the locker room refreshed, hair still damp, gym bag slung over one arm. He smells faintly of soap and sweat, and there’s a looseness to his stride that suggests he’s still riding the high of a good session.

He takes the stairs two at a time and stops in front of the office door at the top.

“There they are,” he says brightly as he steps inside. “My favorite audience.”

Mark and Isaiah are already seated on the sofa facing the flat-screen TV. The lights in the room are dimmed, the screen casting a cool glow across their faces. Neither of them looks at Jade.

Mark doesn’t return the smile. He lifts his chin toward the screen instead.

“Inside,” he says.

Jade raises both hands in mock surrender and shuts the door behind him. “Wow. Serious faces already?” He glances between them. “Should I sit down? Or do the dramatic pacing thing?”

Isaiah doesn’t answer. He clicks the remote.

The screen sharpens, revealing a boxing ring caught mid-motion. Ryoma Takeda circles opposite Paulo Ramos, the footage crisp enough to catch the smallest details.

Ryoma’s footwork is calm, almost lazy. He sways with a subtle pendulum motion, smooth and unhurried, gloves hanging loose in front of him. Nothing about his posture screams urgency. If anything, he looks careless.

Ramos adjusts his stance, then hesitates. His eyes keep flicking to Ryoma’s hands, tracking the sway, waiting for a punch that never announces itself.

Jade’s grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it widens. “You guys are still watching this?” he says, amused. “Don’t tell me you’re not bored yet. How many times is this now?”

“As many as it takes,” Isaiah replies without looking away. “There’s still something we haven’t pinned down.”

Jade chuckles and drops onto the sofa between them, sprawling comfortably. His gym bag slides to the floor with a soft thud. He watches the screen for a few seconds, relaxed, elbows hooked over the backrest.

“So,” he says lightly, “you still can’t solve the puzzle, huh? I told you already. The guy’s strong. That’s all there is to it.”

“I’m not doubting that,” Mark says. His eyes stay on the screen. “But so was Paulo Ramos.”

“Ramos is known for his endurance,” Isaiah says. “He eats punches and keeps coming. Plenty of fighters tried to drain his stamina, lower his output, drag him into a slugfest. None of it worked.”

The video plays through the opening exchanges again.

“But this kid,” Mark continues, “only needed two body shots. After that, Ramos couldn’t keep his tight tempo anymore.”

Jade tilts his head slightly. His smile stays, but something behind his eyes sharpens.

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “That part’s nasty.”

Isaiah finally glances at him. “Calling it nasty doesn’t make it understandable.”

Mark rewinds the footage. This time, there’s no commentary.

They start from round one again, watching deliberately, refusing shortcuts, refusing easy conclusions.

The fight unfolds slowly, almost tediously. Every feint, every step, every sway feels like it’s daring them to miss something.

The simplest answer hangs in the room like a lazy truth: Ryoma Takeda just hits incredibly hard. His record supports it. Most of his wins end in knockouts. On paper, that alone should explain everything.

But none of them settle on it, because in those knockouts, it’s rarely brute force. It’s placement, timing, and precision.

They admit Ryoma’s punches are strong enough to hurt. But not strong enough to explain how two body shots alone dismantled Ramos’ rhythm, his breathing, his confidence.

They watch it again, and again. But on the third replay, eventually, Mark pauses the screen.

“Enough,” he says.

The image changes to an older fight now; Ryoma against Sekino.

Mark finally turns to Jade. “Here’s what we’ve confirmed so far.”

Jade shifts on the sofa, still relaxed, but listening more closely now.

“He switches styles based on what the fight demands,” Mark says. “Not mood. Not comfort. Merit. That’s why his win rate looks absurd. He always finds the right answer.”

“And the last one,” Isaiah adds quietly, “how he found the answer to stop Ramos… that’s what we still don’t understand.”

Mark nods. “But his structure is clear. Three main forms.” He gestures to the screen. “First, the style he’s used since his amateur days. Outboxing. Smooth movement. Light, clean work. Ali-like.”

The footage reflects it. Ryoma glides, taps, pivots.

“Second,” Mark says, slowing the video as Ryoma shifts posture, “the Philly Shell. Flickers. Minimal output. Defensive scoring while he studies. He’s very good at it. Strong counter instincts.”

Isaiah leans forward. “And third, the old Soviet style. You don’t see it much anymore. The pendulum foundation survived into modern boxing, but not like this.”

“Modern pendulum work,” Mark says carefully, “it’s mostly for distance and rhythm now. But this kid’s different.”

“It’s like switching stance to bait someone into a trap,” Isaiah says.

Jade frowns. “How so?”

“Watch the sway,” Mark says, replaying the Ramos fight.

The video shows it clearly. Ryoma doesn’t rush or retreat. He slows the fight down, and his sway keeps stealing Ramos’ cues, stretching each exchange until Ramos starts guessing.

His high-pressure rhythm dissolves, and for a moment, he looks lost, punching at a tempo that no longer exists.

“It looks simple,” Isaiah continues, “but that’s the trick. It’s like a lullaby. It pulls you into reading the rhythm. Once you do, he owns the tempo. That’s poison for counter punchers.”

Jade nods, impressed, but not shaken. “I’m not a counter puncher,” he says. “I’m the anti–counter puncher. So if he’s doing something similar, what’s the point?”

“The point,” Mark replies evenly, “is control. He controls tempo. He breaks rhythm. That alone tells us how good he is at adapting. If you show your switch stance too often, he’ll adapt to that too. Be ready.”

Isaiah adds, “Your stance stops mattering when the fight goes chest to chest. In close range, switching stance means nothing. And the Ramos fight shows he’s learned to fight there.”

“Let’s call it his fourth form,” Mark says. “The infighting form. His build didn’t change by accident. His camp prepared him for it.”

Jade lets out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just curious. “Weird guy. He can fight like Ali, and he chooses to fight like Tyson. Doesn’t that kill his footwork?”

“It does,” Mark agrees. “But he doesn’t lose tempo control. Less movement. Same command.”

Isaiah’s voice hardens. “When he pulls you into close range, switching stance stops being an advantage. In that world, there’s only chaos.”

Mark nods once. “Someone breaks.”

The screen freezes on Ryoma’s calm, unreadable expression, looking down at Ramos, motionless and unconscious at his feet.

“And if two body shots were enough to kill Ramos’ tight tempo,” Mark says, “then power or trick, it doesn’t matter. Once he drags you into that rhythm, he’ll be dangerous.”