VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The red corner feels tight with unspoken strain as Coach Yoshizawa crouches in front of Yanagimoto, his presence heavy in the narrow space between rounds.

“You keep chasing the head,” Yoshizawa says. “You want to wipe that ugly grin off his face so badly you’ve forgotten what actually breaks a man.”

Yanagimoto flicks his eyes up at him, blinks once, and the truth settles in. His jaw tightens as pride and ego push back together, because he knows it’s true.

He wants to end the fight his way, the way he believes a champion should, by breaking that ugly grin and proving his boxing is superior.

“I know why you’re doing it,” Yoshizawa continues, eyes never leaving his fighter. “You want to fight the way you’ve trained your whole life. But it isn’t working now.”

Yoshizawa leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Stop chasing the head. Close the distance. Take a punch if you have to, and drag him into infighting where you can punish his body. The body doesn’t disappear like the head.”

“I don’t know if I’m any good in close range,” Yanagimoto answers at last, his voice controlled but strained.

“Neither is he,” Yoshizawa replies immediately.

Yanagimoto exhales through his nose, frustration leaking through his composure. “Even when I go to the body, he still reads it. He blocks everything.”

Yoshizawa nods once, as if he has been waiting for that objection. “Then hit his guard. Hard. Make sure it connects. Pry it open if you get the chance. Make it ugly, and stop worrying about whether it looks like your style.”

Yanagimoto falls silent, his eyes drifting downward as memories surface uninvited. Years of drills, hours of pain, and endless repetition spent shaping himself into a switch hitter who could control distance and rhythm with precision.

And now, he has to abandon everything. Just thinking about it hurt his pride. But Yoshizawa does not give him time to hide in it.

“You have two choices,” he says evenly. “You abandon your style tonight, or you abandon your belt.”

Finally, something shifts in Yanagimoto’s expression at those words.

He lifts his gaze toward the opposite corner, seeing Shimamura’s hunched posture and that infuriating grin that makes his skin crawl.

For the first time tonight, Yanagimoto swallows his pride instead of his anger. He looks back at Yoshizawa and gives a single restrained nod.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Yoshizawa exhales. “Good.”

***

After the bell signals round eight, Yanagimoto steps out of the corner changed, but not rushed. There is no desperation in his posture, only a quiet decision settling into his movements.

He does not chase the head anymore. There is no stance switching, no probing for clever openings, no urge to look brilliant.

He closes the distance in his southpaw stance, inch by inch, posture tight and compact.

Shimamura sways as he always does, loose and lazy, the grin still clinging to his face. He slips the first punch cleanly and counters out of habit.

Thud!

But Yanagimoto ignore it, and forces his way in, and begins applying pressure at close range.

A short hook crashes into Shimamura’s forearms. Another thuds against the elbow line. The third punch is aimed into the ribs, blocked, but heavy enough to matter.

Shimamura gives ground. He can still see the punches, blocks well, slips once, then twice, but every blow that connects through the guard steals something from him

It steals his breath, disrupts his posture, and breaks his balance. And Yanagimoto stays close, too close for the dance to breathe.

“Notice the change,” a commentator says. “Yanagimoto is crowding him at close range now.”

His partner nods, eyes tracking the distance between the fighters. “That’s risky for him. This isn’t where Shimamura wants to be, but it’s not where the champion usually fights either.”

“But the question is whether Yanagimoto can stay disciplined,” the first adds.

Shimamura slips again and fires back, a light punch rising from an awkward angle.

Dsh!

It brushes Yanagimoto’s cheek. But Yanagimoto barely reacts, and keeps pouring the pressure, never backing down, never giving any space.

Eventually, they drift toward the ropes. Shimamura tries to pivot out, but Yanagimoto leans in shoulder-first, crowding him, taking away space rather than chasing angles.

And for the first time since taking this drunken style, Shimamura throws a punch first. Not reacting, not countering, but taking the initiative.

But the punch is sloppy, readable. And only now Yanagimoto notices how ugly Shimamura’s punching form is.

“He’s good at dodging with his sloppy dance…”

“But his punch is damn ugly too…”

Yanagimoto blocks the first, and then slips the second easily, before driving a hook into the body.

Thud!

In the booth, one of the commentators reacts at once.

“There it is… Yanagimoto’s finally lands a clean body shot.”

“And you can see it mattered. That one got Shimamura’s breath. He felt that.”

Shimamura exhales sharply, the sound pulled out of him.

From the stands, Nakahara speaks under his breath, the words edged with certainty. “That’s the price he pays just to stay in the flow.”

The three journalists stiffen at once. Their attention breaks from the ring, heads turning toward Nakahara before instinct pulls their eyes back to the fight.

“He puts himself on the edge on purpose,” Nakahara continues. “He abandons discipline so he can enter the ring while already fatigued. It’s never been about winning. It’s about chasing the ecstasy.”

Aki swallows, still watching Shimamura absorb another step of pressure.

“But he’s still reading everything, right?” she says.

“Yes,” Nakahara replies. “His clarity is still there. His reflex is still sharp. But his offense only works as a response.”

In the ring, Shimamura shifts again, shoulders loose, guard arriving a beat late but still holding. He rarely throws back, picking the moment to punch with extreme care.

“When he counters,” Nakahara says, “he’s dangerous. When he initiates, it falls apart. Those punches are sloppy, ugly… and to a trained fighter, they’re the easiest thing in the world to deal with.”

Yanagimoto drives another punch in, a rear cross aimed to Shimamura’s right side. Shimamura tilts his posture left, letting the glove graze his skin at an angle as he swings a lazy counter upstairs.

But at the same time, Yanagimoto is already turning into a lead hook to the ribs.

Dsh!

Bugh!

“Oh… both men land!”

Both punches land almost together, close enough to blur into one moment.

They freeze for a heartbeat, but it is Shimamura who shows it first, breath hitching, shoulders dipping as the body shot lingers deeper than his own.

“That body shot… Shimamura felt that one!”

Yanagimoto also feels the punch snap against his face. His expression tightens for a brief instant, but he refuses to step back, forcing the exchange to continue.

Shimamura has no room now, no space to drift away, and not enough stamina to run out and reset the distance. Pressed in close, he is forced to engage.

He still slips punches and lands cleaner shots, and on the surface it looks like he is winning the exchange

But in the red corner, Coach Yoshizawa sees the truth settle into place.

When Shimamura commits fully to defense, the sway makes him untouchable. When he initiates, his punches are loose and readable. When he counters, they work, but the rhythm fractures every time.

And that fracture opens a door.

Dsh!

Bugh!

“Oooh, another brutal exchange!”

“He’s trading head shots for body punishment!”

“It’s ugly, but this is the only way Yanagimoto can touch him!”

Then they clash again, this time, both hooks crashing into the sides of their heads at once.

BAM!!!

“Another one!”

“This is getting uglier!”

Yanagimoto is stunned in place. But Shimamura’s legs give, and finally…

Ding! Ding!

The bell rings, and Shimamura drops to one knee, his head spinning, vision smeared and unfocused. The grin is gone entirely.

For the first time since he adopted this style and fought in this flow state, he realizes his limits, his weaknesses, and all the mistakes in his approach.

I said stop chasing that flow.

Nakahara’s voice comes back to him without warning, calm and firm, exactly as it was back then.

If it’s really that effective, and it always comes when you’re already weakened, then use it when that time comes.

Don’t burn your body just to invite it.

Walking into the ring exhausted on purpose is blatant stupidity.

The words keep coming, sharper now.

What if the flow is short-lived?

What if it isn’t enough to beat your opponent?

What if you break first?

Have you ever thought about what that does to you?

He had ignored all of it, because it always worked. Because he always won. And because, deep down, winning had never really been the point.

He had only been chasing the feeling instead. That brief, intoxicating clarity. That rush where everything slipped by and nothing could touch him.

Now the feeling is gone. On the canvas, there is no ecstasy left to cling to, no rhythm, no dance.

Only pain, spreading slow and undeniable through his body.

Old man was right.

I shouldn’t have ignored him.

I should have listened.

And maybe… I wouldn’t have left the gym.