VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the blue corner, Ryoma stands tall behind Nakahara. His pupils flick with rhythmic precision, the Vision Grid System engaging to dissect every fiber of Umemoto Kimitada.

Invisible lines of data map out the champion’s gait, the frequency of his breaths, and the micro-reactions of his shoulder muscles after that brutal third-round slugfest.

***

Scan Update: Umemoto Kimitada.

Heart rate: Stable.

Muscle fatigue: Minimal.

Damage absorption: High.

***

Ryoma tilts his head slightly, his eyes scanning for the slightest twitch of Coach Ishimaru’s lips. He looks for a tactical adjustment, a specific instruction, anything he can whisper into Ryohei’s ear before the bell for the fourth round rings.

But not a single word is spoken. Ishimaru works in total eerie silence as he wipes the grime from Umemoto’s face. He hands over the water bottle, and Umemoto drinks without once breaking eye contact with Ryohei. The champion stares at his prey with eyes that now flicker with a pure predatory hunger.

A grim realization settles in Ryoma’s mind. The red corner team isn’t coaching a fighter; they are unleashing a beast.

Umemoto isn’t a modern boxer who needs angle adjustments or complex tactical shifts mid-fight. And he doesn’t need a moral boost either.

For Umemoto, boxing isn’t about IQ or philosophy. It’s about who breaks first under the weight of violence.

Ryoma looks down at Ryohei, whose chest is still heaving under Sera’s frantic care. “Sorry… still not a word from them,” he says, his voice low and tight.

Sera flicks his gaze toward the red corner, then back to Ryohei, his brow furrowed. “Now you see it, Ryohei. That’s how he’s won every fight so far. There’s nothing wrong with your boxing. The pendulum rhythm is working exactly as it should. You’re landing counter after counter, but he’s forcing his way through with nothing but brute ugly strength.”

“And there’s a high chance he doubles down on that same approach next round,” Nakahara adds, his voice grim.

“Of course he will,” Sera nods, his hands working quickly to close a nick on Ryohei’s cheek. “It’s working for him. So we can’t let him have it.”

“Ryohei still has the edge here,” Ryoma cuts in. “You saw how Ryohei took back control right before the bell. Umemoto might be stronger and more resilient, but if Ryohei stays compact, chains his strikes into flurries instead of hunting for one powerful blow, he can bypass the dual exchange.”

Sera pauses, absorbs the logic, and nods slowly. He turns back to Ryohei, crouching low to look him directly in the eyes, instilling a final surge of confidence.

“It seems that’s the only way. We both know he’s stronger, Ryohei. But you? You have the better technique. Use it. Stay engaged, but don’t try to outmuscle a monster. If he throws one big reckless swing, pay him back with three compact punches. Break his momentum before it even starts. I know you can still win this.”

***

The bell for Round 4 rings, and Umemoto wastes no time. He remains a force of nature, abandoning all pretense of boxing to force Ryohei back into the trenches.

The fight stays chaotic, a messy violent blur of leather and sweat. Umemoto continues to bulldoze forward, winging heavy hooks that look like they belong in a street brawl rather than a professional ring.

Ryohei follows the blue corner’s adjustment to the letter. He stops trying to match Umemoto’s weight. Every time the champion lunges with a bone-crushing blow, Ryohei pays him back with a triple-tap.

Dsh-dsh-dsh!

Compact flurries pepper Umemoto’s face, snapping his head back and disrupting the arc of his swings.

“Look at the volume from Yamada!” the lead commentator screams. “Umemoto throws one, but Ryohei answers with three! He’s playing the numbers game, and it’s working! He’s snapping the champion’s head back like a speedbag!”

“But look at the cost!” the co-commentator shouts back. “Ryohei is staying in the fire to land those flurries! He’s winning the exchanges, but he’s taking devastating fire to the body to do it!”

Indeed, to land his flurries, Ryohei has to stay within Umemoto’s reach. And Umemoto focuses his investment on Ryohei’s body, digging deep, thudding hooks into the ribs.

Thud! Bugh!

Ryohei winces, his breath catching in his throat as his midsection turns a deep angry shade of purple.

“Oh, he’s clearly in a world of hurt up there. You can see it in his face.”

“Absolutely. There’s no armor thick enough to negate those body shots. Ryohei is fighting through pure agony right now, and Umemoto knows it.”

The agony is sharp, but Ryohei’s focus remains iron-clad. As Umemoto lunges with another thudding blow, Ryohei traps him within his step-back rhythm, pivoting just enough to find the lane for a sharp, stinging left.

Dsh!

Umemoto growls, forcing his way through the impact like a bulldozer.

But Ryohei is already chaining his response. He anchors his feet and fires a rapid-fire jab-jab-cross, keeping every movement compact and efficient.

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

“Look at that response! Umemoto is charging like a wounded bull, but Ryohei isn’t retreating anymore. He’s anchoring and firing! That jab-jab-cross was absolute lightning!”

“Clean and clinical! Ryohei is refusing to let the champion’s power intimidate him. He’s taking those heavy shots to the ribs, but he’s paying Umemoto back with interest. He’s shattering the momentum before the champion can even load up his next hook!”

“But you have to wonder, how much longer can he keep this high-speed output going while his midsection is being hammered? He’s winning the exchanges, but the physical tax is becoming staggering!”

The flurry acts like a physical barrier, shattering Umemoto’s forward momentum and snapping his head back. Before the champion can reset for a counter-hook, Ryohei disengages immediately, gliding out of the pocket with a surgeon’s precision.

“Ryohei is putting on a masterclass in hit and move.”

“But look at him… He’s giving up ground the second he scores! He’s winning the point, but he’s fighting like a man who knows he can’t afford to get caught twice.”

Ryohei is undeniably in control of the round, dominating through sheer technique and volume. Yet, Umemoto never gives a single inch for free. Every time Ryohei enters the fire to score, the champion ensures he leaves a mark, a punishing toll paid in bruised ribs and stolen breath.

***

By Round 5, the EDION Arena is a cauldron of noise. Ryohei looks like a master technician, his hands moving in blurred chains of three and four, reddening Umemoto’s face and swelling his eyes further. On the judges’ cards, Ryohei is likely sweeping the rounds.

“Yamada is putting on a clinic!” the lead commentator bellows. “If this goes to the scorecards, there’s no doubt, the challenger is dominating! He’s out-punching, out-working, and out-smarting the champion!”

“I’m not so sure,” the co-commentator says, his voice grim. “Look at Ryohei’s legs. They’re getting heavy. Umemoto is walking through those flurries like a man walking through rain; wet and annoyed, but still moving. Meanwhile, every body blow Ryohei absorbs is like a withdrawal from his life savings. He’s winning the fight, but he’s losing the war of attrition.”

Every body blow saps a percentage of Ryohei’s power, his breathing becoming a ragged whistle. The ’200-gram-a-day’ discipline and the ’burnout sets’ are the only things keeping his heart beating, but his internal frame is screaming under the pressure.

And as the bell for the end of Round 5 rings, Ryohei turns to head back to his corner. His gait is stiff, his arms heavy. He has out-boxed the champion for a full six minutes, yet it is Ryohei who looks like he’s on the verge of collapse.

“That’s the end of the fifth!” the commentator yells over the roar. “A spectacular performance by Yamada, but at what price? He looks absolutely spent, while Umemoto… Umemoto looks like he’s just getting started. This is the terrifying reality of fighting a monster!”

In the red corner, Umemoto spits blood and glares, his swollen face forming a predatory grin. “Let him have his points,” he growls. “By the next round, he won’t even have the strength to keep his hands up.”

In the blue corner, the situation is dire. Sera works feverishly, pressing an Enswell against Ryohei’s bruised ribs while barking words of encouragement, trying to keep Ryohei’s morale from sinking into the abyss of exhaustion.

“Listen to me, Ryohei! You’re winning! You’ve swept the last three rounds! Just stay mobile. Three more flurries, then move. All powerful blows come from the feet. Don’t let him set his feet! You get me?”

Ryohei nods, the movement heavy and slow. He takes the words in, trying to anchor his mind to Sera’s voice, but the fatigue is a physical weight, a thick fog that refuses to lift.

The accumulated damage feels like lead in his veins. He wants to believe he can keep moving, but his legs tell a different story.

High in the stands, a pair of sharp eyes watches the ring with a haunting familiarity. It’s Shoji Hamakawa, the former champion whom Umemoto dethroned in 2016.

He knows exactly what Ryohei is feeling right now, the suffocating sensation of winning the boxing match but losing the fight for survival.

“I was there once,” Hamakawa thinks, his jaw tightening. “I dominated him for seven rounds. I was the better technician, the faster man. But it wasn’t enough.”

He remembers the exact moment his own technique crumbled under the weight of Umemoto’s monstrous strength and that wild predatory instinct that defies every rule of the sport.

Technique alone will never be enough to put that man down.

You can never beat him without shedding every last weakness from your skin.

You have to become as much of a monster as he is.