VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

He sinks even lower into his crouch, almost exaggerated now, head weaving beneath the line of fire.

Wakabayashi keeps working behind the left hand, occasionally mixing in a straight right, but he is forced to punch downward toward the moving target.

Okabe absorbs or slips what he can, continuing to close the gap without offering return fire.

A full minute passes, then another, and the pattern remains the same. From the southern stands, irritation turns into open ridicule. Several supporters rise from their seats, cupping their hands around their mouths so their voices carry clearly toward the ring.

“What is that stance supposed to be?”

“You’re twenty-five, not some rookie trying new tricks!”

“Trying to reinvent yourself now? Too late for that!”

“Fight properly! Stop crawling around!”

Laughter ripples through the section as a few fans mimic his exaggerated crouch, bending forward in their seats.

To them, it looks desperate, as if a seasoned contender is suddenly experimenting on the biggest stage of his career.

Okabe hears the noise, but he keeps his head rocking beneath Wakabayashi’s jab, forcing himself to swallow the sting that has nothing to do with leather.

Do not get annoyed yet.

Be the annoying one.

The first round unfolds in that same cautious rhythm, and the pattern carries into the second. Okabe manages to throw only four tentative left hands during the opening exchanges, each of them falling short as Wakabayashi slides just outside range with efficient footwork.

Wakabayashi remains firmly in control, dictating distance and tempo while adding to his tally with crisp, well-placed jabs and occasional straight rights.

None of the punches are thrown with full commitment to damage; they are scoring shots, clean and technical, designed to accumulate points rather than inflict punishment.

From a tactical standpoint, he appears comfortable, steadily building an early advantage while denying Okabe any real foothold in the fight.

Despite controlling the fight, Wakabayashi’s patience begins to fray. There is a growing urge to plant his feet and land something heavier, something that will wipe away the stubborn crouch in front of him.

In the last minute of the second round, he slows his circling and speaks just loud enough for Okabe to hear.

“What is this? Aren’t you going to fight me?”

Okabe scoffs without lifting his eyes. “Don’t act cocky. You haven’t done anything yourself.”

Wakabayashi’s lips curl, and he increases the tempo, firing tighter combinations while keeping his distance.

Okabe continues rocking beneath the punches, forcing the technician to compromise his preferred form by striking downward and adjusting constantly.

In the final ten seconds of the round, both Sera and Yoshizawa pound the canvas, urging urgency.

Wakabayashi responds by taking a calculated risk. He pivots his lead foot and commits to a sharper lead hook.

Okabe deliberately raises his head a fraction higher and leaves his left side slightly exposed. He then steps inside, and…

Thud!

Bugh!

The crowd gasps at the clean trade.

The blows land almost simultaneously. Wakabayashi’s hook digs into Okabe’s left ribs at the same instant that Okabe’s compact hook buries itself into Wakabayashi’s midsection.

“Oh! They both land to the body!” the first commentator shouts, his voice rising with the crowd.

“That was simultaneous,” the other adds quickly. “Neither man blinked there. Wakabayashi sat down on that hook, but Okabe answered right back.”

Wakabayashi is not fully prepared for the immediate follow-up. Okabe, who has anticipated the exchange, steps deeper into range and fires two short hooks in succession.

Dug. Thud!

The right thumps against the upper arm, while the left sneaks under the armpit and bites into the body.

Wakabayashi retreats quickly, snapping out three rapid jabs as he creates space. Okabe slips the first two, but the third clips his cheek.

Dsh!

And the bell rings to end the round.

The fighters separate and return to their corners, the tension between the two Tokyo gyms already thickening after a single measured but telling exchange.

As they sit on their stools, the commentators seize the pause.

“Another strong round for Wakabayashi,” the first analyst says. “He dictated the tempo again and landed the cleaner, more consistent shots.”

“I agree,” the other replies. “For most of that round, Okabe was still trying to work his way inside without throwing much. Wakabayashi was picking him off with the jab and keeping the fight where he wanted it.”

He pauses briefly before adding, “But those last ten seconds were interesting. That body exchange was the first time Okabe truly committed, and he didn’t look out of place there.”

“It only takes one opening to change momentum,” the first commentator notes. “If Okabe can build off that moment instead of just absorbing shots, this fight could tighten up quickly.”

***

The third round begins much like the first two, with Okabe resumes the same low, rocking posture. He dips and rolls beneath the left hand, edging forward with patient steps, reminding himself not to react to the sting each time leather brushes his cheek.

Wakabayashi’s jabs continue to score, light but precise, snapping Okabe’s head slightly from time to time, yet the overall rhythm remains unchanged.

However, the repetition begins to wear on Wakabayashi. Being forced to punch downward for nearly entire three rounds blunts his usual elegance.

He still controls the action and appears ahead on points, but there is a faint dissatisfaction in the way he exhales between combinations.

“This is ridiculous.”

Another jab glances off Okabe’s guard as the crouching figure keeps weaving forward.

“I didn’t come here for this kind of fight.”

He circles, exhales sharply, and watches Okabe dip again.

“I shouldn’t have accepted this.”

The irritation swells as the crowd noise blurs into the background.

“I’ve had enough of this.”

Finally, he plants his feet.

“Let’s just end it already.”

And that is when he commits to something bigger. When Okabe dips to his right, Wakabayashi commits to a heavier hook toward the exposed side.

The commitment creates the very opening Okabe has been waiting for. He braces for impact and steps in at the same time, driving a left uppercut upward from his crouch.

Thud!

Wakabayashi’s hook lands against the ribs, but…

Dp.

…the uppercut meets a prepared glove as Wakabayashi reads the trajectory and closes his guard just in time.

“You can’t fool me with the same thing twice.”

Okabe does not appear discouraged. The distance has closed, and that alone satisfies him.

They exchange hooks in tight quarters, both punches colliding against upper arms with dull force.

Bugh!

Bam!

They reel slightly from the impact. And Coach Narisawa’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Wakabayashi! Get out! Don’t engage!”

Wakabayashi obeys and pivots away. But Okabe swings a wide right hook as he retreats. The punch is telegraphed, almost reckless.

“He’s asking for a counter.”

Wakabayashi slips his head to the right, letting the hook sail past over his shoulder.

Yet Okabe does not withdraw the right arm. Instead, he allows it to drape across Wakabayashi’s shoulder as he steps in deeper, using the contact to anchor himself.

In the same motion, his left hand snaps across to the side of Wakabayashi’s head.

Bugh!

The shot lands flush against the ear. A sharp ringing floods Wakabayashi’s balance, and he instinctively grabs hold, pulling Okabe into a clinch to buy a second of clarity.

For a brawler, the clinch is not a pause but an opportunity. Okabe keeps working with short, grinding punches, digging his left into the body and sneaking compact shots toward the head.

Bugh! Bugh!

He lands twice before Wakabayashi manages to tie both arms securely.

The referee steps closer, preparing to intervene, but Okabe shrugs one arm free long enough to shove and create a sliver of space.

As the other arm loosens, he swings another looping hook. Wakabayashi tilts his head and the hook misses cleanly, but the pattern repeats.

Okabe’s right arm settles over the shoulder again, trapping him in place just as another left crashes into the ear.

Bugh!

Ngg….

The second shot rattles Wakabayashi more visibly, and his balance wavers as he stumbles half a step.

And this time the reaction from the crowd is different. The earlier laughter from the southern stands fades into a sharp collective intake of breath as Wakabayashi’s face twitched with anger.

Before Okabe throws another swing, the bell rings first, forcing separation.

“Another round that likely goes to Wakabayashi,” the first analyst says. “His footwork and jab controlled most of the action again. He dictated distance and landed the cleaner shots.”

“Yes,” the other agrees, “on balance, his elegance and rhythm are still winning him these rounds.”

There is a brief pause before he continues. “But look at his expression. He doesn’t look pleased at all. He’s far from happy.”

“And he has every reason to be annoyed,” the first commentator adds. “For the second time now, Okabe has managed to drag him into something messy in the final minute. It may not erase the earlier work, but it disrupts the rhythm and leaves a mark.”

Wakabayashi’s jaw is tight, and there is no attempt to disguise the irritation etched across his face. He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and exhales through his nose, frustration evident in the stiffness of his posture.

Right in front of him, Okabe allows himself a small, satisfied smirk before Sera motions him back to the stool.

Instead of turning away immediately, Okabe lingers close enough to drop the bomb just to annoy his opponent.

“For someone ranked fifth,” he says, “you hit pretty light.”

Only then does he step back toward his corner, leaving the words hanging between them as the tension follows.