VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

During the break after the third round, the arena feels subdued. Most of the VIPs lean toward their companions, gesturing toward the ring, showing plays on their phones, quietly discussing upcoming bouts and possible matchups.

“Did you see that last exchange?”

“Yeah. Good… but I thought they’d do better.”

“First ten-round undercard, my friend. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Their eyes flicker toward the fighters now and then, nodding, acknowledging the action, but their expressions remain composed, not disappointed, not excited either.

Up in the upper stands, the hardcore Wakabayashi fans continue their chants, small but persistent.

“Come on, Yasuhide!”

“Keep it up!”

“You are looking good tonight!”

They laugh and elbow each other, whispering observations and predictions, occasionally bringing up Okabe’s awkward posture and debating the strategy.

Elsewhere, casual spectators scroll through their phones, share amused commentary, and murmur complaints about Ryoma’s fight being delayed.

“How much longer?”

“I just want to see the main event.”

Laughter ripples around, conversations overlapping, yet the undercurrent of tension from the Tokyo gym rivalry keeps everyone attentive, if only in quiet anticipation.

In the red corner, Narisawa crouches on one knee before Wakabayashi, who sits rigid on his stool, jaw tight and eyes still flashing with irritation. Two assistant coaches remain on the apron behind the ropes, one dabbing sweat from Wakabayashi’s back with a towel, the other holding a bottle for rinsing.

“You don’t need to rush,” Narisawa says, voice calm. “Three rounds so far, all in our favor. You’ve dominated. Take a breath.”

Wakabayashi spits into the bucket and finally speaks, tone low and sharp. “How is he holding my head on one side and hitting the other? I can’t evade it. Twice, the referee just watches.”

“The ref watches because it’s legal,” Narisawa explains. “He doesn’t grip your head. After that right hook missed, he let his arm rest over your shoulder and stepped in with the left hook to your head.”

Wakabayashi blinks. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Narisawa nods. “Because his right arm is still there, your room to slip is limited. It lets him land the left hook.”

“Bloody bastard,” Wakabayashi mutters. “Since when does he know cheap tricks like that?”

“It’s not a cheap trick,” Narisawa replies. “It’s the same move Barrera used to stop Nashem Hamed’s slippery inside game.”

Wakabayashi’s eyes narrow, replaying the scenario in his mind. Now that he thinks about it, it’s damn effective, irritating, and infuriating. Twice his right ear stung, balance thrown off. And it gnaws at him that someone he once underestimated could master such a move.

“That’s why I warned you,” Narisawa continues, voice low and firm. “Keep the fight at range. He’s a brawler. Looks messy, but he has methods only fighters like him understand. Stay in your field. Stay clean. Don’t wade into the mud.”

***

On the blue corner, Okabe sits on his stool, breathing steady, muscles relaxed but alert. Sera stands nearby, arms crossed lightly, waiting for his fighter’s mind to settle without offering any new strategies. Hiroshi and Coach Murakami remain on the apron.

“Maybe we need to do something,” Murakami finally says, brows furrowed. “It’s already three rounds, and we’ve let him dictate the pace. The longer this goes, the better his form will get. Taking control later will be far harder.”

“Relax, Murakami-san,” Sera replies, calm and smiling. “It’s all part of the plan.”

“Three rounds down badly?” Murakami frowns, unsure. “And you said it’s part of your plan?”

Sera glances at Okabe, a small grin forming. “Normally, he’d be a wreck by now. Three rounds in, and his face would be toast. But look at how handsome he is. You’ve really improved, Okabe.”

“Really?” Okabe asks, voice low, almost hesitant.

“Really,” Sera nods.

Okabe bows his head, eyes narrowing. “For a while I doubted how far I’d come. I just focus, keep reminding myself not to react too easily, and to stay annoying. But… I can’t lie. That kid is slippery.”

Sera exhales quietly, steadying the air. “I’m not saying this is easy. You’ve lost the first three rounds. But it’s better than the old you. Ryoma’s strategy is your best option right now. You can’t compete with Wakabayashi on points, so forget that. Keep bothering him, don’t let him fight the way he wants. And when the chance comes, drag him into the mud… and drown him there.”

***

In the fourth round, Wakabayashi still controls the fight with his elegant footwork. His jabs and crosses are sharper now, and with his clever angle switches and little feints, he clips Okabe’s cheek a few times.

“Wakabayashi’s footwork is just… flawless right now!

“And those jabs! He’s picking Okabe apart, landing at will!”

But the dissatisfaction on Wakabayashi’s face doesn’t fade. Okabe stands a couple of centimeters shorter, and now with his hunched posture, Wakabayashi’s punches keep landing too low.

Wakabayashi doesn’t fully realize it, but his form isn’t his usual self. The discomfort, however, gnaws at him anyway.

With Okabe constantly ducking, rocking his head side to side, Wakabayashi’s instincts tell him he needs to adjust his angles.

And the optimal scenario is…

“Why don’t you eat this!”

…a low rear hook, aiming for Okabe’s head.

But Okabe simply lifts his head slightly, giving him a higher target. Then he ducks, shifts his lead foot a fraction forward, and slips inside.

And then…

Bugh!

A left drives deep into Wakabayashi’s stomach, the only clean shot Okabe lands after two minutes of the fourth round.

“Look at that! Okabe slips right inside… so smooth!”

“And that lead hook to the stomach. Clean and precise!”

Wakabayashi groans, swinging a left hook in return…

Dug.

…hitting only Okabe’s upper arm.

Still, it gives Wakabayashi the moment he needs to step back, reset, and return to controlling the fight with his jabs and elegant footwork. Annoyed, he ramps up the volume of his jabs.

“And he’s back! Wakabayashi turning up the heat, jabs flying faster than ever!”

“The crowd’s going wild. Listen to that roar! Wakabayashi’s asserting his dominance again!”

Okabe can’t get inside, and he can’t always block or dodge them all. But with his odd hunched stance, every jab lands on his forehead. It’s clean scoring punch after clean scoring punch, but none enough to make him flinch.

He even takes half a step back, straightens, and shrugs.

“Come on,” he taunts. “Hit me harder.”

He rolls his shoulder once, abd then casually veers sideways, as if baiting Wakabayashi to come forward.

“This isn’t an amateur fight anymore,” Okabe says. “You won’t get far just playing it safe like that.”

Both commentators freeze for a split second, eyes wide, mouths half-open, trying to process what they just saw.

“Wait… did he just shrug? And say ’hit me harder’? What is he even doing?”

“I have no idea… he’s barely doing anything this round, and he’s actually enjoying it! How is that even possible?!”

The round nears its last ten seconds. Sera slaps the apron, signaling Okabe to press and take a risk.

On the other side, Narisawa signals Wakabayashi to back off. “Do not engage, Wakabayashi,” he calls. “There’s no need to take any risk. Just secure this round.”

Wakabayashi follows orders, treating Okabe almost like a matador facing a mad bull. He throws nothing, and it prevents Okabe from running the same scenarios as the previous rounds.

Ding!

The bell rings, and Okabe halts his pursuit.

“Keep running like that, coward,” he taunts, turning away. “You fight a ninth-ranked boxer, yet you look scared as if facing a champion.”

Wakabayashi jaw tightens hardly. He wins the round dominantly, but his irritation is obvious.

“Just wait,” he mutters, turning his back. “If you still survive to the last round… I’ll smash that ugly face of yours until even your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”