VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For a split second, Ryohei feels nothing but vibration. The impact travels up his arm like a shockwave, glove compressing, knuckles biting through padding.

Then the pain follows, crawling from his fist to his wrist.

His face tightens. “Damn… that hurts.”

In his entire career, he has never thrown a punch that heavy, not even in sparring, not even in anger. This one carried everything; weight, timing, promise.

At least, somewhere beneath the sting spreading through his knuckle, confidence settles in. He knows he’s already won this fight.

Before the referee even steps between them, Ryohei turns and walks calmly toward the neutral corner, raising neither hand nor voice. He doesn’t wait to be told.

“Down!” the referee shouts, pointing to the canvas as he moves toward Hamakawa.

The count doesn’t start immediately. The official kneels first, checking the fallen challenger’s eyes, gauging the reaction.

Ryohei barely hears it. He is staring at his right glove, flexing his fingers slightly, testing. And a dull throb pulses across the knuckle ridge.

A flicker of worry crosses his mind, worry of the same fate of Ryoma’s hand after the OPBF title fight against Jade McConnel.

Before he reaches the corner post, three sharp rings cut through the arena.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

And the arena detonates. A tidal wave of sound crashes down from every section; cheers, screams, chairs slamming, feet stomping. Neutral fans leap up from their seats. Towels whirl in the air.

“Oh my God!” the commentator shouts, voice breaking under the surge of noise. “He’s done it! Ryohei knocks down Hamakawa and the referee has seen enough!”

“That wasn’t luck,” the analyst says sharply. “That was constructed. He gave him that read. He widened the stance on purpose.”

Only one section remains silent. Hamakawa’s supporters stand stunned, hands half-raised, faces drained of color as they stare at their idol lying on the canvas.

Ryohei turns, and sees the referee already kneeling beside Hamakawa, one hand on his shoulder, speaking to him firmly.

Form the blue corner, Narisawa vaults onto the apron and rushes inside with the corner team, panic etched across their faces.

For a moment, Ryohei simply watches. Then the reality settles fully into his chest. He did it, finally defended the title.

He closes his eyes and raises his left fist in a tight guts pose, jaw clenched, right hand curled carefully despite the pain still humming beneath the skin.

A small, relieved smile breaks through the swelling on his face. When he opens his eyes again, they are already there; Sera, Murakami, and Hiroshi.

Hiroshi reaches him first, wild grin splitting his face. Like always, he couldn’t rein himself in, grabs Ryohei around the waist and lifts him off the ground.

“You did it, Ryohei!” he shouts. “You did it!”

Ryohei lets out a breathless laugh as he’s set back down.

“You defended the title against a former champion!” Hiroshi continues, voice cracking. “You answered every doubt!”

Sera and Murakami step in right behind, clapping him on the shoulders, their applause firm and proud.

“Well done,” Murakami says, nodding repeatedly.

Sera’s smile is small, but his eyes shine. “You carried it.”

Around them, thousands of neutral fans rise to their feet, applauding not just the knockout, but the performance.

“You did it, champ!”

“That’s real boxing!”

“You did it again, counter!”

“No one can call that lucky punch anymore!”

The arena glows under the lights, electric and satisfied, the kind of roar that only comes when a main event delivers exactly what it promised.

And standing there in the center of it, chest heaving, hand still throbbing, face bruised and swollen, Ryohei finally feels the weight lift from his shoulders.

It isn’t just the satisfaction of victory washing over him. It’s relief, deep and steady. He carried the burden of the main event.

He carried the expectations, the noise, and the doubt. And tonight, he delivered.

***

The screen rolls the sequence again in slow motion, the arena replay magnified across the giant display. The analyst leans forward, elbows on the desk, eyes fixed on the monitor.

“Look at this,” he says, voice tightening with clarity. “He widens the lead foot just half a step. That’s all. Hamakawa reads it as another entry cue and commits to the counter. But Ryohei pulls it back instantly, slips outside the line, and drives the right straight through the center.”

The replay freezes at the moment of impact, glove buried against cheek, sweat and a thin spray of red bursting under the lights.

Back in the locker room, Ryoma watches the same replay on a mounted flat screen. His face remains flat, but his knuckles itch.

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The punch lands again on the screen. This time Ryoma’s eyes don’t follow Hamakawa falling. They lock onto Ryohei’s face in the replay, the slight tightening after impact, the subtle flex of the right hand.

Anxiety creeps in, and Ryoma lowers his gaze to his own right knuckle.

He still doesn’t remember how he won that fight. He doesn’t remember breaking Jade McConnel’s ribs, nose, and chin. He only remembers waking up in a hospital bed afterward, his hand wrapped and throbbing.

Sure, the bone has healed months ago. But healed does not mean stronger now.

Sometimes there are moments when you must throw your very best punch to secure everything. And when that moment comes tonight, Ryoma isn’t sure if he has the nerve to release it.

Nakahara glances at him and immediately reads the tension. He walks over without a word, takes Ryoma’s right hand, and grips the knuckles firmly.

“Come,” he says calmly. “Gloves on. Start warming up.”

The doubt doesn’t vanish, but Ryoma nods. He pulls on his gloves, tightening the straps carefully.

Across the room, Kenta, Aramaki, and Okabe exchange quiet looks. There’s something unsettling about seeing someone like Ryoma hesitate. Pressure looks different when it is the Cruel King himself showing the doubt.

Nakahara raises the mitts, and Ryoma sets his stance.

“Light first.”

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Ryoma’s punches are controlled, measured. He exhales with each strike, eyes narrowing, mind focusing on the rhythm of the pads.

“Fifty percent upstairs,” Nakahara cues.

Ryoma snaps a clean one-two to head height, controlled and precise.

“Seventy on the sides.”

He rotates into the ribs-level mitt, adding torque but holding back just enough.

“Full on the midsection.”

This time the sound changes. A deeper thud as he drives through the center pad, weight transferring properly, careful alignment protecting the knuckles.

“Again!”

They repeat the sequence. And it doesn’t take long before the hesitation in Ryoma’s face fades, replaced by sharpened concentration. His breathing evens out. His eyes clear.

On the flat screen behind them, Ryohei now stands in the ring giving his speech, sweat still shining on his bruised face.

He thanks the crowd. He praises his opponent. And then he builds anticipation. He speaks about the new OPBF champion, about the next fight, about the thrill they shouldn’t miss.

The arena responds with excitement. But none of it reaches Ryoma’s ears. All he hears now is Nakahara.

“Don’t chase the head. Control the base.”

“Protect the right when you retract.”

“Bone meets bone if you’re careless.”

Ryoma adjusts instinctively, modulating power depending on the target; clean technique, efficient transfer, minimizing unnecessary impact when glove meets imagined hard bone as Thanid Kouthai’s frame already mapped in his mind.

The mitts snap again.

Pop. Thud. Pop.

The doubt is still somewhere deep inside him. But it no longer controls his hands.

What controlling him now is understanding, that even the best fighter doesn’t always throw their best weapon in each strike.

***

The mittwork gradually slows until Nakahara lowers his hands, though his attention never leaves Ryoma’s face. He watches the rhythm of his breathing settle before speaking again.

“There’s something important you need to remember about Thanid Kouthai,” he says evenly. “He always wears his trunks high, almost up to his belly button. When he tightens his guard, the top of that waistband lines up near the tip of his elbows.”

He raises the mitts briefly to demonstrate, forming a compact shell in front of his own face and torso.

“When he covers up, the belt line rises with his arms. From the outside it might look like there’s space to the liver, but there isn’t. What you’ll actually be hitting are his forearms and elbows.”

Ryoma listens without interrupting. He subtly flexes his right glove, aware of the implication.

“If you force the angle without precision,” Nakahara continues, “even your body shots will collide with bone. He’s used to that trade-off. He’ll let you punch into his guard if it means wearing down your hands.You should expect him to target your knuckles indirectly. He’ll invite you to damage yourself.”

Ryoma nods once. “I’ll take care of my hands. If the opening isn’t there, then I’ll create it.”

Nakahara studies him carefully before responding. “This will be the most dilemmatic fight you’ve had so far. You’ll constantly weigh power against preservation, patience against urgency.”

He rests a mitt lightly against Ryoma’s glove. “So keep your head cool at all times. No matter what you see, no matter what you feel.”