VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The bell for round two rings, and Thanid leaves his corner with the same composed confidence of a seasoned veteran. The first round seems to have done little to his morale.

He has faced technical fighters before, and more often than not he has found ways to break them down. One round of being measured does not disturb him.

“And here we go, round two underway!” the lead commentator calls out, voice rising with fresh energy. “The challenger walks straight back to center ring like nothing happened in the first.”

Thanid anchors himself near the center of the ring exactly as he did at the start of the fight. This time, however, both arms extend forward in a long, probing guard reminiscent of his kickboxing background.

His ribs appear open. His head seems temptingly available. The posture looks careless at first glance, but there is calculation in it.

“Come on, boy! Come throw your best punch.”

Across from him, Ryoma steps out with lingering impatience shadowing his expression. The wager presses at the back of his mind.

If he wants to win the bet, he cannot simply outbox Thanid. He must build real damage, round by round, and accelerate the pace when opportunity appears.

When he notices the exposed ribs, he decides not to hesitate.

“Let’s build some damage first.”

This time he moves with the Soviet rhythm, light and balanced, stepping in behind a lazy, slapping left before snapping a short lead hook and drifting back out.

Nothing lands cleanly. Thanid’s extended arms disrupt the entries, forming a shifting barrier that absorbs and deflects the shots before they reach their intended targets.

Ryoma adjusts without pause. He shifts laterally with a smooth pendulum step and chains a fuller combination: a jab and cross driven toward the midline, then a dip to his left to send a hook digging into the ribs.

Thud!

The impact thuds solidly against Thanid’s side.

Thanid accepts the body work without visible complaint. Instead of yielding ground, he uses the moment to close distance, stepping in behind a jab aimed at the head.

Ryoma slips to the outside, ready to counter. But Thanid does not bring his left hand back to guard. He leaves it extended.

As Ryoma whips a left toward the temple, Thanid’s open glove presses across his face, obstructing his vision just enough to distort the line of attack while his own head shifts subtly off center.

The counter still lands…

Dsh!

…but at a poor angle, grazing the temple rather than striking it clean.

In the same motion, Thanid steps deep and wraps his right arm around the back of Ryoma’s neck, drawing him into a tight clinch.

His right holds the back of Ryoma’s neck, while his left forearm settles across Ryoma’s face, applying steady, grinding pressure around the eyes.

It is not a blatant foul, not something dramatic enough to draw immediate warning, but it is invasive and deliberate.

Ryoma sneaks in small punch to the side…

Thud!

But Thanid simply presses his left glove on Ryoma’s face harder, grinding down until it suffocates him on the nose and mouth.

Chest to chest, weight leaning, breath hot and controlled, Thanid begins to smother the rhythm Ryoma relies on, turning the exchange from a contest of precision into one of discomfort and patience.

The referee steps in quickly, slapping against Thanid’s right arm.

“Break! Break!”

Thanid does not release at once. He keeps the hold just a fraction longer than necessary, leaning his weight while subtly pulling Ryoma in, forcing him to carry the load.

“That’s enough, Thanid!” the referee insists, wedging himself between them and prying the arms apart. “Let him go!”

Only then does Thanid release. Nearly five seconds bleed off the clock in that single exchange.

“Box!”

They return to center ring.

Thanid resets with those extended arms again, long and intrusive, occupying space before Ryoma can. The champion must build his opening from the beginning once more.

Ryoma circles, feints, shifts his angle with a pendulum step. After several probing attempts, he finally threads a shot through the narrow gap and drives a clean punch under the armpit, into the exposed side of the body.

Thud!

It’s another solid connection.

But he cannot follow up. Thanid immediately kills the distance again, stepping in behind a jab that falls short but serves its purpose.

The left hand stays extended, palm pressing across Ryoma’s face, smothering his line of sight.

Ryoma fires inside the pocket anyway, relying on instinct, but the obstructed vision robs the punch of alignment. It skims at an awkward angle.

Again, Thanid wraps him up immediately, arms locking tight before Ryoma can extend another strike.

This time the crowd does not stay quiet. A surge of noise erupts from the stands, sharp and heated.

“Let him go!”

“Stop holding!”

“Fight properly!”

The words are in Japanese, and Thanid cannot understand them, but the hostility in their voices needs no translation.

This time Ryoma tries to pull his head free before the clinch settles, but Thanid adjusts quickly. His forearm slides against Ryoma’s neck, applying downward pressure while his torso leans heavily against him.

It is not dramatic, not obvious enough to draw a warning, yet it grinds and suffocates all the same.

“Thanid’s making this ugly now,” the lead commentator says, tone shifting from excitement to analysis. “He felt the difference in skill in the first round, and decides to rely on clinch.”

The analyst nods. “Exactly. He knows he’s not winning the clean exchanges. So he’s dragging Ryoma into his kind of fight; short, physical, suffocating. Kill the rhythm, kill the timing.”

The referee steps in again to separate them, and again, Thanid keeps the clinch longer, this time rubbing his own forehead on Ryoma’s face.

“Nearly two minutes into round two,” the lead commentator continues, “and not much clean action so far. The pace has slowed dramatically.”

“Yes,” the analyst agrees. “Ryoma is still technically in control, better positioning, better accuracy. But Thanid is limiting his output. He’s cutting the volume down, forcing resets. That’s veteran adjustment.”

Ryoma’s rhythm fractures again. The tempo he carefully constructs dissolves into a wrestling of balance and patience. He is forced to endure the weight, the forearm pressing against his neck, the quiet erosion of momentum while waiting for the referee to intervene.

“Break! Break!” the referee calls once more, stepping in to separate them.

As they part, irritation flashes clearly across Ryoma’s face this time. He turns his head toward the referee, jaw tight.

“He’s holding and pushing the head,” Ryoma says sharply. “You see that, right?”

The referee gestures dismissively. “Keep fighting. Nothing illegal. Box.”

From the blue corner side of the arena, a cluster of Thanid’s supporters rise to their feet, shouting over the noise.

“Stop crying, kid! Just fight!”

“Quit complaining and throw your hands!”

“Don’t act like a princess just because this is your home crowd!”

Their words are drowned in boos from the local fans, but the intent is clear. They point toward Ryoma, laughing, clapping mockingly, trying to needle him from beyond the ropes.

Ryoma exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing. The answer does nothing to cool him. If anything, it confirms what he is beginning to feel.

He will get no help here. So he will have to solve this on his own.

***

The fight resumes, and this time Ryoma understands exactly what Thanid is trying to do. If the challenger wants to suffocate the rhythm, then he will meet him inside it.

He opens again with the Soviet rhythm, circling laterally, probing for the correct lane to enter. Once he finds it, he steps in decisively and anchors his feet in the pocket.

But now he lowers his center of gravity before Thanid can fully extend that obstructing left.

“Oh, he’s not staying long-range this time!” the lead commentator exclaims, excitement rising. “He’s choosing to fight inside!”

The analyst leans forward. “This could get chaotic. Both men are strong at close quarters. This is where it turns into a war.”

Ryoma no longer cares about vision. Instead, he builds the motion from his legs, twisting through his hips and driving a compact left hook toward the exposed side purely on instinct.

Thanid senses the weight transfer. He cancels the clinch attempt mid-motion and retracts his right arm sharply, tightening his guard along the ribs.

Dugh!

The punch crashes into the compact part at the bend of the arm. Ryoma feels it immediately. That is bone, not flesh.

And somehow, Thanid has already memorized the pattern. He knows Ryoma favors the repeated hook once he commits to that lane.

As expected, Ryoma swings again, trying to dig into the same pocket, and…

Dugh!

This time the knuckle strike the very tip of the elbow.

Ryoma’s breath catches. A flicker of pain twists across his face before he can hide it.

Thanid does not waste the moment. He steps in and clamps down, wrapping his left arm behind Ryoma’s neck and drawing him in tight, preventing escape.

The lead commentator lets out an audible grunt of frustration. “Oh, come on… not again.”

Leaning close, Thanid murmurs into Ryoma’s ear, voice low enough for only one man to hear.

“How does it feel?” A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “You like that?”