VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

But before he can lift that leg, the bell rings first. The sharp sound slices through the tension just as Thanid’s weight begins to shift forward.

DING!

The referee reacts instantly, stepping between them with both hands raised, pushing Ryoma backward while turning his body slightly to shield the challenger from any final follow-up.

“Break! Break! That’s the bell!”

Ryoma stops without protest. His gloves lower a little as he exhales through his nose, the adrenaline from the exchange still humming through his muscles.

For a second he studies Thanid’s hunched posture, the way the challenger is still trying to steady his breathing after the body assault.

Then Ryoma tilts his head slightly. “You could just drop already,” he mutters, voice low but clear enough to carry the short distance between them.

Thanid’s eyes lift. Ryoma rolls his shoulder as if loosening the joint after a long training session.

“This is getting boring,” he adds coldly. “Let me finish this and go home.”

There is no theatrical malice in the words. His tone carries more irritation than arrogance, like a fighter frustrated that the expected ending refuses to arrive.

The thought circling in his mind has nothing to do with humiliating the challenger. It’s the bet with Ryohei. The wager has been sitting in the back of his head since the fight began, quietly measuring the progress of every round.

Ryoma clicks his tongue under his breath, and turns away.

“Tch… stubborn bastard.”

He begins walking toward his corner, already wiping sweat from his cheek with the back of his glove.

At the commentary desk, the analyst is already midway through his breakdown, replaying the closing sequence in his mind as the fighters separate.

“That last minute really showed the difference in control,” he says, his voice steady over the lingering roar of the crowd. “Ryoma set the tempo, opened the guard with those small manipulations, and that liver shot completely changed the dynamic…”

The lead commentator suddenly cuts in, his tone sharpening. “Hold on a second… did you catch that?”

The analyst blinks. “Catch what?”

“Ryoma just said something to Thanid before walking away.” The lead commentator leans slightly closer to the monitor, replaying the moment in his head. “Looked like he told him the fight was getting boring… and that he should just go down already so he can go home.”

A short pause follows. Then the analyst lets out a quiet breath. “Well… that’s one way to look at it.”

“Confidence from the champion,” the lead commentator continues, half amused, half astonished. “He’s four rounds in against a dangerous challenger and he’s talking like he’s finishing a sparring session.”

“And honestly,” the analyst replies, “the way he controlled that last minute, you can almost see why he feels that comfortable.”

***

Meanwhile, Thanid remains near the ropes for a moment longer.

You could just drop already.

The words sink in slowly, and it burns his hatred even hotter.

For four rounds he has been chasing a man who refuses to stay in front of him. Every attempt to assert pressure has been met with slipping shoulders, drifting footwork, and those infuriating manipulations of his guard; gloves nudging his arms out of place by inches, opening small windows that Ryoma immediately punishes.

Not once has he landed clean. Not once has he forced the champion into a real exchange. And that struggle alone is much harder for him to accept than all the blows he received so far.

His chest rises and falls as he draws in a slow breath. Outwardly, it might look like fatigue. Inside, something much uglier is beginning to surface.

Ryoma’s back is still visible as the champion heads toward his corner. And for a fleeting moment, Thanid imagines stepping forward and driving the point of his elbow straight down into the crown of that head.

The image flashes vividly in his mind. His toes press lightly into the canvas.

But then the referee’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Thanid.”

The official turns back to him, stepping closer, his tone firm.

“It’s the bell. Go back to your corner.”

Thanid blinks once, and the violent impulse dissolving just enough for reality to return.

Slowly, he turns away and walks toward his corner. But the storm building behind his eyes has not settled.

***

The blue corner bursts into motion the moment Thanid drops onto the stool. His team closes in immediately.

A towel is draped over his shoulders while the cutman presses an ice pack against the side of his jaw, right where Ryoma’s hook snapped his head earlier.

Another cornerman leans in with petroleum jelly, thumbs working quickly along the swelling beneath Thanid’s cheekbone to keep the skin from splitting under the next exchange.

“Hold still… hold still,” the cutman mutters, smoothing the layer across the reddening skin.

Thanid sits upright, breathing steadily through his nose. From the outside he still looks strong, shoulders wide, chest rising and falling in controlled rhythm.

But the marks are there now. A faint redness spreads across his cheek where the counters landed clean. The skin near his temple has begun to darken beneath the harsh white lights of the arena.

Meanwhile another member of the team crouches beside him, already pressing a cold compress against the left side of his ribs. Thanid’s abdominal muscles tighten instinctively.

“Relax it,” the man tells him. “Breathe. Don’t lock up.”

He presses the compress harder into the spot where the liver shot landed moments ago. Another pair of hands begins rubbing along the midsection, working the muscles to keep them from stiffening.

Nothing obvious shows through the sweat and trunks, but the corner knows exactly what Ryoma did to him.

Thanid still feels the pain. But his face remains flat and cold, as his gaze locked on Ryoma’s irritated face.

Then a familiar voice pushes through the cluster of bodies.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Kiet Anurak leans forward in front of the stool, his eyes steady as they lock onto Thanid’s.

“You’re still strong,” he says firmly. “He hasn’t broken you.”

Thanid’s breathing slows a fraction as he flicks his gaze on him.

“He’s touching you, that’s all,” Kiet continues. “But he can’t stop you from coming forward. You feel that? Your legs are still there.”

Preecha Lawson comes to Thanid’s side, trying to keep the fighter’s morals high. “You’re taking his best shots and you’re still here. I can see it now, he’s getting impatient. Sooner or later he’ll lose his cool and start making mistakes.”

Kiet then taps twice on Thanid’s chest. “He’s right. So don’t rush, and don’t chase his rhythm. Just walk him down.”

Thanid still says nothing, and his expression doesn’t change. Slowly, he shifts his eyes past the ropes, looking across the ring toward the red corner where Ryoma has already taken his seat.

The bruises on his face are beginning to show now. But the real damage sits deeper than that.

Thanid Kouthai did not build his reputation inside the polite boundaries of boxing alone. Before this ring, there were other rings, ones where elbows split skin and knees folded bodies in half.

Violence there was direct and instinctive, and the fighters who survived learned to answer humiliation with something far more brutal.

Tonight, being controlled like this gnaws at that instinct. Being worked over, pinned to the ropes, and dismantled in front of thousands of people makes the anger swell in his chest until it becomes difficult to contain.

Winning the belt barely enters his thoughts now. What he wants is simpler, to hurt the man who just walked away from him.

At the commentary desk, however, the mood follows a completely different current.

“I’ve got to say,” the analyst begins while the replay rolls across the screen, “this fight has everything tonight. The pace, the adjustments, the body work. It’s electric in here.”

The lead commentator chuckles softly. “That’s the Ryoma effect. It’s been like this every time he steps into the ring. People come in with huge expectations… and somehow he keeps meeting them. Sometimes he even surpasses them.”

“And the surprises never stop,” the analyst adds. “Everyone knows him as the ’Chameleon’ because he can mirror his opponent’s style. But tonight… seeing him spend this much time in southpaw?”

“Yeah,” the lead commentator agrees. “That one caught a lot of people off guard.”

All around them, Yoyogi Gymnasium continues to buzz with excitement. The crowd is still riding the adrenaline from the last round, cheering and arguing over every clean shot.

For them, the fight is thrilling, a spectacle, a display of skill between two elite fighters. None of them notice the darker current simmering quietly inside the blue corner.

Their excitement, their joy, the electric atmosphere filling the arena, all of it remains blissfully unaware of the beast slowly pushing its way to the surface inside Thanid’s mind.

At least, the WBC champion Celeb Mercer, clearly recognizes the look in Thanid’s face.

He leans back in his seat, one arm resting casually over the back of the chair as he watches the blue corner with a faint smile.

“Look at that face,” Mercer mutters to the manager seated beside him. “That’s not the face of a man trying to win a fight.”

His eyes remain fixed on Thanid. “That’s the face of a beast trying to survive natural selection.”

The manager glances toward the ring, squinting as if trying to see what Mercer sees. After a moment, he shrugs with a crooked smirk.

“Come on, Mercer,” he says. “This is a boxing match, not some geographic channel.”

***

And just like Mercer, Ryoma notices it too.

He has been watching Thanid closely from across the ring, his eyes have lingered on Thanid’s mouth, studying the subtle movements of the lips.

But Thanid hasn’t said a single word, not once. And yet something about the challenger’s face tells him something deeper.

The eyes, once focused and disciplined, now carry a colder weight behind them. It isn’t panic, isn’t fear either. It is something else entirely.

Ryoma exhales slowly through his nose as he studies that look. Then somewhere in the quiet corner of his mind, the familiar presence stirs again.

A low chuckle curls through his thoughts.

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The voice sounds amused.

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The whisper coils around his thoughts, savoring the moment.

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The voice lingers for a moment before adding, almost teasingly.

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