VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Aramaki wastes no time. He turns and walks straight to the neutral corner as the referee resumes the count.

Three!

Four!

Five!

Six!

Seven!

Cortez forces himself up before the next number can come.

The lead commentator exhales sharply, leaning forward in his seat. “He got up… but that was a fast count to beat. That knockdown clearly shook him.”

The referee steps in immediately, stopping the count at eight, hands gripping Cortez’s gloves as he studies his face.

“Are you okay?”

Cortez nods, drawing in a deep breath that doesn’t quite fill his lungs the way it should.

“I’m fine. I can still go.”

The second commentator keeps his eyes on Cortez, then lets out a small breath. “It wouldn’t be a great look if this ends here… not even two minutes into the first round.”

A faint chuckle slips into his voice as he adds, “The crowd definitely paid to see a bit more than that.”

The referee watches him for another second, then steps back and gestures between them.

“Box!”

Aramaki pushes off the neutral corner, but he doesn’t rush in. His eyes stay fixed on Cortez, reading him; his expression, the sharpness in his gaze, the uneven rhythm in his breathing, the subtle instability in his stance.

The lead commentator lowers his voice slightly, watching closely. “Aramaki’s taking his time, reading everything before he moves.”

Cortez’s arrogance from before is gone. What remains is something tighter, harsher. But the damage is there. Every inhale carries a slight hitch, and his legs no longer look as certain beneath him.

Enough with the examination, Aramaki steps forward with a long stride.

Cortez gives ground immediately, relying on his reach as he snaps out two jabs followed by a right cross. The jabs land against Aramaki’s guard with dull thuds…

Dug. Dug.

…but when the right hand comes through, Aramaki dips under it cleanly, pivoting as his right foot widens to change the angle before sliding his left foot forward again to close the distance.

Cortez retreats again, and this time, his back meets the ropes. There’s no more room behind him, and his legs aren’t in condition for a sharp escape.

So he does the only thing he can: keeps Aramaki at range.

Jabs fire out one after another, sharp and insistent, using every bit of his reach to maintain distance.

The lead commentator leans forward, voice tightening slightly. “He’s trying to control the distance with his jab, but his legs aren’t giving him much room to work with.”

The second commentator nods, watching the exchange closely. “He’s stuck managing the space instead of dictating it.”

Aramaki can’t touch him from that distance, and he knows it. But instead of stretching himself to match the distance, he compresses. His stance tightens, lowering his center of gravity.

Both gloves tuck neatly under his jaw as his frame becomes compact and controlled. His head and torso move in small, efficient slips, letting punches glance off guard and shoulders.

But his feet never stop advancing, even just a tiny slide after a tiny slide. It looks defensive, but it isn’t retreat.

Cortez notices the shift and adjusts, dropping his aim slightly, targeting the chest to force him back.

“Keep coming, brat!”

Two jabs, a cross, then a lead hook snap out in sequence, drumming against guard, forearms, and upper arms.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

The impacts halts Aramaki for a moment, just enough to interrupt his advance, but not enough to push him away.

For once, he tries to reach, flicking out a probing jab that falls short, brushing harmlessly against Cortez’s forearm.

“What was that?” Cortez scoffs, firing back with a sharp on-two.

Dug. Dug.

Cortez keeps talking, even now, even in his situation.

“Can’t you reach me?”

But in the flow of his words, there’s a pattern; a slight emphasis at the end, a breath that sharpens just before he throws.

“Just come deeper then!”

There’s a clear intent in him to send something big. Aramaki feels it, and again, he adjusts. He straightens just a little, raising his head position up into a more visible line.

Cortez shifts his lead foot and commits, driving a right hand toward that opening. But Aramaki dips underneath it, the punch cutting through empty air above him with a sharp whisper.

Zrrf!

From that lowered position, Aramaki coils tightly, and then springs forward in one fluid motion, launching a gazelle punch with his left hand.

Cortez reads it. The motion is clear, the trajectory obvious.

“Hitting me with a telegraph punch?”

“What a simpleton…”

He brings his right hand back in time and blocks. But the impact still crashes through his frame…

BAM!!!

…heavy enough to knock him off balance for a split second. And that’s all Aramaki needs. He’s already inside, slipping low under Cortez’s chest.

“That’s it… he’s inside now! Aramaki finally breaks through!”

“And this is where it gets dangerous…”

There’s no pause, no hesitation. Two short punches dig into the body in quick succession, fast and compact rather than heavy.

Bugh! Bugh!

They land clean, and Cortez’s body reacts immediately. His torso bends, his breath catching, his guard dipping instinctively to protect the midsection.

The opening is small, but it’s there. And Aramaki takes it.

BAM!!!

A left hook drives into the side with full commitment.

The lead commentator bursts out, unable to hold it in. “Woohoho! That dug in deep!”

The crowd reacts instantly, gasps mixing with loud shouts as people rise from their seats, the sound swelling with excitement at the sudden shift.

The impact folds Cortez again, sharper this time, his face tightening as the color drains from it.

“What kind of punch is this…?”

His legs weaken under him. Before he falls, he quickly grabs onto Aramaki, pulling him into a clinch just to stay upright.

The second commentator leans forward, voice quickening. “He’s trying to grab on… he needs that clinch right now!”

But even that hold lacks strength. Aramaki drops lower still, slipping beneath the attempt, and drives another body shot straight into the midsection.

BUGH!

The blow lands hard, and whatever air Cortez managed to recover disappears again.

The lead commentator shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “Not even the clinch can save him. Aramaki’s still breaking through!”

Cortez’s cheeks puff, his expression twisting as the pain overwhelms him.

“How could he hit this hard…?”

“Someone… go check his gloves…”

The clinch loosens further. His grip fails completely. Aramaki feels it immediately and shoves him forward.

Cortez stumbles back into the ropes, and the rebound sends him forward again, right into range.

Aramaki is already there, waiting, with a short right hook arcing toward the head.

Cortez sees it. His vision is clear, his mind still sharp enough to understand exactly what’s coming. But his body doesn’t respond. It doesn’t listen.

For the first time in his career, there’s something unfamiliar rising in him.

For the first time in his career, he knows fear.

“Mom… I fought a monster…”

BAM!!!

At the same time, the arena erupts, then collapses into a massive collective gasp, thousands of voices pulling in air all at once as the punch lands clean.

The lead commentator bursts out, voice cracking with excitement. “Oh! That’s it… he walked right into it!”

The second commentator shouts over him, unable to hold back. “He can’t react! He’s completely gone!”

Cortez’s head snaps back, his body slamming into the ropes before collapsing forward, all resistance gone.

Blublugh!

Less than ten seconds remain in the round, but Nicola Cortez is down for the second time. No grin, no more arrogance.

His stare is empty, his jaw slack against the canvas, drool spilling from his mouth, making him look both ridiculous and pitiful at the same time.

The referee steps in, taking only a brief glance at Cortez’s condition, and that’s enough. He doesn’t even bother with the count. His arms wave across the air, sharp and decisive.

The lead commentator’s voice bursts out immediately. “That’s it! The referee’s seen enough!”

The second commentator follows right after, almost talking over him. “He’s waved it off. This fight is over!”

The silence that has gripped the arena shatters instantly. A surge of noise crashes from every direction. Cortez’s supporters erupt in frustration, boos and shouts spilling out in disbelief. But it’s drowned just as quickly by something else.

The neutral crowd, however, rises to their feet, swept up by what they’ve just witnessed.

ARA-MAKI!

ARA-MAKI!

ARA-MAKI!

The chant builds fast, louder with every repetition, filling the arena with a rhythm of its own.

At the center of it all, Aramaki stands still. He blinks, shoulders rising slightly as he looks around, trying to make sense of the noise.

The faces, the voices, the energy, it all feels distant for a moment, unreal. This is his first fight outside Japan. And somehow, he’s turned an entire arena his way.

The lead commentator can’t hold back, his voice rising over the roar. “What a statement! A first-round knockout in his international debut, Aramaki has just announced himself in the most brutal way possible!”

The second commentator lets out a breath, still stunned. “That wasn’t just a win. That was a takeover. One round, and he’s already shaken this entire arena.”