VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In the blue corner, the corner team moves in quickly as Kenta settles onto the stool. The atmosphere here is more contained compared to the roar outside, but the urgency is clear in every movement.

Hiroshi is already tending to him, pressing a cold compress carefully against the cheekbone where the swelling has begun to form. It is still early in the fight, only one round completed, yet there are already visible marks on his face, a faint discoloration spreading beneath the skin and a thin trace of blood resting at the edge of his lower lip.

It is not serious damage, nothing that threatens the fight at this stage. But it is enough to reflect how heavily that round had gone against him.

Kurogane steps in, unscrewing a bottle of water and holding it out for Kenta to rinse. The gesture is simple and routine, something done countless times in countless corners.

Yet Kenta does not react immediately. He remains seated with his gaze lowered, not focused on anything in particular, his expression distant in a way that does not quite match the physical condition of his body.

His breathing has already begun to stabilize, but there is a stillness in him that feels slightly delayed, as though his awareness has not fully returned from the ring.

Kurogane holds the bottle there for a moment longer before speaking.

“Kenta. Rinse.”

There is a short pause before Kenta finally reaches out and takes it. Instead of bringing it to his mouth to rinse properly, he actually drinks from it. Nakahara notices and immediately pulls the bottle away before he takes too much.

“Why are you drinking it?”

Kenta blinks, as if the question takes a moment to reach him.

“Ah… sorry… I…”

His words fade before they form properly, and for a brief moment it becomes clear that his attention is not fully anchored in the present.

Kurogane exhales through his nose, half amused, half dismissive. “What, are you that thirsty already? It’s only one round.”

That comment seems to pull Kenta slightly back into himself. His posture shifts, and he begins to reassess his own condition.

His hands lift subtly in front of him, and only now does he realize the tremor from earlier is gone. His breathing has steadied completely, and what remains is only the lingering pain from the shots he absorbed, spread across his face and shoulder.

He lets out a quiet breath. “No… I’m fine.”

But after a short silence, his gaze lowers again, and his voice comes out more subdued.

“But he really beat me up in there.”

He pauses, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

“I tried everything. Feints, looking for openings, forcing exchanges, even clinching. Nothing worked. He didn’t stop attacking me. Never stop.”

Nakahara watches him for a moment before responding, his tone remaining steady.

“Is that so.”

It is not a question, nor agreement, but something in between that causes Kenta to look up slightly. There is a faint shift in his expression, a hint of confusion as though what he experienced does not align with how it is being described.

Nakahara continues after a brief pause. “You felt like he didn’t stop attacking for the entire three minutes?”

Kenta blinks a few times, processing it now from a different angle. The idea begins to feel less certain. Because sustaining that level of constant pressure without any break should not be possible, not even for someone like Dela Cruz. The energy cost alone would be too high this early in the fight.

But from his perspective inside the ring, it had felt continuous, relentless, as if there had been no space at all to breathe or reset.

“…Was it not like that?” Kenta asks.

Nakahara shakes his head slightly. “You were under pressure for the full three minutes. That part is correct. But that doesn’t mean he was attacking without stopping. He takes breaks, short ones, controlled, just enough to reset without giving you the impression of space.”

Kenta’s eyes narrow slightly as he listens. And gradually, the structure of it becomes clearer.

“But the moment you feel like there is room to breathe,” Nakahara continues, “he steps back in again. From your side, it may feel like he never stops. But in reality, he is choosing exactly when to apply pressure, and when to ease it off.”

The realization sinks in. It is not constant aggression, but controlled timing. And that distinction makes it more difficult than it first appeared.

Understanding it now does not bring Kenta any relief. In fact, the fear resurfaces. For someone to apply that level of measured pressure, it means the champion is not just reacting to the fight, but reading it in real time, reading him even while attacking.

From the videos Kenta had watched, Dela Cruz had always looked like a fighter who simply overwhelmed opponents with relentless aggression. But now, inside the ring, he understands there is something else beneath it.

Within that tight rhythm, there is calculation. And within that calculation, there’s a quiet psychological pressure that never truly lets go.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, speaking almost to himself. “It feels like I’m always several steps behind. And the more I try to force my mind into finding a solution, the further behind I fall.”

“I’ve already told you,” Nakahara says, “don’t overcomplicate it. I’m prepared for you to lose the round, as long as you use it to get used to his pace. But you didn’t listen, and you went in there fighting in confusion. You didn’t just lose the round. You lost yourself in it.”

Kenta falls silent, his gaze dropping even lower before he speaks again. “For a moment, I just wanted him to finish me off properly… so I wouldn’t have to keep fighting him anymore. I thought there was absolutely no chance for me to win this.”

Nakahara’s expression tightens slightly. It is clear he does not like what he is hearing. He comes closer, fixing Kenta with a steady, unflinching stare.

“Listen,” he begins. “We came into this fight fully aware that the champion is far beyond your current level. But I would never let you step into a fight where there is truly no chance at all. There is still a lot in you that you haven’t shown yet. The problem is not that you cannot handle him. He is not allowing you to settle into your own fight.”

Kenta looks up slightly. “Then what am I supposed to do now?” he asks. “If you do not want me overthinking in there, then give me something simple. Something I can hold onto for the next three minutes.”

“Just get used to the pressure first,” Nakahara replies. “Use your pendulum step if you have to. Slow his rhythm down where you can, but do not overreach, and do not open yourself up trying to force anything. Your job right now is not to win exchanges. It is to interrupt his rhythm without giving him clean counters.”

He pauses briefly before continuing. “And I will say it again. It is fine to lose another round. Do not let it break you just because you cannot land anything in the next three minutes. You understand me?”

Suddenly, the official’s voice cuts through the corner with final authority, snapping the atmosphere back into the rhythm of the fight.

“Seconds out!”

Nakahara doesn’t hesitate. He gives a small, firm gesture toward his team.

Kenta rises from the stool, pushing himself up with slow control. His gloves remain on as he straightens, shoulders heavy but stable, eyes still lowered for a brief moment as if he is pulling himself back into the present.

The moment he is fully up, Okabe moves in and pulls the stool back, clearing space behind him. Hiroshi follows right after, lifting the bucket and water bottle, stepping away with practiced efficiency as the corner begins to dissolve around Kenta.

Nakahara remains the last one near him, watching closely for a second longer before stepping away from the apron. Behind him, Kurogane hesitates just slightly, then follows.

As they leave, Kurogane leans in toward Nakahara and lowers his voice.

“Is that it?” he asks quietly. “You don’t really have any strategy to help him?”

“What he needs right now is not strategy,” Nakahara says calmly. “He is on the brink of mental collapse. The moment he walked back to the corner, I saw a man who already looked defeated.”

A brief pause lingers, swallowed by the rising noise of the arena beyond, as the crowd’s anticipation sharpens and the short interval between rounds feels tighter with every passing second.

“Strategy means nothing when there is no fire left to apply it,” Nakahara continues. “And I cannot give him illusions just to keep him standing. If I force him into some fantasy solution now, he will only break again the moment things get difficult.”

His gaze sharpens slightly. “He needs to survive the next round without thinking about quitting. That is all. If he can do that, then we can start rebuilding him later.”