VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Even with that small shift in tempo, the fight still falls back into a familiar shape. Kenta finds himself driven to the ropes again, his back nearing the strands as Dela Cruz steps in with the same forward insistence.

The distance closes quickly, and once it does, the champion resumes his work without hesitation. The punches come in sequence, tight and direct.

Left, right, left, each one snapping straight through the center, forcing Kenta to bring his guard up and keep it there.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

A lead hook follows, short and controlled, then a right hand behind it, heavier, driving into the arms.

Dug. DUGH.

Another set comes immediately after, flowing into the next without any visible pause. Left, right, left again, the rhythm steady, as if it can be sustained indefinitely.

“It’s relentless from Dela Cruz. He’s not giving Moriyama a second to breathe here.”

“And look at the consistency. Same pressure, same forward drive. He just keeps stacking those punches.”

A heavier right hand crashes into Kenta’s guard at the end of the sequence, the impact thudding loudly against his forearms, forcing his posture to tighten even further. But Kenta holds.

Another sequence comes, just as compact, just as sharp. This time he meets it cleanly, gloves aligned, elbows tucked, his shoulders rolling slightly to take the edge off each shot. The defense is there, structured, far more composed than in the first round.

Still, it’s not perfect. A lead hook slips around the edge of his guard…

Dsh!

…catching him just enough to turn his head. And before he can fully adjust, a compact right drives into his chest…

BUGH!

…heavy and precise, folding slightly into his frame.

“He’s still breaking through. Even when Moriyama blocks most of it, something gets in.”

“And Dela Cruz doesn’t stop after that. He just keeps going. No opening to answer back.”

Inside the ring, that pressure continues to press down on Kenta, but there is something different in the way he carries it now.

He is still being forced back, still absorbing, still reacting. But the panic that had crept into him in the first round is no longer as sharp.

His guard stays disciplined. His breathing, while heavier, doesn’t spiral. His eyes remain fixed, not scattered.

The gap between two fighters is still there. That much is undeniable. But instead of resisting it outright, Kenta begins to accept it.

He’s better than me.

The thought comes without resistance this time, without the same weight of frustration that had accompanied it before.

So what do I do about it…?

He doesn’t try to answer immediately. He just accepts the reality for now, lets himself stay in the moment, letting the rhythm play out in front of him, letting the pressure exist without forcing a response too early.

And somehow, that shift in mindset changes something. He’s getting more patient, and starts to notice something.

Small details begin to surface through the noise of the exchange. The way Dela Cruz steps in. The way he finishes his combinations. The slight easing in his shoulders, the brief lift in his chest.

And then, it occurs more clearly to Kenta now; Dela Cruz takes a step back, not far, just enough to move out of immediate range. His gloves lower slightly, his shoulders loosening as he draws in a breath, sharper than the ones before it.

It’s quick, controlled, but it’s there.

Kenta sees it. But before he can fully decide what to do with it, their eyes meet, and in that instant, Dela Cruz steps forward again, trying to hide that small detail.

The pressure returns; a compact one-two snaps forward, clean and efficient.

Dug. Dug.

Then another short sequence follows after a reset, left-right-left, each punch tight, contained, not overextended.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

There’s a slight break, just a fraction of a second.

Then another one-two.

Dug. Dug.

Kenta raises his guard, meeting each shot, his movements smaller now, more economical, no wasted motion as he absorbs and redirects what he can.

“He’s holding up much better here. Moriyama’s not giving him anything clean this time.”

“But he’s still stuck there. Still on the ropes, still under pressure. He’s defending, yes. But he’s not getting anywhere out of this.”

“And even if those aren’t landing flush, they’re still taking something out of him. Just listen to the sound of those shots.”

“Exactly. Those are not light punches. That’s the champion. El Martillo. The Hammer. Every one of those is carrying weight, even on the guard.”

Dela Cruz steps back again. This time, he lifts his left hand slightly, a small wave, almost casual.

“Are you going to just stand there?”

The tone is light, almost teasing. But Kenta doesn’t bite; his guard stays where it is, his eyes fixed, watching.

“He’s still relentless…”

“But… it’s not the same every time…”

Dela Cruz doesn’t wait for a response. The taunt fades as quickly as it appears, replaced immediately by another forward step, another surge of motion.

This time, the combination stretches longer again.

Left, right, left, then flowing into a lead hook landing on the upper arm, then a right hand slamming a tight double guard.

Dug. Dug. Dug. DUGH. BAM.

There’s a slight reset, just enough to shift his feet, and then another left-right-left follows, ending with a stronger right that drives into Kenta’s guard again with force.

Dug. Dug. Dug. BAM.

Kenta doesn’t let any clean punch slip in this time. He’s reacting better now, even if still limited to defending.

And the impact still pins him in place, just for a moment, holding him there. It’s not long enough to finish, but long enough for Dela Cruz takes that space.

He steps back again, shoulders easing as he steadies his breathing, the motion subtle, almost hidden beneath the flow of the fight.

And then…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the exchange, sharp and immediate. The referee steps in at once, moving between them as the round comes to an end.

“What a second round,” the lead commentator says, the energy still carrying in his voice. “Dela Cruz just keeps that pressure on from start to finish.”

“He’s setting the pace completely,” the second adds. “Moriyama’s trying to adjust, but he’s still being forced to fight on the champion’s terms.”

Dela Cruz raises one glove briefly as he turns away, not in celebration, but in acknowledgment, his breathing already steadying as he walks back toward his corner.

There is no visible strain in him, no clear sign of fatigue. He has already taken enough of his breath before the bell, smoothing it out in those brief resets. Whatever exhaustion lingers now is kept well beneath the surface, fading further with each steady step he takes back to the corner.

Meanwhile, Kenta doesn’t move right away. He doesn’t walk back to the corner looking defeated like in the previous round.

His eyes stay on the champion’s back for a moment longer, following him, studying him.

The champion has made clearly enough how strong he is, and how well he hides any signs of fatigue, like that long pressure didn’t affect him.

The strength is real. The speed, the weight, the pressure, it’s all there. But now, there’s something else Kenta sees in him.

“He still needs to breathe.”

“Of course… he’s just a human like me.”

***

At ringside, Nakahara watches closely as the round ends, his eyes studying Kenta as he walks back toward him. And there is a subtle shift in the old man’s expression this time, something closer to quiet satisfaction.

In the first round, Kenta had walked back with his head lowered, his gaze empty, as if he had already accepted something he shouldn’t have. But now, even after absorbing another round of pressure, his eyes remain on Dela Cruz.

For Nakahara, that alone is enough. There is still fire in him, the will to keep going on.

“How does it feel?” Nakahara asks. “Did you catch something in him?”

Kenta sits first, his chest rising and falling as he steadies his breathing. The impact of the round still lingers across his body, in his arms, his shoulders, the dull ache in his chest where the punches had driven through.

He feels all of it; the ones he blocked, the ones that slipped through. But none of it shows on his face in any exaggerated way. As a boxer, getting hit is not something to question. It is something to accept.

“My mind hasn’t changed,” he says after a moment. “His level is still above me.”

He pauses briefly, then continues, his voice steadier now. “But at the end of the day… he’s still human.”

Nakahara gives a small nod, letting him continue.

“Just like you said,” Kenta adds, “he makes sure to take a short break. Even if it doesn’t look like it.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara replies calmly. “And if you miss that, it feels like he’s attacking nonstop. Like there’s no gap at all.”

Kenta exhales slowly through his nose, his breathing beginning to settle into a more controlled rhythm.

“But still…” he continues, “his breaks are shorter than anyone I’ve faced before.”

“And that’s exactly why he’s dangerous,” Nakahara says, picking up the thought without hesitation.

He comes closer, lowering himself into a crouch in front of Kenta, one hand resting lightly against his thigh, grounding the moment.

“But a short break is still a break,” he continues, his tone sharpening slightly. “And for someone like him… that moment matters even more. He doesn’t take long pauses. But everything he does is built around maintaining that pressure. So even the smallest gap becomes essential.”

His gaze narrows. “It’s a break he has to take,” he says.

“And if he doesn’t get it…” Kenta murmurs, “…his rhythm starts to fall apart. The way he takes that break… it decides how he comes back in.”

He shifts slightly on the stool, leaning forward just a fraction. “I saw it,” he says. “When he had a bit more time, he came back with longer combinations.”

His eyes sharpen, the memory still fresh. “But when I caught him mid-break… he ended it immediately. At the cost of it, he could only throw short combinations. Quick ones. Just enough to keep the pressure.”