VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Okabe is already in position before Kenta arrives, placing the stool carefully at the corner while the rest of the team climbs onto the apron behind him.

However, when Kenta reaches the corner, he does not sit. He slows just in front of the stool, then turns back toward the ring. His shoulders are rising and falling in a controlled rhythm as he steadies his breathing, his gaze remains fixed across the ring, locked onto Dela Cruz without wavering.

Nakahara slips through the ropes and immediately halts when he sees it. He studies Kenta for a brief moment, then raises his left hand just slightly, a quiet gesture that carries clear intent.

The others understand at once. Kurogane, Hiroshi, and Okabe stop where they are instead of stepping in. No one reaches for the stool, no one calls out instructions. They remain near the apron, watching him instead.

There is curiosity in their eyes, but also expectation, and beneath that, a trace of doubt mixed with concern. The damage is becoming more visible now that Kenta’s closer to them.

The swelling along Kenta’s cheek stands out more clearly, and above his right brow ridge, a thin line of blood has begun to form, a small bead collecting before trailing downward. Even so, they hold back.

In the ring side, the commentators pick up on it almost immediately.

“That’s… interesting,” the lead commentator says, his tone shifting as he watches the blue corner. “They’re not working on him at all right now.”

The second commentator follows, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. “Yeah, you’d expect them to step in, especially with that cut starting to show. But they’re just letting him stand there.”

The camera lingers on Kenta, still upright, still facing the ring, while his entire corner waits behind him without interfering.

There is a brief pause before the lead speaks again, more thoughtfully this time. “You know, this actually lines up with something people have said about Nakahara’s gym over the past year.”

The second lets out a quiet breath, already catching the idea. “That thing about how they handle certain breaks like this.”

“They say when their fighters are left alone like that,” the lead continues, “when the whole corner chooses not to interrupt…”

“…it usually means something’s about to change,” the second finishes.

Both of them keep their attention on Kenta, watching closely as he remains still, his focus unbroken.

“You can call it coincidence,” the lead adds, “but we’ve seen it happen enough times to at least take notice.”

“And right now,” the second says, narrowing his eyes slightly, “it feels like they’re waiting for him to reach something on his own.”

They keep talking about this oddity, yet none of it reaches Kenta. The voices are there, the crowd, the commentators, even the movement around him, but all of it feels distant, as if pushed behind a layer he can’t quite define.

The sounds come through dull and uneven, like they’re passing through water, present but stripped of clarity, never fully forming into something he needs to respond to.

Kenta doesn’t turn, and doesn’t blink any more than necessary. His vision stays fixed on Della Cruz, but even that begins to shift in an odd, unstable way.

At times it feels normal, clear enough to register every small movement across the ring. And then suddenly it narrows without warning, tightening around the figure in front of him before loosening again just as quickly.

It’s not quite a tunnel vision yet, but close enough that he can feel it trying to take shape. And he stays there, holding onto that edge, letting everything else fall away as best as he can, not by force, but by refusal to engage with it.

The noise fades further, the space around him thinning out, until there’s only the ring, the distance, and the opponent standing on the other side.

***

On the other side of the ring, the atmosphere in the red corner carries a different kind of tension.

The team moves quickly, water brought up, a towel pressed briefly against his face, the usual routine settling in. But there is none of the calm that normally follows a winning round.

And Della Cruz’s attention is not even with them. His breathing is controlled, his shoulders still tight, and his eyes remain fixed across the ring, locked onto Kenta Moriyama as if the break means nothing.

“You’re still ahead that round,” Hermosa says, “you landed more shots. But from the middle to the end, it was clear you lost control. You made too many mistakes, and you let him get to you.”

But there is no response from the champion. Della Cruz doesn’t even look at him. His gaze stays forward, fixed on Kenta, the irritation still there, but now mixed with something closer to anticipation. As if the frustration has already begun to turn into something else.

Hermosa’s eyes narrow when he realizes he’s being ignored. “Hey, Arvin,” he snaps, his tone sharpening. “Stop ignoring me, damn it. I can’t let you fight him like this. He’s too dangerous of an opponent.”

He leans in closer, forcing the words through with more weight. “Go back to the initial plan. Break him down first, relentless but measured. This is a twelve-round fight. You don’t need to rush anything. Use the rounds, control the pace, and stop pushing unnecessary risks this early.”

Della Cruz’s eyes shift, flicking toward him just for a moment. “I hear you,”

he says, voice low. “But no. I’m not changing the way I fight.”

Hermosa’s expression tightens. “You’re what…?”

“Look at him,” Della Cruz cuts in, gesturing slightly toward the opposite corner.

Hermosa turns over his shoulder, following the line of his gaze, and sees it clearly now. Kenta Moriyama is still standing, not even touching the stool, his corner holding back, the entire scene matching exactly what the commentators have been circling around.

“He hasn’t even sat down since the round ended,” Della Cruz continues. “I hurt him, and he’s still there, refusing treatment. Standing like he’s ready for more. Like he can take more from me.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “And you’re telling me to step back and fight him like a coward.”

Hermosa turns back to him, his gaze sharpening, voice firm. “Not fighting him like a coward. But fighting smart. He’s riding something right now, building momentum, and that’s exactly why you don’t play into it. Take control back. Don’t fight him in a way that suits him.”

Della Cruz lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and edged. “So now you’re saying he’s comfortable with my chaos?”

He tilts his head slightly, the irritation still there, but something else beginning to surface underneath it.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

There’s a brief pause before he continues, his tone shifting, less annoyed now, more certain.

“How long has it been… since I fought someone like this?” His eyes drift back toward Kenta across the ring. “Since I got this belt, every opponent’s been the same. They fold early. They lose their will before the fight even really starts.”

A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “But this one… he’s different. I knew it the moment his camp sent that challenge. And what he’s showing right now… this is exactly what I was expecting.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I took this fight for that. And I’m not changing it for anything.”

***

The reaction doesn’t stay contained at ringside. It spreads wide through the whole arena.

A low murmur begins to move through the crowd, subtle at first, then gradually building as more people start noticing what’s happening in the blue corner.

It’s not just the stillness, not just the lack of movement from the team, but the way Kenta Moriyama carries himself in that moment, standing instead of resting, refusing even the smallest break, and how his team responds to it.

Among them are those who have seen something like this before. Those who followed Ryoma closely enough to recognize the pattern.

“Hey… isn’t that the same thing?” someone mutters from the stands. “Like what happened in Ryoma’s fight… the one with Serrano?”

“The one that went viral?” another voice replies, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah… that’s exactly what it looks like.”

A third voice cuts in, more uncertain. “You think this guy has it too? That he can fight like Ryoma?”

“I don’t know if he’s at Ryoma’s level,” a man says, shaking his head. “But if you’ve seen his fight with Liam Kuroda… then you know he’s not normal either.”

Another voice joins in, quieter, but more certain. “Yeah… when that camp starts acting like this… something always changes. The fighter comes out different.”

The murmur grows, expectation building, tension rising as more eyes fix on the blue corner, waiting for something they cannot quite define but feel coming.

But not everyone shares that anticipation. At ringside, Hugo Ramirez watches in silence, his expression no longer as composed as before.

On the opposite side of the ring, another figure picks up on it as well; Zhou Jing, the appointed ringside physician from Hong Kong.

He has seen enough fights to recognize the shift when it begins. The subtle withdrawal, the narrowing focus, the way a fighter starts slipping into something deeper than simple awareness.

He knows quite a lot about ’the flow state’, and right now, he sees the signs in Kenta.

After a few more moment observing the blue corner, Zhou’s eyes then flick briefly toward Ramirez, and then back to Kenta.

Something about this situation unsettles him. There’s a moment of hesitation, just long enough to register, before he forces himself to move, stepping away from his position and toward the blue corner.

The referee notices the movement and steps toward him, cutting across the ring before he gets too close.

“Hey… what’s going on?” the referee asks.

Zhou Jing doesn’t stop walking as he answers, “I need to check the fighter. Possible facial injury.”