VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Mendosa may not have the answer yet, but letting his fighter walk back out there with doubt hanging over him isn’t an option.

He glances briefly toward the red corner, eyes narrowing as if trying to catch something he missed earlier, then shifts closer and crouches in, lowering his voice.

“Look,” he says, tone firm but controlled. “You don’t have to solve everything he’s doing in there. Don’t get stuck trying to read him. Make him read you.”

Villanueva exhales lightly through his nose, but there’s no real agreement in his expression. “He won’t need that much effort to read me. And you know that. If this keeps going, I’ll end up following his rhythm anyway. After all, I’m already falling behind.”

Mendosa doesn’t respond immediately. His face stays serious, more so than before, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t particularly want to say.

Then he leans in just a fraction closer. “There’s no choice but to aim for it. You won’t like it. I don’t like it either. But this isn’t the kind of fight where you get to be picky.”

Villanueva’s gaze sharpens. “…What are you saying?”

Mendosa holds his eyes. “He came into this fight with a dislocated shoulder. And from that first round, it’s obvious. He’s not comfortable using his right hand.”

“You’re telling me to aim for his right shoulder?” Villanueva asks, his tone flattening, the edge in it unmistakable.

Mendosa knows that look. He knows exactly how Villanueva feels about it. But he doesn’t soften, doesn’t justify it further. He just stays quiet, letting the suggestion hanging there on its own weight.

Villanueva looks away, his gaze drifting across the ring. For a moment, it lands on Ryoma. And right at the same moment, Ryoma is also watching him, assessing.

But then, Villanueva’s focus shifts to Ryoma’s right shoulder, before he turns back to Mendosa.

“I’ve already touched that side a few times,” he says slowly. “Upper arm, near the joint. He didn’t like it. And yeah… he hasn’t thrown a single right so far.”

“And a joint like that,” Mendosa says, voice low, “even if it’s set back in place… it’s not stable. One bad impact, wrong angle…”

“It can go loose again,” Villanueva finishes for him. “I know what you are thinking. And if it does, the ring doctor might stop it.”

“And even if he doesn’t…” Mendosa’s eyes stay steady. “The fight tilts your way.”

Villanueva lowers his gaze, considering it. On paper, it makes sense, clean, efficient, almost inevitable. But the thought alone doesn’t sit right to him.

This fight was never supposed to be about exploiting something like that, not for him. He didn’t ask for this match to chase belts or outcomes.

He asked for it because Ryoma was an interesting fighter. Because he wanted a fight that pushed back, something sharp, something real. Something the crowd could feel.

A stoppage from an injury, or worse, breaking down an already compromised joint? That’s not the kind of ending he came here for. Still, like Mendosa said, this isn’t a situation where he can afford to be picky.

The thought leaves him caught in a quiet dilemma. And before he can come to any decision, the official’s voice cuts cleanly through the tension.

“Seconds out!”

Villanueva snaps out of it and pushes himself up from the stool without another word. Around him, the corner team moves in practiced rhythm; stool pulled away, bucket cleared, towel and kit box gone in seconds.

Mendosa gestures once, sharp and efficient, making sure nothing is left behind. Then he moves last, intending to slip through the ropes, but Villanueva leans slightly toward him and speaks under his breath.

“Just help me figure out his new trick,”

Villanueva says quietly. “I’ll take it again if I have to. It’s just his left… I can handle that.”

Mendosa pauses for a fraction of a second, then nods. “Fine. Use this round to study him.”

He slips fully out onto the apron, but before dropping down, he turns back to him. “But if this starts going the wrong way, don’t hesitate this time. Don’t forget, Dante. You’re a professional. Going after a weakness is still part of the job.”

Villanueva’s expression tightens slightly. He still doesn’t like it, not even a little. But he doesn’t argue this time.

He gives a small nod, bites down on his mouthpiece, and turns toward center ring as the space between the corners opens once again.

***

Across the ring, Ryoma keeps his eyes on him, the gaze steady and sharp as he studies every shift in Villanueva’s expression while he steps out from the corner.

For a while now, he’s been following the exchange closely, using the system to track their lip movements, trying to piece together the conversation as it happened.

But it doesn’t come together. The words don’t resolve into anything he can understand. They were speaking in their native tongue. What should have been a clear read turns into fragments with no meaning for him.

Ryoma clicks his tongue under his breath, the annoyance no longer hidden.

Even without the words, he can tell it wasn’t casual. The way Mendosa leaned in, the shift in Villanueva’s expression, it was something calculated, something they didn’t want easily read.

And that’s exactly what bothers him. Whatever they just worked out, it wasn’t small. And he just has no way of knowing what it is.

>

The system’s voice slips in lightly, almost teasing. But Ryoma just exhales with disinterest, dismissing it without a second thought.

“Even without knowing their strategy, I can still win this fight. And once I win this… I’m done with this level.”

His expression sharpens, something more focused settling in behind it.

“I’m going for the world title.”

Seconds later, the bell for the second round cuts through the arena, sharp and immediate.

Ding!

Both fighters step out of their corners at the same time, their pace measured but purposeful, eyes already locked before they even meet at center ring.

“And here we go, round two is underway!” the lead commentator calls out, the energy rising instantly. “That first round gave us a lot to think about, but neither man came close to breaking!”

“Exactly,” the second adds. “Villanueva had the control early, dictating the pace and pressing the action. But Ryoma’s adjustments were something else. That late burst? That changed everything.”

“They both know it too,” the lead continues as the fighters close the distance. “You can feel the tension now. Villanueva can’t afford to let that happen again, and Ryoma’s already proven he can flip the fight in an instant.”

“And don’t forget the ending,” the second chimes in. “Villanueva pushed hard in those last ten seconds, but Ryoma shut everything down. That kind of defense sends a message.”

The crowd noise swells, rolling through the arena in a rising wave as the gap between them disappears. Every eye is locked on the center of the ring, the tension tightening with each step as anticipation builds toward the next exchange.

“This round is going to be about answers,” the lead commentator says, voice tightening with anticipation. “Can Villanueva break through that defense? Or is Ryoma about to take control of this fight for good?”

As they close in near the center, Villanueva’s focus wavers for just a fraction. Mendosa’s words are still sitting in the back of his mind, and without meaning to, his eyes flick briefly toward Ryoma’s right shoulder.

It’s subtle, but Ryoma catches it instantly. His gaze sharpens, reading the intent behind that single glance without needing anything more.

>

Ryoma exhales lightly. “I’ve been expecting that.”