VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

And naturally, someone at Sergei Volkov’s level reaches the same conclusion as well. Six rounds are more than enough for a world-class trainer to understand the shape of a fight.

By now, Volkov has already mapped out both Shimamura’s absurd strengths and the flaws hidden beneath them. At the same time, he also refuses to ignore Elliot’s current condition after the knockdown.

On the red corner, Elliot sits forward on the stool while breathing steadily through his nose. Ice presses briefly against the side of his neck while sweat continues dripping from his jaw onto the canvas below.

“Good work getting back up from that knockdown,” Volkov says evenly. “And more importantly, keep your spirit intact, because this fight is still in your hands.”

Elliot keeps his gloves resting against his thighs while listening carefully.

“Sometimes,” Volkov continues, “you meet opponents who are simply too absurd, too difficult to break down cleanly. But boxing is not always about breaking your opponent. As long as he cannot break you either, that alone is enough.”

Elliot nods once. “…Yeah. I confirmed something during that round too. When he starts taking initiative offensively, he’s actually not that difficult to deal with.”

He exhales quietly before continuing. “It’s only that ridiculous defense… and the counters that come afterward whenever I leave openings.”

A faint approving look passes through Volkov’s eyes. “Good. Then you already understand the important part.”

The Russian coach folds his arms loosely afterward while briefly glancing toward the opposite corner where Shimamura sits slouched beneath the blue lights.

“And tonight, it will probably be difficult to use the pendulum step to bait those counters the way you normally do. So stop thinking about trapping him perfectly. Maintain your style. Just never overcommit.”

Volkov raises his left hand with the palm opened afterward, then lightly drives his right fist into it repeatedly while speaking, mimicking the compact punching rhythm he wants Elliot to maintain instead of throwing reckless power shots.

“Keep your punches tight. Faster combinations. Aim lower; body shots, chest level at most, nothing higher even if the opening is obvious. The body is easier to target. Easier to score on. Easier to touch consistently.”

Then his expression hardens slightly. “And every single time you attack, assume the counter is coming back toward your face. I want you prepared for that moment no matter what surprise appears. And if possible, force dual exchanges whenever the distance compresses.”

He pauses briefly before delivering the final instruction. “Forget about breaking him down. Whether you hurt him or not doesn’t matter anymore.”

Volkov taps lightly against Elliot’s glove. “Keep scoring. Stay disciplined. Survive until the bell.”

***

The plan proves simple enough for Elliot to execute once the seventh round begins. He keeps the Soviet cadence intact, the familiar pendulum rhythm naturally keeping his center of gravity stable and centered whether he hops forward, backward, or angles laterally around center ring, never allowing his posture to lean too far forward into dangerous counter range.

And there is noticeably less ambition behind the offense. His punches come lighter now, sharper, and more disciplined.

Every jab snaps out, and quickly returning to guard position. Every lead hook arrives with that same lazy Soviet rhythm as Elliot instantly disengages again, stepping back outside dangerous counter range before Shimamura can fully answer. There is no greed in the movement anymore, no reckless pressure, no attempts to overwhelm his opponent.

And Shimamura, still fighting reactively from that strange drunken rhythm, continues avoiding nearly everything cleanly enough. Occasionally he catches the lower punches on the side of his elbows or forearms whenever Elliot targets the midsection and ribs.

But for almost an entire minute, Shimamura barely throws a single meaningful punch back at all. Because every time Elliot senses the counter window beginning to appear, he immediately pulls himself back out of range again before Shimamura can fully commit.

“And now Graves looks completely different compared to the earlier rounds!”

“Yeah, this is much more disciplined now! He’s managing the fight!”

“Look how quickly he exits after every combination! He’s refusing to stay inside Shimamura’s counter range for even a second longer than necessary!”

“And honestly? That might be the smartest adjustment he’s made all night!”

“But at the same time, listen to this crowd getting restless now! Because Shimamura hasn’t really been able to answer anything for almost a full minute!”

For once, Elliot decides to take a calculated risk. Not by throwing heavier punches, but by planting his feet deeply after a committed step-in and forcing a tight exchange directly in the pocket.

His fists begin firing like a barrage of compact hooks and short uppercuts aimed straight through the middle, tight enough that Shimamura no longer has room to sway or drift away freely.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

The punches crash repeatedly against gloves, forearms, upper arms, and the outside of Shimamura’s shoulders as he tightens his guard to protect the center of his body.

This time, he does not try slipping the attacks. The rhythm is too compressed, too centered. Everything Elliot throws at him stays aimed directly toward the chest and midsection from close range.

“Oh, this is smart from Graves!”

“He’s crowding the space now! Not giving Shimamura enough room for those weird swaying reactions!”

“And look at all those short punches! None of them are huge shots, but they’re scoring, they’re piling up!”

Then Elliot suddenly grows slightly greedy, sending a left hook a little higher than before.

Immediately, Sergei Volkov’s eyes sharpen from the red corner.

“What are you thinking, Elliot?”

Shimamura has already been waiting for exactly that. At the final split second, he ducks underneath the hook before planting a compact right hook into the side of Elliot’s body.

Thud!

“And THERE’S the counter opening!”

And he immediately swings another hook afterward, this one climbing higher toward the head.

But this time, it is the setup Elliot prepared in advance. Not a trap for a counter, but an invitation for a dual exchange.

“Let’s trade this…”

He tightens his neck instinctively while twisting his hips sharply, driving a brutal body shot toward Shimamura’s left side at the exact same moment.

Shimamura’s hook lands clean against Elliot’s cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.

DSH!

But Elliot’s punch buries itself much deeper into Shimamura’s ribs with significantly more weight behind it than Shimamura’s loose hook carries.

BUGH!

The entire arena erupts the moment both punches land at the same time.

“OHHHH! THEY TRADE CLEAN!”

“BIG body shot from Graves!”

“And that one looked HEAVY!”

Both fighters freeze for half a second from the mutual impact. Elliot’s head remains turned sideways, while Shimamura’s torso bends subtly from the body shot pain.

But Elliot recovers first, sending two compact punches immediately into Shimamura’s midsection…

Thud! Thud!

…then throws a lead hook which Shimamura blocks on his right arm.

DUGH!

A compact right hand follows straight into the chest. Even though Shimamura sees it coming, he only manages to tilt slightly before the glove still scrapes hard across his skin.

Drussh!

And before Shimamura can fully slip away again, Elliot finishes the sequence with another short lead hook smashing against Shimamura’s right side…

Thud!

…before instantly tying him up in a clinch.

“And this is the most controlled Elliot Graves has looked in a long time!”

“He’s not chasing counters recklessly anymore! Every punch is compact, disciplined, and the moment he finishes the sequence, he shuts the exchange down with a clinch before Shimamura can answer!”

“That’s a huge adjustment from Graves! He’s completely controlling when the exchanges begin and when they end now!”

The referee immediately wedges himself between them, forcing the clinch apart with both arms.

“Break! Break it up!”

Shimamura still slips a few loose awkward punches from the side.

Thup. Thud.

One bumps lightly into Elliot’s ribs. Another brushes harmlessly toward the back as the referee keeps pushing them apart.

“Watch the punches during the break!” the referee warns sharply.

None of the shots carry any real danger, and Elliot barely reacts to them at all. Compared to the counters Shimamura usually creates from open exchanges, these meaningless little punches during the referee’s separation are far preferable.

The moment the referee fully clears the clinch, Elliot calmly takes several steps backward again, guard already reset, posture composed, refusing to give Shimamura another clean opportunity to counter freely.

***

The same rhythm carries through rounds seven and eight. Elliot keeps controlling the fight with disciplined Soviet cadence, scoring consistently while taking minimal risks.

Even when Shimamura manages to land a few strange counters, Elliot immediately equalizes them through forced dual exchanges and compact body shots before shutting the action down again.

Then midway through round nine, the change finally appears. The ecstasy disappears from Shimamura’s face. His half-lidded eyes and faint smile fade away, replaced by sharp impatience.

What remains instead is something much uglier; the memory of defeat, and the the lingering nightmare left behind by Shinichi Yanagimoto.

This time, winning matters more to Shimamura than chasing the thrill of the Zone.

After a series of compact barrage, Elliot disengages with his pendulum sway, calmly drifting backward.

And this time, Shimamura slowly raises both gloves high near his cheeks. His stance tightens. His feet settle into a disciplined orthodox posture like a genuine textbook boxer.

For the first time tonight, the strange looseness around him disappears. Even Elliot’s eyes narrow slightly while watching the sudden transformation in front of him.

“…Wait a second.”

“Hold on… look at Shimamura’s stance right now.”

“He changed it!”

“The drunken rhythm is gone!”

“And honestly… this might be the first time all night he actually looks like a conventional boxer!”