VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The blue corner team has already begun leaving the ring. But Sergei Volkov still stands near the officials’ table arguing in a low heated voice with one of the ringside supervisors.

“That scoring makes no sense,” Volkov says again, irritation finally bleeding through his usually controlled expression. “One wide card and two draws after ten rounds like that? Those scorecards contradict each other completely.”

The official remains calm despite the pressure. “The judges gave their assessment, Mr. Volkov. The result is final.”

Volkov exhales sharply through his nose, clearly still unsatisfied. Before the discussion can continue further, one of his assistants finally steps closer and lowers his voice carefully.

“…Coach. That’s enough. Even if Elliot didn’t get the win… he didn’t lose either. His ranking won’t drop because of this. And honestly… judging from how the fight went, even a clear win over someone ranked lower probably wouldn’t have changed much for him anyway.”

That part is true. Elliot had entered the fight already positioned near the top of the ladder, while Shimamura still remains far below him in international standing despite all the noise surrounding his style.

A loss would have been dangerous. But even a win would not have changed Elliot’s ranking significantly. Volkov already understands that before they ever accepted the fight.

His shoulders loosen slightly afterward, though the frustration never fully leaves his face. Because unlike the rest of the team, both he and Elliot know there had been something much larger attached to tonight’s result.

The only reason they accepted a risky fight against someone as unpredictable as Shimamura was because of a private agreement between the network of promoters surrounding Hugo Martinez, Logan Rhodes, and Dominic Bowman of Crowline Boxing, who manages WBC champion Celeb Mercer.

There had even been a clause embedded in the contract, signed through Bowman’s side. Whoever came out victorious tonight would be granted a voluntary world title defense against Celeb Mercer himself.

But after seeing these scorecards, Volkov can no longer shake the suspicion that they never truly intended to give Elliot that title opportunity in the first place.

***

Meanwhile, Logan Rhodes has been watching the aftermath unfold inside the arena. His attention briefly shifts as he notices Sergei Volkov leaving the opposite side, moving with controlled frustration toward the tunnel.

For a brief second, their eyes meet across the distance. Volkov’s gaze is sharp and contemptuous, lingering only long enough to make his opinion clear before he looks away without a word.

Logan simply raises a subtle eyebrow in response, almost dismissive, as if the exchange carries more curiosity than concern.

But the expression on his face tightens again soon after, becoming sharper and more focused as his attention shifts toward the direction Shimamura’s team has already disappeared into.

Logan stays still for a few seconds longer, thinking it through in silence, before finally pushing himself up from his seat and moving out toward the corridor to follow them.

He only manages to catch up with them once Shimamura has already entered the locker room, where a licensed doctor is waiting to conduct the post-fight examination.

The entire corner team appears tense, and not because of the fight itself. They all know Shimamura had smoked weed shortly before stepping into the ring. And now the only thing they can hope for is that the doctor does not notice anything that might raise further questions.

The doctor begins the examination with a focus on neurological safety, checking Shimamura’s eyes, reflexes, and general responsiveness to rule out any signs of concussion or brain trauma.

“Follow my finger,” the doctor instructs, moving his hand slowly in front of Shimamura’s face.

Shimamura immediately shakes his head. “No need. I didn’t take any clean shots to the head.”

The doctor pauses for a moment. “I saw one hook land on the side of your head during the fight.”

“It was a light hook,” Shimamura replies without hesitation. “Just brushed my cheek. You think that can damage my brain?”

The room falls quiet for a brief moment before the doctor exhales through his nose, continuing the rest of the check in silence before finally closing his notebook.

He gives a small nod as he continues the final part of the examination, glancing once more at Shimamura’s eyes, just briefly, before straightening up.

“No signs of concussion,” the doctor says calmly, mostly to himself as he writes the last note in his report. “No neurological concern from what I can see.”

A brief pause follows as he closes the folder. “Alright,” he adds while beginning to pack his instruments back into the medical kit. “You’re cleared. No mandatory observation needed. You can leave when you’re ready.”

As the doctor’s packing his equipment, Franc Donovan tilts his head slightly toward Logan, signaling him to step outside for a conversation.

Logan nods and follows him out of the locker room, moving into a quieter section of the corridor where they can speak without interruption.

Once they are alone, Franc immediately voices his concern, his tone low but firm.

“This method tonight…” Franc says. “I don’t like it. It’s not something you can control once it’s in the system.”

Logan exhales lightly through his nose, remaining calm. “There’s nothing to worry about. Nobody can prove anything. And even if they suspect it, it doesn’t change what happened in the ring.”

He gestures faintly with his hand as he continues. “Weed doesn’t make a fighter stronger. If anything, it blunts timing, slows reactions. No one at this level would use it thinking it gives them an advantage.”

Franc shakes his head slightly, unconvinced. “That’s exactly why I don’t like it. Shimamura couldn’t produce anything sharp. No structure, no proper mechanics, nothing you’d call clean boxing. It was all loose, almost disconnected from fundamentals.”

He pauses briefly before continuing. “Only around the middle of round nine… something changed. That rhythm started breaking. Which makes me think this isn’t just technique. It might be whatever was in his body wearing off.”

Logan falls silent at that. He stops speaking entirely, his posture shifting as he processes Franc’s words. One hand comes up beneath his chin while his left arm supports his right elbow, and his right hand drifts near his mouth as he lightly bites the nail of his thumb, thinking in a slow, focused silence.

For a moment, the corridor noise fades into the background of his thoughts. Then, in that silence, Logan finally acknowledges something he does not say openly.

Shimamura’s defensive ability inside that strange zone-like state is something extraordinary, even by world-level standards. It is the kind of evasive control and reactive unpredictability he has rarely seen even among elite fighters at the very top.

But at the same time, he cannot simply dismiss Franc’s concern. Because the reality of the fight is still simple: Shimamura did not win. Not even with all those counters, not even with all those clean evasions and awkward punishments he delivered throughout the rounds.

At national level, that kind of loose, unstructured offense would often be enough. A few clean touches would accumulate damage, break rhythm, drain confidence, and turn an opponent mentally useless long before the final bell.

But at the world level, it is not enough. Not unless you completely break your opponent. Otherwise, the fight drifts into uncertainty, and uncertainty belongs to the judges.

And if Logan is going to turn Shimamura into someone capable of defeating Celeb Mercer, uncertainty is not an option.

“Maybe…” Logan finally says, voice lower now, more measured, “we find a better method to help him reach that state without compromising his performance. Something like a performance enhancer.”

Franc’s brows twitch immediately. “If you’re still thinking in that direction, then there’s no reason for me to be part of this project at all.”

He steps closer, gaze sharpening. “Logan… I know this man is special. And I believe I can bring the best out of him. Just give me time. Let me do it properly. I’ll raise his level. Strengthen his fundamentals.”

“It won’t be enough if it’s just fundamentals,” Logan cuts in immediately. “His flow state is what makes him dangerous. And you’re going to take that away from him?”

“I’m not taking it away,” Franc answers firmly. “I’m going to turn him into a clutch fighter. A conventional boxer with solid basics, but built on a much stronger foundation. I’ll bring out the best version of him in a normal way. And if normal boxing isn’t enough, then the fight itself will force him to the edge. He’ll enter that state when it matters, in real pressure moments, without sacrificing his physical condition.”

After a long pause, Logan finally speaks again, his voice quieter now, more measured.

“Is it still doable?” he asks. “Considering his age?”

“He’s only twenty-seven,” Franc replies. “And he already has solid fundamentals. We’re not rebuilding him from scratch or turning him into someone else.”

He exhales slowly, as if organizing the idea more clearly in his mind. “We’re refining what’s already there. Strengthening his mechanics so that when he enters that flow state, he doesn’t completely abandon everything. The structure should still remain underneath it, even if the rhythm changes.”