VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, Ryoma sits quietly on the bench inside the locker room, watching the fight through the flat-screen mounted on the wall.

The crowd’s reactions echo through the speakers, but he barely responds to any of it. To most people, he would simply look calm. In reality, he is conserving energy.

Unlike Satoru and Aramaki, who spend the last thirty hours recovering after the weigh-in, Ryoma is still in the middle of camp.

His fight against Liam O’Connell is three weeks away, training remains intense, and the gradual weight cut has already started. The fatigue isn’t dramatic, but it is enough to make him avoid wasting energy where he doesn’t need to.

That is one reason he isn’t outside helping the corner team, preferring to save his full focus for Aramaki later. The other is that he wants to see how Satoru handles pressure without him standing nearby.

Everyone in Nakahara Gym grows under pressure. But Satoru hasn’t really experienced that yet. So tonight, Ryoma leaves him alone with the pressure, without him there to make things easier.

The fifth round ends, and once again Satoru survives without ever taking control of the fight.

Aramaki exhales quietly. ”This is getting rough.”

His attention shifts toward Sera on the television, before turning to Nakahara. ”What the hell is Sera doing? The kid’s having a terrible night, but nothing is changing. Every round starts the same way. And end with Satoru clouded with confusion.”

The fifth round ends, and once again Satoru survives without ever taking control of the fight.

Aramaki exhales quietly. ”This is getting rough.”

His attention shifts toward Sera on the television before turning to Nakahara.

”What the hell is Sera doing? The kid’s having a terrible night, but nothing is changing. Every round starts the same way, and every round ends with Satoru looking even more confused.”

Nakahara watches the screen for a few seconds, but the broadcast has already switched to a wide shot of the arena, making it impossible to see what is happening inside the corner.

”I’m sure Sera is giving him the right instructions,” he says. ”The real question is whether the fighter is actually following them.”

Ryoma follows the conversation from the bench behind them, but he doesn’t offer any opinion of his own.

The truth is, he has been paying close attention to the exchanges inside the blue corner throughout the fight.

The broadcast rarely keeps the camera there for long, and Sera’s voice is almost never clear through the television speakers, but that hardly matters.

But Ryoma can read enough from the movements alone. Whenever the camera catches the corner between rounds, his eyes naturally drift toward Sera, reading his lip movement to piece together most of what is being said.

And so far, he agrees with Nakahara. Sera has given correct answer, but not once has Satoru actually done what Sera asked him to do.

Every break follows the same pattern. Sera gives an instruction. Satoru listens. He nods. He looks as though he understands exactly what is expected of him.

Then the bell rings. And the moment the fight resumes, he goes right back to boxing the same way he did in the opening round.

The strategy changes. But the fighter doesn’t, as if the conversation in the corner never happened and no adjustment was made at all.

The bell for round six rings, and Satoru leaves the corner with sharp face, as if he has something new in mind for this own.

But no, once Tojo in range, Satoru builds his lazy swaying pendulum, and tries to impose his present just as how he’s done entire round.

”The hell are you doing, Satoru?”

”That guy’s been desperate to force an ending for three rounds now. Sera told you to tighten your guard and let him burn himself out.”

”And instead, you’re still trying to control the fight.”

”You want to win or not?”

>

”What?”

>

***

Back inside Korakuen Hall, the atmosphere continues to build with every passing minute.

What began as curiosity has slowly turned into expectation. More and more people in the crowd can sense the same thing; Kazuya Tojo is no longer interested in winning rounds. He wants an ending.

The veteran’s body language makes it obvious. Every step carries greater urgency, every exchange feels slightly more aggressive, and every successful sequence is followed by another attempt to keep Satoru trapped in front of him.

Satoru, meanwhile, continues meeting him head-on. Instead of forcing Tojo to work harder, he keeps giving the veteran opportunities to stay involved.

And every time the exchanges become open, Tojo’s experience finds a way to surface. Not enough to end the fight. But enough to remind everyone in the arena which fighter has been in control so far.

”Clean left hand again,” the lead commentator beams.

”That shot has been there all night,” the second adds.

The audience erupts as Tojo scores yet another visible connection.

”You can see the confidence growing now. Tojo isn’t just winning exchanges anymore, he’s starting to dictate where they happen.”

”And every time Satoru looks ready to settle into a rhythm, Tojo gives him something new to think about.”

Satoru steps in again, trying to intercept Tojo before the veteran can reset his position. But once again, he reads the angle incorrectly.

What looks like a straight line from his perspective is already gone by the time he commits. His punch slices through empty air as Tojo shifts half a step to the outside.

And suddenly…

DSH!

A straight left crashes directly into his face.

”Another counter!”

”That’s the fifth clean one this round alone!”

The crowd reacts immediately as Satoru stumbles a step backward before recovering his balance.

His instinct takes over. His guard rises higher. His elbows tighten closer to his body. The constant probing and attempts to dictate the pace quietly disappear from his movement.

It isn’t a conscious adjustment. It isn’t the result of some sudden realization. His body simply reaches its limit.

After spending round after round trying to solve every problem at once, survival finally becomes the only problem that matters.

And for the first time all night, Satoru begins doing exactly what Sera has been asking him to do. Not because he decides to follow the instruction, but because every instinct in his body is telling him the same thing.

Stay safe. Survive the round.

Tojo unloads a series of punches against the tightened guard. Most of them are aimed straight down the middle, as if he wants to force Satoru into opening up.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dugh. Dugh.

But Satoru refuses to give him anything. Growing impatient, Tojo digs a left hook into the body instead, trying to force Satoru lower his guard.

Thud!

”You gonna show me your face yet?”

He fires a quick one-two upstairs. The Satoru’s guard stays high, the elbows stay tight.

Dug. Dug.

Tojo circles off at an angle and attacks again, looking for a cleaner route around the defense. But Satoru adjust without dropping his guard.

The punches continue to thump against gloves and forearms…

Dug. Dug. Dugh.

…drawing noise from the crowd even without any visible damage.

Finally, Tojo steps deeper into range so he can whips a left hook around the outside.

DSH!

At last, the punch clips the side of Satoru’s head. It is the opening Tojo has been searching for.

But before he can build on it, Satoru immediately crashes forward and ties him up in a clinch, smothering the exchange before any follow-up punishment can arrive.

”Interesting adjustment from Satoru.”

”You mean the tighter guard?”

”The tighter guard, the clinch, the willingness to slow things down. He’s not winning the exchanges, but at least he’s making Tojo work harder for them.”

”Which explains why Tojo looks more irritated with every minute that passes.”

The referee wedges himself between them, trying to force a separation.

”Break! Break!”

But Satoru doesn’t let go. His arms remain locked around Tojo’s shoulders for another moment, more concerned with stopping the fight than restarting it.

Before the referee can fully pull them apart, Tojo sneaks in a pair of short body shots. Nothing powerful, just enough to make a point.

”What happened to all that confidence?”

Thud!

”You spend five rounds trying to fight like Ryoma...”

Thud!

”...and now you’re hiding?”

The referee finally forces a clean separation, but the irritation remains written all over Tojo’s face.

Tojo backs away with an annoyed click of his tongue, looking less like a man winning a fight and more like someone being denied the ending he wants.

”What’s wrong, Ryoma 2.0?” Tojo scoffs. ”This isn’t how Ryoma fights, if you ask me.”

”And there it is. Tojo’s trying to drag this fight somewhere other than boxing.”

”Yeah, that’s not aimed at the guard. That’s aimed at the kid’s head.”

Satoru doesn’t answer. But for the first time all night, something in Tojo’s words catches his attention.

”How Ryoma fights...?”

The thought lingers longer than any punch that landed this round.

”Ah... right.”

”Maybe study the opponent first.”

”The physical condition. The emotions.”

Satoru begins moving again, drifting laterally along the perimeter with his guard still tight against his cheeks.

This time, however, he isn’t looking for an opening. His eyes remain fixed on Tojo, watching, measuring, looking beyond the punches.

He isn’t trying to emulate Ryoma’s fighting style. He’s trying to adopt the mindset Ryoma has drilled into him every day.

Stop fighting the opponent, and start understanding him.