VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Even in the red corner, Jorge Rivera can no longer hide his bewilderment. Cabello has always fought with flair, but this is the first time Rivera has ever seen his movement become this absurd.

”What the hell’s gotten into him...?” Rivera mutters.

”Dragostea...” one of the assistants quietly says.

Rivera turns toward him. ”What did you say?”

”Dragostea Din Tei,” the assistant replies. ”I’m sure of it. He walked out of the corner singing an O-Zone song... and I’m pretty sure he’s still dancing to that beat right now.”

Rivera clicks his tongue. ”He’s making a joke out of this.”

Another assistant hesitates before speaking. ”Maybe… But it seems effective.”

”Yeah,” says another one. ”Just look at Ryoma. Even someone with fundamentals that solid can’t seem to decide which opening is real.”

Little by little, the irritation fades from Rivera’s face. More than thirty seconds have passed, yet Ryoma still hasn’t landed a single clean punch. In fact, Cabello never strays outside punching range, never too far to be reached.

This isn’t merely a matter of Cabello reading the attacks, blocking, parrying, or slipping them. Something else is making Ryoma struggle far more than Rivera has ever seen before.

”Takeda keeps pulling the trigger... but never at full confidence.”

”Exactly. Every combination starts committed, then loses conviction halfway through.”

For a brief moment, Ryoma forces himself to stay still, suppressing the frustration as he watches Cabello continue flowing around a small patch of canvas just a few steps ahead.

More often than not, Cabello’s head and upper body refuse to settle at the height Ryoma wants for a straight punch. He keeps bowing left and right, his head bopping with the rhythm while his toes rock beneath him, never allowing his posture to truly settle.

Then, in a rare moment, Cabello’s head briefly returns to a natural position.

Ryoma immediately slides his lead foot forward, preparing to fire a jab. But Cabello’s upper body bows toward Ryoma’s left once again.

Ryoma instinctively follows the movement, causing the jab to drift wide and downward, its trajectory looking awkward even before it reaches the target.

Cabello simply raises his left glove.

Dug.

Ryoma immediately commits to the right hand. Forced to chase the target, the punch chops diagonally downward toward his own left.

Cabello leans away from it, dragging his left foot back just enough to maintain his balance before naturally settling into rhythm again.

Still caught in the awkward posture, Ryoma changes levels, driving a left toward the body instead.

Cabello’s right arm, hanging lazily by his side, catches it perfectly.

Dug.

Ryoma instantly whips a left hook upstairs.

But Cabello bows toward Ryoma’s right, sliding his lead foot deeper as the hook cuts harmlessly above him.

Noticing the exposed ribs, Ryoma quickly pulls his right arm to cover that area.

But Cabello quickly snaps the right side of Ryoma’s head instead with a quick left punch.

Dsh

Ryoma’s head twists left after the impact.

Without breaking his rhythm, Cabello slips toward Ryoma’s right flank until he reaches the rear, forcing Ryoma into a hurried pivot just to face him again.

After taking a break for a beat, Ryoma tries to apply the pressure once more. But the same scenario appears. Cabello’s random movements chip away at his structure; his stance grows uneven, and his posture twists. His punches lose their clean lines, each one launched from increasingly compromised positions.

And then, after disrupting Ryoma’s balance, Cabello slips into Ryoma’s exposed side on the right.

Ryoma instinctively brings his right glove back to cover his jaw, but…

Thud!

Cabello drives a quick right into his ribs before effortlessly gliding around his flank and drifting toward his rear, forcing Ryoma into yet another hurried pivot.

Once again, his stance falls apart. To recover the compact form he has drilled for years, Ryoma has no choice but to reset his feet, square his shoulders, find his angle again,. and wait for another opportunity to reveal itself.

”Damn it...”

”Even after turning off trajectory prediction... I still can’t keep up with his rhythm.”

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***

Determined to change the pace, Ryoma abandons the mid-range entirely and closes the distance, forcing the fight into the phone booth.

He fires a quick left, using it to steal another half-step. But the moment he arrives, Cabello whips a hook into the body while sidestepping at the same time.

Ryoma blocks the shot and immediately resumes the chase. He starts making calculated adjustments with his feet, trying to herd Cabello toward the ropes or a corner. Even that, however, proves far more difficult than expected.

Sensing Ryoma’s intention, Cabello begins letting his hands go more freely. Earlier, he had been throwing one punch at a time. Now, the combinations come more frequently, their rhythm seemingly random from one exchange to the next.

Yet inside his head, the chorus of Dragostea Din Tei never stops. His shoulders continue to sway, his head keeps bopping to the beat, and every punch flows naturally with the rhythm only he can hear.

Ryoma blocks and parries…

Dug.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Dug. Dug.

But each defensive reaction stalls his advance.

He then tries to slip inside and roll underneath the next punch, only for Cabello to shuffle away, finishing with a crisp Z-step before drifting back into open space.

”Cabello’s giving ground... but only when he wants to. Takeda still isn’t dictating where this fight takes place.”

”This is incredible ring navigation. He’s never trapped for more than a second.”

The Cruel King Army continues chanting Ryoma’s name without pause, refusing to let their voices fade.

Around them, however, the rest of the local crowd gradually falls silent. More and more spectators remain frozen in their seats, their faces weighed down by growing despair.

Cabello is putting on a world-class display of boxing, one worthy of admiration and applause from the international fans scattered throughout the Tokyo Dome. Many of them gladly oblige, clapping and cheering each elegant escape and effortless angle.

But for the overwhelming majority of the home crowd, there is little beauty left to appreciate.

”He can’t catch him...”

”Not even once...”

”This is getting worse every minute.”

”Come on, Ryoma...”

”Please... do something.”

”There has to be a way.”

”Don’t let it end like this.”

Even the mood in the blue corner grows heavier with every passing exchange. None of them has ever seen Ryoma like this.

Usually, Ryoma is the one who forces opponents into uncertainty, breaking their rhythm with flawless fundamentals, relentless pressure, and discipline refined through countless hours of training. They have always believed those qualities made him a once-in-a-generation talent.

Yet now, everything he has spent years mastering seems to crumble before Cabello’s effortless flair.

”...I’ve never seen him struggle this much,” Hiroshi says, gripping the water bottle a little tighter. ”It’s like... everything Ryoma’s good at just isn’t working anymore.”

”No, it’s working,” Sera says. ”His guard is still disciplined. His footwork is still efficient. His positioning is still correct. Cabello is simply forcing every one of those fundamentals into compromised positions. Ryoma keeps having to rebuild his stance before he can use them.”

Hiroshi swallows. ”But... it’s already been over two minutes, and he hasn’t landed a single clean punch. And Cabello…”

He watches Cabello slip to another angle before digging a shot into Ryoma’s side.

”...he just keeps finding openings. Parts of Ryoma he can’t seem to protect.”

Sera falls silent after that. As much as he tries to stay objective, even he can no longer ignore what is unfolding before his eyes.

Meanwhile, Nakahara has remained silent this whole time, his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the ring. Having spent decades in boxing, he understands better than anyone just how dangerous this situation has become.

Even so, he refuses to let doubt take root. Until the final bell rings, he will continue to believe that Ryoma can find an answer.

***

Back in the ring, the round enters its final fifteen seconds. After spending nearly the entire round applying relentless pressure with little to show for it, Ryoma’s mental toll finally begins to surface.

His movements lose a touch of their sharpness. His feet reset a fraction slower, and the frustration he has fought to suppress gradually starts to seep into his boxing.

Cabello, on the other hand, shows no sign of slowing down. Despite being the one who has moved the most throughout the round, his footwork remains as light and carefree as ever.

He sends jab after jab, with Ryoma now spending more time standing behind a high guard.

Dug. Dug.

Dug.

Dug. Dug.

Cabello’s upper body continues to sway, his head still bopping and rocking to the same invisible Eurodance rhythm looping through his mind, as though every beat keeps replenishing the energy in his legs.

Then, somewhere inside his head, the music changes. The familiar Eurodance rhythm fades into another infectious beat.

♪ Aserejé, ja, dejé

Dejebe tu dejebere seibiunouva

Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi ♪

The tempo picks up.

So does Cabello.

His feet drift left, then right, never settling in one place for more than a heartbeat.

Every change of direction flows into another angle, every angle revealing another opening to probe.

He keeps his shoulders loose, his head bouncing to the faster rhythm as he peppers Ryoma with punches from one side, then the other.

For several moments, Ryoma manages to keep up. He blocks, parries, slips, and rolls. Every defensive movement arrives just in time.

But then, as the final five seconds arrive, he fails to catch up to the rhythm and a lead hook slips beneath his right armpit.

Thud!

Cabello feints.

Ryoma instinctively adjusts his guard.

But Cabello has already shifted to another angle, and a left hook curls around the outside of Ryoma’s gloves.

Dsh!

Ryoma’s head snaps sharply to his left.

Before he can recover his stance or rebuild his guard, Cabello buries a left hook into his ribs.

BUGH!

Right after those three clean punches, the bell rings.

Ding!

Despite that, Ryoma still keeps his guard high. His breathing grows noticeably heavier, while the frustration he has fought to suppress is now plainly etched across his face.