VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For a brief moment, Cabello remains blissfully unaware, his half-lidded eyes carrying the same carefree calm. His feet slip into a few casual shuffle dance moves, alternating quick toe-and-heel pivots with effortless little hops as he gradually drifts to his left, his shoulders swaying in easy rhythm.

Eventually, the shuffle dance comes to a stop, and Cabello is left slightly hunched toward his left. As he slowly turns his head to the right, he finds Ryoma in the exact same posture, leaning at the very same angle and matching even the slow turn of his head, like a reflection that has somehow stepped out of the mirror.

The imaginary tune inside Cabello’s head vanishes without warning. The carefree sway leaves his shoulders as he gradually straightens, the lazy looseness giving way to a cleaner, more disciplined orthodox stance.

”...What the...” he mutters beneath his breath.

Ryoma follows the transition frame by frame, almost in the same timing. His shoulders settle, his feet square into the very same orthodox stance, and his lips quietly shape the exact same words, far too softly for Cabello to hear.

”...What the...”

They remain well outside punching range, facing one another. Ryoma imitates every movement Cabello makes, yet the sight feels nothing like a reflection in a mirror.

Cabello stands in an orthodox stance, and so does Ryoma; the same lead foot, the same shoulder line, the same posture.

Cabello cautiously steps to his left, his eyes slowly scanning Ryoma from head to toe.

Ryoma steps to his left as well. Only his eyes refuse to imitate, remaining fixed on Cabello with the same cold, unwavering focus they have carried since the opening bell.

For several moments, they circle clockwise around the center of the ring, matching pace, posture, stride length, glove position, and rhythm so precisely that they resemble a pair of electrons sharing the lowest orbital around the same invisible nucleus.

The Tokyo Dome falls into an uneasy silence as Cabello briefly comes to a stop before circling the other way, with Ryoma still following him. Now they are moving counterclockwise, before Cabello begins switching directions—left, then right, then left again—while Ryoma continues following every change like yin forever bound to yang.

”...What on earth are we looking at here?” the first commentator mutters, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice.

”I... I don’t think Ryoma is trying to outbox Cabello anymore,” the second commentator says, still sounding unsure of his own conclusion.

”He’s copying him... every single movement.”

”And somehow, that’s making this even harder to watch.”

Cabello finally comes to a funny realization, stops, and laughs... only for Ryoma also imitating the same thing in almost the same timing.

Seeing it as nothing more than a desperate attempt from a desperate man, Cabello’s amused grin returns. The beat in his head comes alive again, his body naturally slipping back into the rhythm of his authentic Cuban Boxing.

So you’re trying to steal my boxing by imitating me, huh?

Fine... try to steal it if you can.

Ryoma keeps imitating the same movements without hesitation, copying not only Cabello’s stance and rhythm, but the very attitude behind it.

And somehow, those who know Ryoma Takeda best begin to feel something strangely uncomfortable about what they are seeing.

”Wait... is he really doing this?” the first commentator says, a laugh escaping from sheer disbelief.

”I mean... technically, yes. Ryoma Takeda is actually copying Miguel Cabello,” the second commentator replies, still sounding like he can’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

”I’ve seen Ryoma steal countless techniques before...”

”But this is the first time I’ve seen him try to steal the entire person.”

”But how is he matching him this closely? The timing, the rhythm, even the little movements... how is that even possible?”

”I have no idea. But now I can’t look away. What kind of boxing match happens when one fighter is trying to become an exact imitation of the other?”

The question doesn’t remain unanswered for long. Cabello, still ignoring everything except the rhythm inside his own head, finally throws the first punch.

From his sideways position, he flicks out a jab while stepping to the side. And still, Ryoma does the exact same thing.

Both jabs travel at nearly identical timing, crossing paths without either glove touching the other.

Cabello pauses for a moment, then flicks another jab. But this time, the instant he notices Ryoma launching the same punch with the same timing, he quickly raises his right glove to intercept.

Yet even that adjustment is copied. Ryoma brings his glove into the same position, and both jabs land harmlessly against their respective guards almost simultaneously.

Cabello’s brows draw together. For a moment, he stops attacking, trying to return to his own rhythm by focusing entirely on the unique dance of his Cuban Boxing.

His upper body sways left and right. He dips into a brief bow, then suddenly lifts one knee high, his thigh almost parallel to the canvas, before smoothly planting his foot back down.

A few shuffle steps follow, carrying him into another angle before he finally flicks a jab.

Ryoma imitates the entire sequence, and again, their jabs fly at almost the exact same timing.

This time, Cabello reacts instantly, ducking beneath the punch and making his own jab die just before reaching its target.

Yet Ryoma reaches the same ending, and now both fighters lower into the same bowing angle.

Cabello’s eyes widen slightly. He immediately pulls back, and Ryoma imitates that too; the brief surprise, the same hesitation, even the faint irritation beginning to appear across Cabello’s face.

”I don’t even know what I’m watching anymore,” the first commentator says, a laugh escaping from sheer disbelief. ”This is absurd... but I can’t deny it. Ryoma Takeda actually looks like a Cuban Boxing fighter right now.”

”I don’t know how he does it,” the second commentator replies, still amazed. ”But after seeing this with my own eyes... the stories about Ryoma Takeda stealing his opponent’s weapons in the middle of a fight aren’t just rumors.”

”He’s not simply copying moves this time. He’s absorbing an entire style.”

”And somehow, he’s doing it against the very man who created that chaos in the first place.”

For a while, Cabello forces himself to ignore the growing irritation creeping into his mind, desperately trying to preserve the good mood that fuels his sugar and flair. He refuses to let the strange situation disturb the rhythm inside his head.

And for several exchanges, the sight becomes almost ridiculous. The two fighters move like a pair of dancers who have rehearsed the same choreography for weeks before stepping onto a stage together. Their steps, feints, and transitions flow into one another with unnatural precision.

Occasionally, they enter punching range, but not a single clean shot gets through. Every exchange ends in hesitation, familiar guards meeting familiar attacks, blocks and parries arriving at the same moment, or both fighters slipping away and shifting angles in the exact same motion, only separated by opposite geometry.

Eventually, the first real risk of Ryoma’s imitation strategy reveals itself. Cabello stops caring about anything else and simply rides the flow.

With Ryoma still imitated the exact same thing, both men throw their right straights at nearly the same timing.

And the punches crash into the center of each other’s chests.

BUGH!!!

Yet neither man breaks rhythm.

Still carried by the same instinctive flow, Cabello swings a left hook. And Ryoma, ignoring the consequence, sends his own.

Another dual exchange erupts almost simultaneously.

BAM!!!

Their hooks slam into the right side of each other’s heads.

For once, Ryoma cannot imitate Cabello perfectly. The champion’s face naturally twists with a loose, almost careless reaction to the impact, while Ryoma’s expression tightens slightly as the shock travels through his body.

Two identical punches, two identical timings, yet the body’s first response to pain remains something no imitation can perfectly reproduce.

”OH! THEY BOTH LANDED!” the first commentator shouts, his voice exploding with panic and excitement.

”This is insane!” the second adds. ”A moment ago they were moving like two professional dancers performing a perfectly rehearsed routine, and now they end up trading bombs at point-blank range!”

”But this is the unavoidable danger of Ryoma’s approach!”

”If you imitate every single movement your opponent makes without the slightest hesitation, then this is the price you pay. The answer is simple… dual exchanges.”

”And against a fighter like Miguel Cabello, that is an incredibly dangerous gamble!”

Cabello’s back to his Cuban Boxing movements, remaining smooth and energetic. His shoulders continue flowing, his feet gliding across the canvas with the same effortless rhythm, and every transition still carries the sharp unpredictability that defines his style.

Yet his expression has changed. The playful amusement is fading, replaced by the focused gaze of someone seriously weighing the risk of the situation in front of him.

Ryoma remains in the same imitation mode. He copies Cabello’s movements, his posture, and even that subtle shift in expression, wearing the same serious look as though he is considering the exact same problem.

But the reality is different. Cabello is thinking about the danger of continuing this rhythm.

Ryoma, however, is thinking about nothing except maintaining the imitation, ignoring every risk that comes with it.