VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A moment later, the lights inside the arena begin to dim.

The official standing by the entrance receives a signal through his walkie-talkie. He lowers it, gives Ryoma a small nod, and then pushes the gate open.

Immediately, the spotlights swing toward the magnificent stage where Ryoma is supposed to make his entrance.

But instead of using the stage for the theatrical performance he normally puts on, Ryoma simply starts jogging forward, one hand holding the championship belt against his shoulder to keep it from slipping as he moves. Nakahara and the rest of his team follow closely behind.

The Cruel King Army, accustomed to the elaborate spectacle that usually accompanies their champion’s entrance, is caught slightly off guard.

Even the trumpet girl looks awkward for a moment, apparently unsure when she is supposed to begin playing the familiar opening notes.

”And here comes Ryoma Takeda, the real Cruel King, the reigning WBO world champion!”

”Wait a minute. There is no anthem from the Cruel King Army.”

”And there is no trumpet fanfare either. Usually, this is the moment when the entire arena erupts for Ryoma.”

”Do they have a new protocol for tonight?”

”I don’t think so. Look at the fans. They seem just as confused as we are.”

”Indeed. Ryoma has completely skipped the usual performance. He is already running toward the ring as though he simply wants this fight to start as quickly as possible.”

At ringside, near the corner where Ryoma will enter the ring, Umemoto Kimitada remains seated while everyone around him stands to welcome the champion.

As Ryoma approaches the ring, he slows slightly and turns his head toward Umemoto. And Umemoto meets his gaze with a scoffing grin.

”So you’re finally starting to realize how ridiculous you’ve been all this time?”

Not saying anything back, Ryoma simply hands the championship belt to Nakahara before stepping toward the stairs leading into the ring. Once he slips through the ropes, he throws a brief series of fast, compact hooks with both hands, finishing with a light right hook before suddenly stopping.

Then he simply stands there, relaxed, his cold eyes fixed ahead, completely detached from everything around him. He does not loosen his arms or roll his neck, does not bounce on his feet, and makes no attempt to prepare himself for what is about to happen.

When the referee calls him to the center, Ryoma follows and listens to the instructions without any visible reaction, as though his body is there but his mind is somewhere else.

The referee then gives them one final instruction.

”Touch gloves if you wish.”

Nikolai raises one glove with a confident grin. ”Come on. Let’s see who’s the real Cruel King of this ring.”

Ryoma does not respond. He simply takes a few steps backward toward his corner. He shows no hatred, no disdain, and no attempt to intimidate his opponent. There is simply nothing to read from him.

The corner of Nikolai’s mouth curls into a faint smirk as he backs toward his corner, bumping his gloves together once.

”Already starting your mind game, huh?”

The arena erupts in anticipation, thousands of voices rising as they wait for the opening bell.

”Ladies and gentlemen, the moment has finally arrived! Tonight, we have a clash between two fighters with remarkably similar reputations, but very different weapons!”

”We’ve talked about Nikolai Dragunov’s ability to copy his opponents, but tonight he’s taken that reputation to an entirely different level.”

”He hasn’t just copied Ryoma’s boxing. He walked into this arena dressed like Ryoma!”

”And that brings us to the nickname he gave himself, the Sharingan. He studies his opponents, takes what works, and turns their own weapons against them. That’s why some people call him The Copy Boxer.”

”But there’s a very important distinction tonight. Ryoma Takeda is called The Chameleon for a reason. He doesn’t simply copy what he sees. He changes throughout the fight. His rhythm changes. His approach changes. His entire style can change while the fight is still happening.”

”So we have The Copy Boxer against The Chameleon. The question now, can Nikolai actually copy the man himself once the Chameleon starts blending into his surroundings, giving Nikolai nothing predictable to read.”

”And if that’s the case, the Sharingan may have a very difficult target tonight.”

The opening bell finally rings.

Ding!

Nikolai immediately establishes his swaying pendulum footwork as he leaves his corner, using the same approach Ryoma always employs at the beginning of his fights.

Ryoma, however, simply walks forward and settles into a textbook stance in front of him, slightly squared, both gloves held high, his feet planted flat at the center of the ring.

His posture is perfectly still, his cold eyes fixed on Nikolai with a detached expression, as though he is simply observing his opponent from a position far above the action.

He barely moves, not even building his swaying footwork rhythm, not even a twitch for a feint. For those who have followed Ryoma throughout his career, the difference is unmistakable. This is not the Ryoma they know.

Nikolai’s expression shifts slightly as he notices the complete lack of movement.

”Oh, this is new...”

He begins changing angles while maintaining his swaying pendulum step, moving gently from left to right without making any wide lateral movements.

But Ryoma still does not move, Only his eyes shift slightly, tracking Nikolai’s movements.

Then, without warning, Nikolai widens the angle to his left with a single, wide side step and then fires a razor-sharp two-beat flicker, fast and sudden as the snap of a whip.

Zrff-swssh!

Only then does Ryoma move. He shifts his rear foot just slightly, easily shifting his right glove to parry both the flicking jab and the lead hook.

Dp. Dp.

Nikolai then hops forward with two swaying left hooks, riding the Soviet pendulum cadence, before firing a right cross and hopping back with a half-hearted left hook.

Ryoma simply holds his ground, brushing the first three punches aside as casually as a trainer catching shots on mitts.

Dug. Dug.

Dug.

The last left hook sways harmlessly in front of him as Nikolai hops backward, but Ryoma makes no attempt to step in after it.

From there, Nikolai continues controlling the fight with his swaying pendulum footwork, constantly changing angles and distances as he attacks from different positions.

Ryoma, however, barely leaves the center of the ring. He only pivots when necessary to adjust to Nikolai’s changing angle, calmly keeping himself aligned with the challenger.

Despite his lack of movement, Ryoma continues to brush aside everything Nikolai throws at him. And no matter how many baits or traps Nikolai leaves behind, Ryoma never takes them. He simply remains there, defending without ever throwing a counter.

”Something is very strange about Ryoma tonight. He’s barely moving.”

”He’s not using his usual footwork at all. Normally, Ryoma is constantly adjusting his rhythm, changing his distance, making his opponent react to him.”

”But tonight, he’s just standing there.

Even when Nikolai steps in a little deeper with heavier hooks, Ryoma anchors his stance even more firmly, absorbing the impact and shutting down every punch with his guard.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Then he simply watches Nikolai step back out.

Eventually, Nikolai seems to lose patience with the silence he is getting from Ryoma, searching for some reaction he can read but finding nothing.

”You’re not giving me much, are you?”

His Soviet footwork disappears. He begins rocking and swaying instead, his head and upper body constantly bopping as his widened stance smoothly shifts into a cadence resembling the Cuban rhythm.

With his gloves lowered to waist level, he even offers his head forward, flicking it slightly in invitation before snapping a right hand from below and quickly stepping away.

And yet, Ryoma does not bite the opening, simply catches the punch, watches Nikolai step away, then adjusts his angle to Nikolai’s positioning.

A strange tension settles over the arena as curiosity and confusion spread through the crowd, leaving even the commentators struggling to maintain the usual excitement.

”Nikolai is changing angles, changing his rhythm, throwing from different positions… and Ryoma is simply waiting for him.”

”And defending everything. That’s the remarkable part. He isn’t chasing Nikolai down, but he isn’t giving him anything either.”

”It’s almost as if Ryoma has decided that he doesn’t need to move until Nikolai gives him a reason.”

Nikolai begins actively provoking Ryoma, repeatedly teasing him with flicking jabs while mixing in deliberately agitating remarks.

”What’s wrong, Champ?”

Dug.

”Did you catch a cold last night?”

Dug.

”Come on. Fight me.”

Dug.

He then resets and shakes his head in open disappointment.

”Or are you that afraid I’ll steal all your arsenals? Now you’ve decided to stay hiding behind those gloves?”

He flicks another teasing jab from the distance.

And Ryoma simply watches it fall short of his face, not even moving his guard.

He gives Nikolai no reaction whatsoever, maintaining the detached calm of a psychopath quietly suppressing a sadistic impulse toward his victim.

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