VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Umemoto immediately moves toward the center with the confident of a powerful pressure fighter, his compact footwork surprisingly quick for someone built to impose himself through force.

Ryoma does not challenge him for the center. He moves along the perimeter with economical footwork, keeping his movements measured and controlled while quietly maintaining the geometry Nakahara instructed him to use.

There is no feint, no attempt to lay a trap, and no layered strategy. His only concern is staying outside his opponent’s line of attack, both gloves hanging loosely at chest level as he continues circling with almost mechanical economy.

For the first ten seconds or so, Umemoto seems slightly hesitant about when to begin, before finally deciding to test Ryoma with a simple opening attack.

He slides his lead foot forward by an inch, intending to sends a jab.

Even before the jab leaves his hand, Ryoma has already reacted, lifting his right glove into position.

Umemoto immediately cancels the jab, slides his lead foot deeper, and sends a sharp hook toward the body, his right hand already loaded for the cross.

To his surprise, Ryoma actually raises his guard high, but takes one step backward, just enough to let the hook pass in front of him.

He then angles smoothly to his right, his left glove dropping just enough to press Umemoto’s left glove downward.

Dp!

And his right hand flicks forward almost immediately, catching Umemoto cleanly in the face.

Dsh!

The arena erupts at the sheer speed of Ryoma’s reaction, the entire sequence looking remarkably clean and smooth.

Both commentators react just as quickly.

”Oh! He caught him!”

”That was a hell of a counter!”

Umemoto winces as his cross cuts through empty air, with Ryoma already shifting away from his attack line. It forces Umemoto to pivot and follow, his movement is sharp and smooth.

But the moment Umemoto adjusts his position and begins rebuilding his line of attack, Ryoma is already waiting for him.

He aligns his left glove and shoulder with Umemoto’s line of vision, looking for the moment all three points fall into the same line.

When Umemoto finally finds his angle and prepares to strike again, Ryoma’s left glove suddenly clips him across the face.

Dsh!

”He got him again!”

”That’s twice in a row!”

Umemoto never sees the punch itself, nor even the movement of Ryoma’s arm.

”What the hell was that just now?”

As Umemoto resets, Ryoma is already moving out of his line of attack, taking small steps from left to right without doing anything particularly spectacular.

There is no obvious superiority in his movement, yet he keeps forcing Umemoto to adjust his position.

And while Umemoto is still trying to find his line of attack, Ryoma is quietly waiting for that perfect moment to unleash his Phantom Jab.

The moment Umemoto is about to throw something, Ryoma’s glove suddenly seems to expand into his vision.

Dsh!

Another jab clips his face as though it has simply teleported there.

”Oooh! Would you look at that?”

”For some reason, Ryoma is finding it far too easy to leave his mark on Umemoto’s face!”

The arena remains loud, thousands of Umemoto supporters shouting for their fighter to push forward and tear into the champion.

Yet scattered among them are spectators beginning to look genuinely intrigued, unable to understand why Umemoto suddenly seems so terrible.

Because once again…

Dsh!

Umemoto resets, searches for his line of attack again, and…

Dsh!

From the stands, all they can see is a simple jab landing again and again.

It is not particularly fast, nor does it look especially flashy. But Umemoto keeps failing to react, as though he simply cannot see the punch coming.

Ryoma angles out, Umemoto follows, intending to strike, and…

Dsh!

And then, for once, Umemoto manages to get his glove up and block it.

Dug.

Even that seems more like sheer luck than anything else, because Umemoto still has no idea when the punch is coming.

”What the hell is he doing?”

Like every experienced boxer, he is accustomed to reading attacks through the movements that precede them, using those small cues to react before the punch itself arrives.

Yet throughout all those jabs, including the one he manages to block, Umemoto sees almost nothing before the glove reaches him.

There is no obvious movement from Ryoma’s shoulder, no clear shift in his arm, and no useful cue telling him when the punch is about to come.

Even now, Umemoto still does not realize that this is the real problem, leaving him even more confused.

Eventually, Umemoto is forced to become more pragmatic. He raises his guard, lowers his stance, and keeps his head and torso constantly moving as he tries to make himself a more difficult target.

With Ryoma continually slipping out of his attack line, Umemoto sharpens his footwork and pivots. He stays quick within the small space so he never loses track of Ryoma while refusing to give him an easy target.

Yet even then, the moment Umemoto attempts a single feint, his left glove twitching just enough to suggest an attack…

Dsh!

Another Phantom Jab catches Umemoto cleanly in the face.

After more than two minutes into the round, Ryoma finally makes a feint, just once

Umemoto immediately raises his guard, expecting another jab toward his head, but Ryoma drives a stiff straight punch deep into his solar plexus.

THUD!

Umemoto is so confused that even a simple jab to the body has now become difficult to deal with.

The impact forces him one step backward, his breath hitching sharply as he absorbs the unexpected change of target.

”What exactly are we watching here?”

”We came into this expecting a fierce contest between two of the best fighters in Japan, but this is becoming something strangely monotonous.”

”Ryoma looks incredibly calm. He isn’t particularly aggressive, there are no elaborate tricks, and we’ve barely seen him use a feint.”

”And yet, somehow, every time he attacks, Umemoto seems completely caught off guard.”

***

The same strange pattern continues through the second and third rounds. Umemoto still cannot land a single clean punch on Ryoma, nor can he impose his sheer brute strength even against the champion’s guard.

Every attempt to build a combination falls apart before it can develop, while the Phantom Jab keeps finding his face whenever he tries to adjust his line of attack.

Whenever Umemoto raises his guard higher to protect himself from the jab, Ryoma simply drives straight punch into his solar plexus.

They have had two breaks to discuss the situation, but neither has produced an answer. They can’t address the real problem because they still do not understand what Ryoma is doing.

When the bell finally ends the third round, Umemoto returns to his corner breathing heavily. The area above his temple is beginning to swell. The repeated blows to his solar plexus have made it increasingly difficult for him to keep his breathing steady.

”What the hell are you doing?” Ishimaru snaps, his frustration finally boiling over. ”He’s right there in front of you! You know where he’s moving, and yet you keep letting him touch you! How many more rounds are you going to stand there and let that kid make a fool out of you?”

Umemoto has no argument to give him. He can only stare across the ring at Ryoma with an irritation so deep that even he struggles to put it into words.

Being beaten by someone genuinely stronger would at least be something his ego could accept. But this is not like that.

Ryoma is using Cuban defensive geometry, and Umemoto gets that. He has already beaten Liam. And he spent more than a month sparring with Shinichi Yanagimoto twice a week specifically to solve that problem.

He had believed all of that work had taken him to another level. That he had evolved into an entirely different fighter. Yet here he is, being made to look like a fool by Ryoma’s simple textbook jab, over and over again.

”His jabs,” he mutters, his jaw tightening as he takes a deep breath. ”I can’t fucking react to them. You told me to keep him in my line of attack. Yet every time I adjust, somehow his glove suddenly teleports to my face.”

”Don’t give me that fucking bullshit,” Ishimaru snaps immediately. ”Stop joking around, Umemoto. I know what you’re capable of, and I know those cheap fucking jabs shouldn’t be giving you this much trouble.”

Umemoto immediately turns toward him. ”Then tell me, Ishimaru! How the fuck am I supposed to react to something I can’t anticipate? The only thing I see is his glove suddenly getting bigger, and by the time I realize what’s happening, it’s already hitting me in the face.”

Ishimaru falls silent, his expression slowly changing as he begins to understand what the real problem is.

And now he finally understands what made Nikolai Dragunov look as though he had forgotten how to box when he fought Ryoma.

”The jab…?” he mutters weakly.

”That must be it,” one of his assistants says quietly.

”What is it?” Umemoto asks.

”How should I put it?” the man says, choosing his words carefully. ”It’s really just a simple jab.”

Umemoto’s brow tightens. ”What?”

”But it’s so simple that it becomes difficult to anticipate,” the assistant continues. ”There are almost no cues, almost nothing for you to read before the punch actually comes.”

He pauses briefly before turning toward Ishimaru. ”And unfortunately, Umemoto hasn’t faced anyone with that level of mastery before. We’ve never prepared him for a jab this difficult to read.”

For a moment, the entire corner team becomes so silent. Ishimaru and his assistant slowly glance toward Ryoma, their contempt replaced by something closer to fear.

”How could someone so young have mastered such a simple weapon to this level?” Ishimaru mutters.

Ironically, they are right about one thing: Ryoma’s jab mastery.

But even now, they still haven’t recognized the other two elements behind it: Ryoma’s ability to find the perfect timing and angle, placing his glove and shoulder directly along Umemoto’s line of vision.

It requires a level of perception that only Ryoma possesses. And doing it in the middle of an intense fight, with two elite fighters constantly shifting through unpredictable movements, demands extraordinary focus and split-second decision-making.