VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 371: Recalibration
Chapter 371: Recalibration
For a brief stretch, nothing happens. Ramos shifts his lead foot half a step to the left. Ryoma mirrors, heel scraping softly against the canvas.
Their shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths. Gloves twitch, not strikes, just reflexes testing air. Two seconds pass. Maybe less. But under the lights, it feels longer.
Ryoma doesn’t rush it. The need for recalibration isn’t panic, but correction. The data wasn’t wrong, not entirely. But tape can only tell you so much. From here, the differences are undeniable.
“Reach, first,” he notes. “On video it looked marginal. In front of him… it’s not. He can touch me without stepping deep.”
<< Confirmed. Reach differential is more impactful in first-person engagement. >>
“Then the weight of the punches. That’s something tape can’t give you.”
<< Force transmission differs from visual estimation. Your perception is now calibrated to real impact. >>
“Tempo, too. On screen the gaps looked generous.”
<< In real time, those gaps are compressed. Rhythm density is higher. Mechanical consistency detected. >>
“And the angles…” Ryoma’s eyes narrow. “From afar it looked chaotic. Up close, every punch stays in a narrow lane. Purposeful. Not random.”
<< Correct. Target window remains constrained. Angle shifts are minimal but intentional. >>
<< It’s different now, isn’t it? Like watching gameplay… versus holding the controller. >>
<< So. Is your study complete? >>
Ryoma exhales slowly, shoulders loose, gaze steady.
“No. Not yet. I need a recalibration.”
A moment later, a translucent window blooms at the edge of his vision.
***
[ Recalibration Mode: ACTIVE ]
Pattern Recognition: Updating
Rhythm & Beat Analysis: Live Sync
Range & Reach Mapping: First-Person Adjusted
Angle Deviation Tracking: Narrow-Lane Model
Pre-Flurry Habits: Scanning
Punch Count: Live
– Thrown
– Landed
– Scoring Blows
– Light / Normal / Heavy Impact Classification
***
The fight hasn’t accelerated yet. But inside Ryoma’s head, everything has already begun to move.
In the center ring, Ramos has also noticed the change; not in Ryoma’s feet, not in his guard, but in his eyes. That sharpened stillness, the kind that isn’t defensive, but observant.
“He’s studying me.”
That realization settles in without alarm.
He already has the round’s momentum. Clean scoring blows. Guard work. Control of center. And Ryoma hasn’t landed anything that matters yet.
“There’s no need to accelerate.”
“Don’t show him more than necessary.
So Ramos reins it back.
He takes the initiative, but returns to the tempo he opened with; short steps, posture even, punches thrown with minimal number and restrained.
A jab. Another. A light right, pulled before commitment. Rhythm intact, pattern familiar, nothing new offered.
Ryoma reacts, blocks, rolls and slip, and moves side way to avoid the ropes and the corner.
Ramos keeps the distance. He doesn’t rush, not pressing too deep, just holding the lead.
Then he steps in again, calm and disciplined, striking with another restraint, letting the clock move while keeping Ryoma exactly where he wants him.
***
Before long, Ryoma notices the shift. The pressure thins, not gone, just lighter.
Punches still come, but without intent to finish. His shell absorbs them easily, leather brushing leather, nothing biting deep.
The HUD updates on its own.
***
[Live Combat Readout — 0:30 elapsed]
Punches Thrown: 14
Jabs: 9
Straight Rights: 5
Clean Connections: 0
Glancing / Guarded: 6
Scoring Blows: 0
Impact Classification:
Light: 14
Normal: 0
Heavy: 0
Angle Variation: None
Target Zone: Centerline
Deviation Range: ±7 cm
Punch Frequency: −48% from previous sequence
***
Ryoma keeps his shell compact, eyes never leaving Ramos.
He doesn’t need to read the data. The system is already feeding him the conclusions, murmured into his thoughts like a co-op coach stationed just behind his awareness.
<< He’s holding back. >>
“Yea… I can see that.”
Another jab brushes his forearm. A straight taps the guard and withdraws.
<< You began recalibration. He responded by reducing exposure. >>
The rain hasn’t stopped. It’s simply falling lighter now, because the one releasing it has decided not to show the full pattern yet.
***
The arena feels the change immediately.
The noise doesn’t die, only condenses. Conversations trail off mid-sentence. Hands that were clapping moments ago hover, suspended, as if applause itself might disrupt whatever is being negotiated in the ring.
People lean forward without realizing it, elbows resting on knees, breaths held just a second too long. This isn’t boredom. It’s tension with discipline, shared by thousands at once.
“You can feel it,” one commentator says quietly. “Nobody wants to miss what comes next.”
“Both fighters waiting,” the other adds. “Neither blinking.”
Inside the ropes, the pace remains restrained. Footsteps scrape, guards rise and fall by inches, feints come and go without consequence.
Ramos maintains his light pressure, posture unchanged, punches touching gloves rather than targets. Ryoma stays shelled, absorbing movement rather than damage, eyes steady, recording everything.
Then the system speaks.
<< Recalibration ongoing. No significant deviation detected. >>
Ryoma exhales through his nose.
“Fine. I’ll make him show it.”
With no warning, he cuts the distance.
Zrrf!
One sharp forward step, clean and sudden, paired with a compact jab thrown not to land, but to occupy. The glove snaps out just long enough to deny Ramos the chance to disrupt the entry.
Ramos reacts. “That’s fast.”
He blocks instinctively and steps back, light and controlled, intent clear: hold the lead, bleed the clock, deny information.
But Ryoma doesn’t let him reset. His lead foot widens, stance opening just enough to generate reach, and he lunges again.
A flicker jab shoots forward, longer than the last, catching Ramos before the distance fully stretches.
Dug.
Blocked.
And Ryoma doesn’t retract his arm.
Instead, he shifts the angle mid-extension, wrist turning, arm slapping across in a second beat, almost a lead hook, aimed at the side of the head.
Ramos recognizes it instantly: Sekino’s Two-beat Flicker.
His guard snaps across just in time, catching the second beat clean.
But Ryoma still doesn’t pull back his arm fully. His rear foot coils. Left shoulder twists forward, spine snapping into alignment.
And the Detroit Shotgun Jab fires.
Dhuack!
It lands flush on Ramos’s face; not enough to hurt, but enough to stun.
Just a fraction. Just a beat. And Ryoma uses the moment to strike.
“How many scoring blows did he landed?”
<< Twelve. >>
“That’s too many.”
He snaps three compact textbook jabs. The first pierces the guard. The second lands clean.
Dsh! Dsh!
For the third, Ramos has reset, and catches it on his gloves.
Still, a smile adorns Ryoma’s face.
“Got three scoring blows.”
He resets half a step, then throws the two-beat flicker again. It sneaks through the edge of the guard.
“Four.”
Ramos rolls, minimal movement, efficient and practiced. Ryoma tracks the motion; a right hand cuts air, but the follow-up left grazes Ramos’s cheek.
Dsh!
“Five.”
Ryoma presses, his rear foot coils again, his left shoulder twists, and the reverse Shotgun Jab cracks through the center.
Dsh!
“Six!”
The commentators rise with the moment.
“There it is!”
“From a single opening… Ryoma just flipped the control of this exchange!”
Ryoma cocks his right. Ramos reads it and brings his guard high.
But it’s just a feint, bait.
Ryoma drops his level instead, driving a sharp left into the midsection.
Thud!
“Seven.”
He sees another opening.
So he steps deeper into the eye of the storm, intent sharpening, weight committing, ready to drive something with real consequence.
