VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 372: The Storm on Hold

Chapter 372: The Storm on Hold

Ramos reacts instantly. His feet slide back in quick, controlled steps, posture never breaking as he creates space without panic.

The distance stretches by inches, just enough. His shoulders stay level, stance even, balance untouched. But the looseness is gone. His gaze tightens, focus condensing into something sharper.

Ryoma catches it; the adjustment, the spacing, the intent behind it.

<< There it is. The tighter flurry is coming. >>

He abandons the forward drive and folds smoothly back into the Philly Shell. Lead shoulder rises. Rear hand settles. His stance tightens, not retreating, but waiting and observing.

Ramos’ rhythm snaps tighter, punches firing in rapid succession from mid-range, fists traveling short, efficient paths.

Then he reaches him.

Dug. Dug.

Only two shots thud into Ryoma’s lead shoulder first, solid and contained.

Ryoma rolls, eyes still sharp in studying, but…

Ding!

The bell cuts through the exchange.

Ramos halts mid-motion, punch dying before it can complete the sequence. The moment evaporates as quickly as it formed.

“…and there’s the bell,” one commentator says.

“Oh, come on,” the other cuts in, unable to hide it. “That was just getting interesting.”

The broadcast feed replays the last second in slow motion: Ramos stepping in, weight transferring, the third punch chambered and never thrown.

“You can see it right there,” the first commentator continues, pointing verbally at the screen. “Ramos finally finds the distance. He shortens his shots, starts digging…”

“…and Ryoma feels it,” the second says. “That guard tightens for a reason. He knows what’s coming.”

“Bad timing,” the first commentator adds. “Really bad timing.”

In the arena, the sound swells and then falters.

The crowd had stirred with excitement for a brief moment earlier, only for the bell to cut it short and pull out groans.

“Aww… Man!”

“He was about to unload.”

“Why now?”

Some fans clap anyway, sharp and impatient, urging the moment to come back. Others shake their heads, eyes still locked on the ring, replaying the unfinished sequence in their minds.

***

In the ring, Ryoma’s irritation flickers for half a second before it disappears. An easy smile settles in its place, smooth enough to pass for confidence.

Only when he turns away does his face twitch, the mask slipping for an instant.

“Tch. Only seven scoring blows.”

<< And our recalibration gets cut short by the bell. >>

Behind him, Ramos doesn’t move right away. He stays where he is, eyes locked on Ryoma’s back.

He recognizes the opening that gave Ryoma momentum to fight back. The two-beat flicker on entry, Sekino’s weapon. It’s something he’d handled before in sparring.

But Ryoma’s version was different. It’s cleaner, faster, and harder to shut down.

Then suddenly…

“Oi, Ramos! What the hell are you doing just standing there?”

Virgil Santos’ voice cuts across the ring.

Ramos blinks, pulled out of his focus. The casual smile comes first, automatic, before he turns and heads to the corner.

“Naaah,” he says lightly. “Just admiring his skill. The way he adjusted in the middle of the fight. Dude has sharp ring IQ. I’ll give him that.”

Virgil doesn’t respond. He jerks his chin toward the stool.

“Sit.”

Ramos drops down, and Reyes is already there with the bottle.

He takes it, swishes, gargles, spits into the bucket. Then, quieter, more serious, he continues speaking.

“Saying he copies other people’s weapons is selling it short.”

Virgil looks at him. “What are you talking about?”

Ramos tips his chin toward the opposite corner. “You see the last stretch of that round?”

“The last ten seconds?” Virgil frowns.

“Yeah,” Ramos smiles lazily. “He walked me back through an opening he created with a two-beat flicker. Same entry Sekino used during my first day sparring here.”

Virgil nods. “I saw it. Cheap trick.”

Ramos shakes his head. “No. Not cheap. He makes it his own, a better version.”

Virgil turns, his attention drifts around the ring and settles on the blue corner. He watches Ryoma for several beats, arms folded, eyes narrowed, replaying the first round as the noise of the arena dulls around him.

On paper, Ramos had taken it clean. He’d thrown more punches, controlled the pace, landed the clearer scoring blows. Judges would like that. No question.

But Virgil can’t shake the sense that the edge came with an asterisk.

Ryoma had been passive for most of the round, almost generous. But the moment he decided to engage, the tone shifted. For more than ten seconds, Ramos had been walked back and held there, pressure steady and deliberate as Ryoma picked targets and stacked punches.

And he’d done it with only one trick so far, the two-beat flicker, shown just enough to make its point. And Virgil is certain Ryoma still has more waiting beneath the surface.

He turns back to the stool. “How do you feel?” he asks. “Think you can keep this up?”

Ramos’ easy smile doesn’t crack. “Honestly? I was holding myself back. He was studying me so hard, I thought… maybe he’s falling in love with me.”

Virgil snorts. “Cut the jokes. Take this fight seriously, or you’ll end up like the two idiots before you.”

“Sure,” Ramos says, lifting his hands in surrender. “Jokes aside. But it’s still early. I don’t want to show everything. I’m worried he’ll copy my tricks and use them against me.”

Virgil’s face twitches. “What tricks? You don’t have tricks. You’ve got fundamentals. Discipline. Anyone can copy the shape of that. Doing it the way you do takes years.”

Virgil crouches, his voice dropping. “I brought you here. I trained you for this. That isn’t something he can steal. Drop the antics. Don’t let him linger inside. If he steps deeper, drive him out. Hard. You hear me? No more playing around.”

Ramos nods once. “Sure.”

***

Meanwhile, the blue corner has been so quiet, too quiet for someone who’s just lost the round.

Half a minute passes and Ryoma hasn’t opened his eyes once. He sits on the stool with a relaxed posture, shoulders loose, chin slightly lowered.

The stillness isn’t for recovery alone. He isn’t just steadying his breath or calming his pulse. He’s replaying the round.

Even with his eyes closed, the system’s information is still there. He reads the data, patterns, timings, distances, everything gathered by the system, layered over memory.

He runs it back exchange by exchange, weighing options, discarding some, refining others. Not reacting to what happened, deciding what comes next.

His team stays silent. No instructions. No water bottle pushed into his hands. No questions, no plans spoken aloud.

They don’t hover or fidget. They simply wait. They know him better than anyone. Ryoma has always worked this way. And so far, the ideas he comes up with have never disappointed.

The broadcast booth takes note of the silence, treating it as one more oddity that seems to come standard with the Nakahara gym.

“Again… they do something unusual tonight.”

“Yeah… they are awfully quiet.”

The camera lingers. And the crowd stirs subtly with anticipation.

Finally, Ryoma opens his eyes.

Nakahara is already leaning in, listening, ready for whatever comes next.

“So…?”

“No adjustments yet,” Ryoma says. “I still need to study him.”

“But you had him cornered in that last minute,” Hiroshi says.

“Only because he was holding back,” Ryoma replies. “Once he got serious, his tempo shut me out. I couldn’t find the opening to get inside.”

Nakahara frowns. That’s not like Ryoma taking too long studying his opponent. Usually one round is enough.

“You gave him that round,” Nakahara says. “Give him another and you’ll be chasing his shadow. We didn’t build you for a hit-and-run fight. If he keeps moving with a points lead, you won’t be able to turn it around.”

Ryoma smiles, unbothered. “I know. But I don’t have a choice. He’s still holding something. He showed it earlier, just a glimpse. That tightened rhythm. If I don’t adjust to that tempo first, I won’t be able to get inside when he really starts using it.”

Sera leans in. “What if he never shows it to you? What if he keeps the lead, holds back, and runs the whole fight?”

Ryoma’s smile stays easy. “That’s why I’m thinking of blending a Soviet frame into my Philly Shell.”

Sera’s face creases, clearly lost.

“I need to push him to the edge,” Ryoma continues. “Force him to get serious. Once I adjust to that tempo, I can step deeper, and break the storm from inside.”