VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 373: Stealing Tricks? No, Stealing Tempo

Chapter 373: Stealing Tricks? No, Stealing Tempo

The referee waves both corners clear, voice firm, signaling the end of the break and the start of round two.

Trainers step back together, stools whisked away, bottles lowered, hands off shoulders, leaving the canvas open and quiet again bare.

As both fighters loosening their arms, a low murmur rolls through the arena, anticipation tightening as thousands lean forward in their seats.

“Round one favored Ramos on activity,” one commentator says. “But Ryoma’s reads changed late. If that pressure returns, we’ll see answers.”

“Yup…” the other one nods. “Either Ramos turns it up, or Ryoma drags him into deeper water. Second round will tell who blinks first tonight.”

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round Two.

Both fighters step out at once, feet light, eyes sharp. They drift toward the center, not rushing, not yielding.

The middle of the ring offers space, angles, control. But right now, avoiding a mistake matters more than claiming territory.

They stop a few paces apart and set their stances.

Ryoma settles first. The Philly Shell is gone. He stands orthodox now, mid-range. His rear foot locks into place while the lead foot slides in a narrow lane, back and forth like a small pendulum.

The stance isn’t wide, almost neutral, balanced. Shoulders loose. Gloves hang just below chest level, swaying subtly in time with his lead foot.

Ramos halts and squares up as well, but his eyes linger on Ryoma’s posture. He recognizes it immediately. The same frame Kenta used last fight.

A casual smile tugs at his mouth. “Dropping the shell already?”

Ryoma lifts an eyebrow. “Crowd’s bored. And I’m bored too.”

Ramos glances sideways at the arena. “Now that you mention it…”

Virgil calls out from the red corner. “Ramos! Where the hell are looking at?”

Ryoma sees the opening, and seizes it immediately; a compact one-two snaps out.

Ramos reacts just in time, gloves flashing up as he steps back once.

Dug. Dug.

But there’s no surprise on his face. He simply resumes the conversation like nothing happened.

“They do look bored,” he says. “Why not make some noise?”

He tightens his rhythm, and steps half an inch forward.

Then three straight punches fire from mid-range, spearing and rigid, the tempo compressed and sharp.

Ryoma slides his lead foot back slightly, gloves jutting forward just enough to be touched.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

He shifts left, changes the angle, and the pendulum returns; only the lead foot sliding, shoulders loose, gloves swaying lazily in front of his chest.

Ramos follows, adjusts, bounces once, and throws the same three-punch spear. Again, Ryoma gives ground just pulling his lead foot just half a step.

He’s almost squaring up now, but gloves still offered forward, inviting contact.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

To Ramos, he’s still in range. So he doesn’t think about pushing deeper.

What he doesn’t fully realize is that Ryoma is already blurring the distance, reshaping the range to erase his disadvantage inch by inch.

The pendulum stays subtle; shoulders loose, gloves swaying lazily to blur the true distance between his head and Ramos’ reach.

Still, he keeps baiting him to step deeper. “That’s hardly enough to make any noise,” he says.

Ramos’ eyes narrow slightly. He isn’t green enough to miss what Ryoma is doing.

He sidesteps, small and cautious, eyes tracking the lazy sway of Ryoma’s gloves. He knows the distance is being blurred, the true range disguised by rhythm and illusion.

But knowing it doesn’t solve it. Without a clean read, his reach advantage starts slipping. Step too deep, and Ryoma can touch him. Stay too shallow, and he’s just punching gloves.

From the booth, a commentator picks it up, almost lazily.

“This fight’s gone quiet all of a sudden. Not much punches thrown… just words.”

As if on cues, Ryoma changes the pattern. His pendulum widens. Both feet move now, still subtle, back and forth in a tight pocket.

“You’re taking too long…” he says.

The Soviet rhythm reveals itself.

Ryoma slides forward deeper, still swaying. The first left floats out; lazy, half-hearted, falling short on purpose. Ramos reacts anyway, tightening his right guard.

The second jab snaps fully, and a right straight follows.

Dug. Dug.

Then Ryoma slides back out.

Ramos doesn’t linger. He sidesteps to change the angle, but Ryoma adjusts smoothly, never breaking rhythm, and slides in again.

Same cadence; Lazy first jab. Then the sharp jab and right.

Dug. Dug.

Blocked again, but this time Ramos fires back with a sharp hook.

Ryoma simply slides away, letting it carve air.

<< Good. He’s answering with hooks now. The spears are gone. >>

<< He’s forgetting his tight flurry. >>

<< The pace is yours now. Keep feeding it. >>

The pattern repeats. Ryoma doesn’t rush, keeps the same steady beat, letting Ramos get comfortable reading it.

Three cycles pass. Each time Ryoma steps in, Ramos answers with a hook; reacting instead of pressing, forgetting his trademark barrage.

On the fourth cycle, Ryoma changes it. He slides forward only half a step, hesitates, right shoulder brushing close.

Ramos twitches, caught between firing back or waiting.

Ryoma doesn’t pendulum forward this time. Instead, only the lead foot slides, and his stance shifts smoothly…

Whsst!

A flicker snaps out.

Ramos blinks and raises his glove.

Dug.

Blocked.

Then the two-beat flicker comes alive. The left veers sideways without retreating, snaps back, and then reverse to the Detroit Piston jab.

Dsh! Dug.

The first slaps Ramos’ cheek, the piston on hit the glove.

Then Ryoma steps in with the rear foot, and drives in a right straight to midsection.

Thud!

He slides out, but only briefly, and slides half-step in again. Two-beat flicker jabs. Reverse Detroit Piston. Rear foot forward, and a straight to midsection.

Dug. Dsh! Dug. Thud!

Same cadence. Same targets. Soviet rhythm fused with the two-beat flicker smoothly.

Ramos can only tighten his guard in the middle, absorbing two slaps to the cheek and two clean body shots.

“There it is,” a commentator says. “Ryoma’s found a pattern… and Ramos is stuck answering it.”

Ryoma settles back to safe range. The pendulum shrinks again. Rear foot locked. Lead foot swaying.

He looks at Ramos, inviting. “You should stop holding back now, before you regret it later.”

Ramos’ eyebrow twitches. He takes the provocation for what it is; teasing from someone who makes a habit of stealing other people’s weapons.

He wants to stay restrained. It’s too early to let Ryoma read his timing.

Ryoma has been stacking clean blows for too long now. And Ramos’ hesitation lingers; no longer by choice, but from confusion.

Up in the press seats, Sato leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You see it?” he murmurs.

Kenta nods slowly. “Yeah. Ramos isn’t fighting his own fight anymore.”

For almost two minutes, Ramos hasn’t pressed his opponent with his trademark tight barrages. The nonstop pressure is gone.

Instead, he’s been answering, adjusting, and waiting, reacting to Ryoma’s sway rather than imposing his own rhythm.

“He’s been pulled in,” Sato says. “That slow cadence… it’s lulling him. Hypnotizing him.”

Kenta exhales. “Ryoma’s not just stealing exchanges. He’s stealing the pace. Smart kid. He makes Ramos simply forgot to throw.”

Aki blinks, eyes drifting between the two veterans as their words sink in only halfway. She looks back to the ring, then to them again, searching for something more obvious.

Ramos is still there, still upright, still composed.

Yet she can’t quite grasp why he’s gone so quiet, why the pressure everyone expects just… isn’t coming.

Below them, Ryoma continues to sway lazily while Ramos stands in front of him, caught between timing and hesitation, fighting a rhythm that no longer belongs to him.

If Ramos won’t be provoked into revealing his true tight barrage, then he’ll be dragged into this slower cadence instead.

One way or another, the fight is drifting, quietly and deliberately, exactly where Ryoma planned it to go.

<< This isn’t a bad outcome. You could win on points tonight without ever stepping into the storm. >>

“I know,” Ryoma replies in his mind. “It’s still part of my plan.”

<< Our plan. >>

“Yeah, yeah… Our plan.”