VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 378: No Safe Space in the Ring

Chapter 378: No Safe Space in the Ring

The arena doesn’t roar when the fourth round begins. It holds its breath.

What filled the building moments ago, shock, noise, and disbelief, has settled into something quieter and heavier.

A shared awareness that the fight has crossed a line. That something irreversible has already happened, even if the bell says otherwise.

“Welcome to the fourth round…” a commentator fills in the moment. “And I don’t think anyone in this building quite knows what they’re about to see.”

“You’re right,” the other one replies. “Because Ramos survived the knockdown, but surviving and recovering are two very different things.”

“And for the first time in his career, Ramos is coming out of a round with questions hanging over him. Not about his heart. Not about his toughness. But about his body.”

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round Four.

“And here we go,” the first commentator says, voice lower now. “This round isn’t about momentum anymore.”

“It’s about what the third round took… and whether Ramos can get it back.”

The camera lingers on Ramos as he steps forward. His guard is high. His posture disciplined. Everything looks correct.

But there’s a tightness now, subtle, carefully hidden. A stiffness in the shoulders. A breath held half a beat too long before it’s released.

He’s trying to look relaxed, and that effort alone gives him away.

A few paces away, Ryoma sets his stance. Not the Philly Shell this time, but a mid-range fighter’s frame, balanced, open.

His lead foot slides a little wider than before, pendulum stretching its arc, testing space rather than claiming it. His shoulders and gloves are swaying with lazy pattern.

But his eyes never stop working.

They scan Ramos from head to waist, from feet to chest, tracking micro-delays, the timing of each breath, the way the guard resets after movement. Measuring how much the break actually gave him.

The system feeds him its verdict.

<< Not fully recovered. >>

<< He’ll spend this round buying time. >>

<< Don’t allow it. >>

Ryoma lets the Soviet rhythm come alive. Both feet now, gliding back and forth in a smooth, swaying tempo, shoulders and gloves following the beat like a metronome.

The commentators catch it immediately.

“Takeda’s back to the rhythm,” one says.

“But look at the range…” the other adds. “He’s widening it. He’s hunting.”

Across from him, Ramos tightens his guard instinctively. Elbows tuck. Chin dips. He plants himself just a fraction more firmly than before.

Ryoma breaks the pendulum for a single beat, looking deceptively uninterested, just enough to blur the tempo.

Then suddenly, he slides in, and three lefts fire in sequence.

Jab. Jab. Lead hook.

Ramos blocks all of them cleanly, hands working in sync, exactly as commanded.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Ryoma lingers for half a breath and drops a right hook, but only lands on Ramos’ upper arm.

Dug.

Then he’s gone again, sliding back out before anything can return.

He shifts his angle without breaking the underlying rhythm and comes forward once more, faster now.

Jab. Cross. Right hook.

Ramos reacts well, blocks the first two…

Dug. Dug.

…and ducks the hook, letting it skim over his head.

He fires back immediately; a right hook, and left straight.

Ryoma catches both on his gloves, tight and compact, then slides out of range before anything else can follow.

“Beautiful exchange,” one commentator breathes. “That’s world-class defense from Takeda… read it, caught it, and slid out clean.”

“And credit Ramos right there,” the other adds quickly. “After everything that happened at the end of the third, he’s still thinking, still firing back with intent.”

“Absolutely. A lot of fighters would shell up after a knockdown like that.”

“But Ramos isn’t surviving. He’s competing. That’s the mark of a true champion.”

The crowd stirs again, not roaring, but attentive now, aware they’re watching something technical, something tense, a fight being decided not by chaos, but by control.

Ramos resets his stance, guard still tight, eyes locked on Ryoma. He’s hurt, but he’s still here.

Ryoma’s eyes narrow, reassessing. And the system updates quietly.

<< Punch speed within acceptable range. >>

<< Cognitive response intact. >>

Ryoma exhales through his nose, almost amused.

“Yeah… his punches are still sharp.”

Ramos rolls his shoulders once, guard still high, feet steady.

The system adds another line.

<< Neural reaction time unchanged. >>

<< Opponent is prioritizing defense and time acquisition. >>

Ryoma’s gaze sharpens.

“And his mind’s still clear. He’s still reacting to everything.”

But he knows, from the two punches he catches earlier, the weight behind them aren’t like any punches Ramos threw before he got knocked down.

They are weaker. And for that, Ryoma is ready to take a bit of risk.

His lead foot slides again. The pendulum resumes, wider, heavier now.

He opens the same way, lazy, almost indulgent. A drifting jab that stops short. A second left that brushes air. Nothing meant to land. Everything meant to soothe.

Ramos stays disciplined, eyes forward, guard high, letting the rhythm wash over him without biting.

Then the cadence tightens.

Ryoma slides in deeper on the next beat, feet gliding instead of rocking. The jab snaps fully this time, followed by a straight that forces Ramos’s guard inward.

Before Ramos can reset his feet, Ryoma shifts left, angle changing mid-step, and a short hook whistles past the head.

Ramos slips it clean, but the body is there.

A left hook thuds into the ribs.

Thud!

Ramos absorbs it without sound, elbows clamping down. He feels it, but masks the pain.

Ryoma slides back, and forth, the rhythm surges again; jab to split the guard, right hand feinted high, then another hook driven into the opposite side of the body.

Thud!

Ramos exhales sharply through his nose, subtle, controlled. He answers with a tight guard shift and a small step back, keeping his head untouched.

Ryoma stays with him.

A third hook digs into the ribs as he pivots out, compact and cruel.

Thud!

Ramos hides it well. His posture doesn’t break. His guard doesn’t drop.

But Ryoma catches it anyway, the tiny twitch at the corner of the eyebrow, the brief tightening around the eyes.

<< He’s hurt. Keep it up. >>

From the booth, the tone changes.

“Ryoma’s picking it up now,” one commentator says, excitement creeping in despite himself.

“You can feel it… he’s not just studying anymore.”

“No,” the other agrees. “He’s layering it. Head clean, body taxed. That’s deliberate pressure.”

“And notice Ramos… still defending beautifully upstairs,” the first adds. “But he’s having to give something.”

Back in the ring, Ryoma presses again, rhythm heavier, intent clearer. The lazy sway is still there, but it’s no longer an invitation. It’s a countdown.

“He’s upping the tempo,” the commentator continues. “This feels like a fighter who’s asking a question… and might not wait long for the answer.”

Ryoma slides forward once more, eyes locked, shoulders loose, already preparing the next sequence. He isn’t rushing. But he’s done waiting.

This time, Ramos answers with a lazy right hook.

Ryoma sees it immediately. The shoulder loads too early. The arc is wide, telegraphing.

“Really…?”

His eyes narrow as he ducks under it, already coiling for a compact upper.

But Ramos’ lazy hook isn’t thrown to hit. The arm snakes around Ryoma’s neck, rough and heavy, pulling him down into a clinch.

“What a stubborn man…” Ryoma thinks. “I saw you kept using this under pressured.”

Ramos leans his weight in, chest tight against him, forearm pressing, breath controlled. It isn’t clean boxing anymore. It’s survival, buying seconds where seconds matter.

But even there, Ryoma doesn’t freeze. No space, no wind-up, just the twist of his spine, the snap of his left shoulder.

Thud! Thud!

Two compact piston hooks buries into the ribs, identical, driven into the same spot, precise and merciless.

And another one from Ryoma’s right, the Dempsey short hook.

Thud!

Three compact body shots, each striking as Ramos draws breath, turning air into pain.

Ramos grunts softly, almost inaudible. His grip tightens instead of loosening.

He senses another movement, and his instincts flares.

“Shiiit… not even clinch can save me.”

The referee steps closer, but Ramos breaks the clinch first, shoving Ryoma away, and immediately takes three steps back.

“He breaks free?” one commentator says. “He went to the clinch to slow things down. That’s textbook. Buy time. Reset the body. Yet he couldn’t stay there.

“Those short body blows…” the other cuts in. “They’re landing even in tight space. That’s bad news. You can see it. Ramos felt something coming and decided to disengage.”

“And that tells you everything,” the first adds. “If the clinch isn’t safe anymore, then where does he recover?”

“Exactly. Ryoma just took away the one place Ramos thought he could breathe.”

The camera catches Ramos stepping back, guard up, face composed. But the delay in his movement, the way his elbow drifts, tells a quieter story.

“Those body shots matter,” the second commentator says.

“And Ramos knows it,” the first replies. “That’s why he didn’t wait for the referee. He got out on his own.”

“Which means this round just got a lot more dangerous for him.”

The arena grows quiet in a different way, attention sharpening as the picture becomes clear.

Their young hero isn’t just surviving the Philippines Champion. He’s taking space from him; no safe space left in the ring, no corner, not even during clinch.

The crowd feels it before they cheer. This isn’t a young fighter testing himself. It’s one who already belongs to this level.