VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 398: Polished Smiles, Sharpened Knives

Chapter 398: Polished Smiles, Sharpened Knives

In business, hatred is rarely worn openly. It is pressed flat, polished smooth, and hidden behind smiles firm enough to pass for sincerity.

Logan Rhodes understands this better than most.

The Class-A tournament finals draw a full house. Cameras sweep the arena, flashes popping as sponsors, executives, and officials take their seats.

The front row is reserved for names that matter; money, influence, and the quiet power that shapes outcomes long before the bell rings.

And Logan sits among them, posture relaxed, suit immaculate, expression composed to the point of elegance.

Nakahara emerges from the aisle with his team, their presence modest beneath the glare of sponsor banners and arena lights.

Logan rises with the front row. His applause is restrained, perfectly timed. When Nakahara looks his way, Logan meets the glance with an easy nod and a courteous smile, warm enough for the cameras, neutral enough to mean nothing happens between them.

“Impressive run, Coach Nakahara. It seems momentum finally found your corner.”

Nakahara hesitates, then returns the gesture. “Thank you for your support, Mr. Logan.”

He bows lightly as he continues toward the blue corner, expression open and respectful. To him, it is simply good manners, boxing civility.

At the rear of the group, Ryoma follows with the corner team. His eyes catch Logan’s presence for a brief moment, long enough to register, not long enough to acknowledge.

He offers no bow, no greeting. Nakahara’s response is enough to represent everyone in the team. Logan plays it cool with a light smile, and takes his seat again, composure intact.

The commentators fill in the moment as Okabe gets into the ring.

“And here comes Okabe!” one of them announces. “Look at that energy… He’s in far better shape than we’ve seen throughout this tournament.”

Okabe raises his arms, feeding off the crowd, bouncing lightly on his feet, and then pumps his fists like pistons.

“Some still call his run lucky,” the second commentator adds. “Close fights, favorable breaks. But luck doesn’t carry you to the finals.”

“He earned his place.”

“Yeah… now he has to prove he deserves it.”

The camera lingers on Okabe’s confident grin. He can hear a few boos slipping through the supportive cheers, voices from the opposing camp.

“Luck runs out!” someone shouts.

“Against Higuchi, you’re finished!” another yells.

A harsher voice cuts through. “Not even God can save you this time!”

Okabe’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens, as if the noise only confirms he’s standing exactly where he belongs.

Then the lights shift, and the commentators’ voices rise in unison.

“And entering the red corner… Higuchi Naoya.”

The crowd answers before the sentence finishes.

“Twenty years old. Riding an eight-fight winning streak,” one commentator continues. “A pure speedster with excellent footwork, sharp hands, and timing that’s been dismantling opponents one round at a time.”

Higuchi steps into view, light on his feet, shoulders loose, eyes focused. He looks comfortable in the spotlight, as if the noise is part of his rhythm.

“This kid’s been turning heads all year,” the other commentator adds. “Fast starts, clean exits, and not a lot of wasted motion. Many see him as the future of the division.”

The reaction is immediate, and louder than before. Cheers surge through the arena, whistles cutting sharp.

“Higuchi!”

“Higuchi!”

“Eight straight… make it nine this time!”

Some of the cheers twist as they spill toward the blue corner, voices turning rough, eager for blood.

“Break him, Higuchi!”

“Don’t let him breathe!”

“Send him home in the first… show him the gap!”

Laughter mixes with the shouts, confident and cruel, as if the outcome is already decided.

“Teach him what real speed looks like!”

“Erase that smile!”

The noise swells, pressing in from all sides, not just support anymore but expectation, hungry and merciless.

Higuchi raises a glove briefly, acknowledging the roar with practiced calm.

“Listen to this place,” the commentator says. “They’ve already picked their favorite.”

“The bell hasn’t even rung yet,” says the other one.

***

The noise isn’t baseless. From the opening bell, Higuchi shows exactly why the arena leans his way.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t waste motion. His feet skim the canvas in smooth arcs, angles appearing where none should exist.

Okabe advances with intent, guard tight, but every step forward costs him something.

Dsh! Dsh!

Two jabs lands clean in his face.

Once Okabe cocks his right, Higuchi is already gone, and slips in again with swift footwork.

The jab snaps out, not heavy but precise, touching Okabe’s face, his gloves, his rhythm. It isn’t meant to hurt yet. It’s meant to measure, to disrupt, to announce control.

By the midpoint of the first round, the pattern settles. Higuchi circles, pivots, slips just outside range, then steps back in with clean combinations.

One–two. Check hook. A quick step out before Okabe can answer. When Okabe swings, Higuchi isn’t there. When Okabe plants, Higuchi punishes him for it.

“He’s controlling every inch of the ring. This is Higuchi fighting at his preferred distance.”

“And Okabe hasn’t found the key yet.”

The judges don’t need to look hard. The gap writes itself.

And round two is worse. After fully studying his opponent, Higuchi grows bolder, his confidence visible in every movement.

He starts changing levels, drawing Okabe’s guard high, then threading shots to the body. The sound of leather landing cleanly echoes.

The crowd reacts instantly; sharp gasps, then a swelling roar. Each clean hit pulls cheers from Higuchi’s supporters, while uneasy murmurs ripple from the rest.

This isn’t luck on display. It’s control.

Okabe tries to impose pressure, to turn it into a fight of will and grit. But Higuchi refuses to let the ring shrink. He controls distance like it belongs to him, moving with a balance and elegance that makes Okabe look heavy by comparison.

From the blue corner, Nakahara’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Calm down, Okabe! Don’t chase him!”

Higuchi glances his way, and a cocky grin flashing across his face. The sight needles Okabe, sparks his temper. But the moment he snaps, Higuchi answers by peppering his face with clean shots.

“Don’t rush it,” Nakahara continues, sharp and steady. “Cut the ring first. Walk him to the corner. Make him stop before you swing!”

Ryoma watches in silence. The Vision Grid works at the edge of his awareness, mapping Higuchi’s movement in quiet layers; footwork patterns, rhythm shifts, weight transfer, timing windows.

He searches for tells; habits, a crack in the machine. But there’s almost nothing.

Either Higuchi really is this complete, or Okabe is giving him everything he wants, letting him fight at his most perfect and efficiency.

Every entry is clean. Every exit is disciplined. No wasted motion. No panic.

And it stings, because the longer Ryoma studies Higuchi, the less he thinks about helping Okabe. Instead, a different urge coils in his chest, the itch to step into the ring himself, to test that balance, to see if those clean lines would hold under real pressure.

<< Admit it already. He’s that good. Good enough to make you question whether you’d win if you fought in his division. >>

He does feel the urge to test Higuchi himself. But featherweight is too low. No matter how badly Ryoma wants to measure himself against him, their paths will never cross.

***

By the end of the third round, the crowd is no longer shouting instructions.

They’re watching.

Because now it’s clear: this isn’t just a lead on the scorecards. It’s a demonstration of level, speed, form, and polish being applied without mercy.

Okabe’s face tells the story. One eye is already puffed, his cheek flushed and swelling, breaths coming heavier as he returns to the corner.

Ryoma’s gaze drifts from the ring to Nakahara. The old man’s hands grip the ropes, eyes searching for an answer that isn’t there.

It’s the look of someone realizing that momentum is borrowed, that not every honeymoon lasts as long as you want it to.

Logan watches, his expression serene.

Okabe’s swollen face means nothing to him. What satisfies Logan is Nakahara’s quiet desperation, and the anger set hard in Ryoma’s jaw.