VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 401: Fighting in the Mud

Chapter 401: Fighting in the Mud

The pause drags on. The crowd fills the space with impatient murmurs, claps, a low rolling noise that grows thicker with every passing second.

Okabe stands in the neutral corner, sweat and blood slipping down his chin. His chest still heaves, but the moment that belonged to him is already slipping out of reach.

Higuchi stays upright across the ring, bent slightly at the waist, forearms resting on his thighs as he breathes through it.

The ringside physician says nothing at first, just watches. He crouches in front of Higuchi, asks a question that doesn’t carry to the crowd. Higuchi nods once, then again.

Across the ring, Ryoma’s eyes narrow as he watches the exchange.

<< He knows it wasn’t low blow. He’s just going along with it. >>

Finally, the physician steps back and gives a short nod.

Higuchi straightens. Almost immediately, he begins to bounce in place, light and loose. He shakes out his arms, rolls his shoulders once, the stiffness gone as if it never belonged to him.

In the blue corner, Sera exhales under her breath. “That was Okabe’s window,” he mutters. “It’s gone now. You don’t get that moment twice.”

“No,” Nakahara says calmly. “It still counts. Okabe put him down. Break or not, damage stays. You don’t just walk that off.”

He checks the clock. “Less than a minute left in the round, but this is a twelve-round fight, still seven rounds to go. That down gives Okabe an edge. If Higuchi slows even a little, Okabe can fight him on the equal ground.”

The referee steps between them, arms out, eyes moving from one fighter to the other.

“Box.”

The fight resumes, but the balance has shifted, even if only by inches.

***

Just like Nakahara predicted, Higuchi’s damage doesn’t disappear.

Even with the break after round five, Higuchi’s footwork never fully comes back. It’s subtle at first, half-steps a fraction late, pivots that drift wider than they should.

He still believes he has it, still moves as if the rhythm belongs to him. But Okabe starts finding him where he wasn’t before.

But Okabe doesn’t rush it. He steps in and digs to the body whenever the chance opens, short hooks that thud into ribs and midsection. And each one drags Higuchi a little slower, pulls his feet closer to the canvas.

“Ohhh… another one downstairs,” a commentator calls out, stretching the word like it deserves more than it gets.

“Not pretty,” the other admits, almost laughing, “but he’s finding something there.”

Higuchi answers back with a wide shot of his own that glances off Okabe’s shoulder, awkward and off-balance.

“Well…points for effort,” the first commentator says.

“Yeah, these guys are digging deep now,” the second replies, forcing enthusiasm into the mess. “This is turning into one of those fights.”

A hook lands half on the arm, half on the chest. Another thumps into the body with all the grace of a shove.

“Not a lot of finesse! But a whole lot of heart!”

“This is getting gritty! They’re fighting it out now!”

The excitement sounds almost practiced, like they’re trying to convince themselves as much as the audience.

The punches keep coming, sloppy and determined, and the crowd starts reacting not to precision, but to persistence. Every ugly connection draws noise simply because it lands.

***

By the later rounds, the fight loses its shape. Both men are running on what’s left; lungs burning, legs heavy, guards sagging between exchanges.

Technique frays. The jabs come late. The counters come wide. It turns ugly, the kind of fight that happens chest-to-chest, heads pressing together, punches thrown more out of spite than plan.

This is fighting in the mud. And in the mud, Okabe thrives.

“Take a look at Higuchi now,” a commentator says, voice sharpening with surprise. “He’s taking a lot of damage.”

“Yeah,” the other adds, almost disbelieving. “He doesn’t look comfortable in there at all. Those legs are heavy.”

Unlike Higuchi, Okabe is built for this muddy fight, not just his body, but something deeper. He doesn’t need rhythm or elegance. All he needs is contact, pressure, a place to lean his will against another man’s.

Higuchi’s guard lifts late, elbows drifting wider as another body shot lands and forces a grunt out of him. He tries to circle, but the movement comes slow and labored.

“And Okabe’s setting the terms,” the first commentator continues. “This is the fight he wants.”

“That’s the surprising part,” the other replies. “No one expected this. Not after how the early rounds went.”

Okabe steps forward again, cutting off the ring, shouldering into Higuchi and forcing another exchange at close range.

The crowd feels the shift. What started as noise turns into belief, and the underdog they’d written off begins to pull them with him.

Around the arena, voices rise, not polished chants, just raw shouts carried by momentum.

“Keep coming, Okabe!”

“Don’t let him breathe!”

“Yeah… stay on him!”

The momentum swells into something overwhelming. Okabe’s perseverance is heavy enough that a few in the crowd quietly wipe their eyes.

“He’s dragging him into deep water!”

“And Higuchi’s running out of answers!”

“And don’t forget, Okabe’s hurt too. Just look at the swelling on his face.”

“You’ve got to respect his toughness… not just the body, but the heart.”

***

The outcome becomes unstable, like something that was never supposed to happen is unfolding right in front of them.

By the ninth round, Higuchi feels his lead in points have slipped away. And that makes him impatient. Until at one moment, he lunges too far on a straight, overreaching, his balance slipping as his weight carries forward.

Okabe is already there, and a compact hook snaps into Higuchi’s face.

Dsh!

It’s light, but Higuchi staggers anyway. His balance breaks, just for a moment, and his right glove brushes the canvas.

The arena erupts.

“He touched down!”

“That’s a knockdown!”

“Did you see that?!”

In the blue corner, bodies surge forward, voices overlapping, belief crashing in all at once.

But the referee steps in fast, arms waving.

“No! Slip!”

He holds Okabe away, motioning Higuchi to get up.

The noise twists into confusion, then anger.

Okabe stands there, staring, mouth slightly open. He starts to speak, but his chest heaves too hard. The words come out but they can’t compete with the crowd’s complaints and boos.

Whatever protest he has dies under the weight of exhaustion and people’s disappointment, leaving only disbelief etched across his face.

Across the ring, Ryoma doesn’t look at the referee. His eyes are locked on the red corner.

The Vision Grid works silently at the edge of his thoughts, not replaying punches now, but scanning faces, posture, reactions.

Okabe is stealing the fight, but Ueno doesn’t look worried. Even with Higuchi’s legs betraying him, even with the fight slipping into chaos, there’s confidence there, too much of it.

When the slip was called earlier, Ryoma caught the cues; Ueno’s eyes flare with certainty, like a man whose bet has just been quietly honored.

The suspicion hardens into something cold and unmistakable.

<< This isn’t just the official incompetence. >>

<< The fight is rigged. >>

***

The final seconds of the Twelve Round crawl. And Okabe still controls the ring, feet planted, shoulders squared, cutting off what little space remains.

Higuchi barely moves now, legs stiff, guard glued to his face as if holding it together by force alone.

Every exchange costs him something. Every step looks borrowed.

“This is about staying upright now,” a commentator says.

“He’s just trying to make it to the bell.”

Okabe presses anyway, throwing what’s left of his arms, not pretty, not sharp, but relentless. The crowd is already on its feet, noise building with each second that bleeds away.

Until finally…

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The bell rings, and the arena erupts.

People roar like the outcome is settled, like they’ve already seen the ending.

Nakahara and Sera rush forward, voices overlapping, hands reaching for Okabe as if to lift him with their belief alone.

“You did it, Okabe!”

“That was it… this one’s yours!”

Okabe barely reacts. He stands there swaying, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, trying to understand why the noise hasn’t stopped yet.

Ryoma just stays a step back, arms loose at his sides, gaze sharp and searching.

Across the ring, Ueno Shimei is smiling, not just relieved, but triumphant. He pulls Higuchi’s arm up, gripping his wrist, and Higuchi lets it happen, a breath shuddering out of him.

They share a look that doesn’t match the fight anyone just watched.

Moments later, the ring announcer steps forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after a long exhausting twelve rounds, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

Nakahara’s grin widens. He nods to himself, already counting it.

“Judge one scores the bout… 115–113.”

“Judge two scores it… 116–112.”

“And judge three… 115–113.”

Nakahara leans forward, barely breathing.

“For the winner… by unanimous decision… Higuchi Naoya!!!”

The red corner bursts into celebration, grins flashing as they embrace Higuchi like the outcome was inevitable.

But to Nakahara and Sera, the word lands wrong, so wrong.

Nakahara’s smile collapses. He blinks once, and then again. His throat works as he swallows, eyes fixed on the ring, trying to make sense of what he’s just heard.

Ryoma’s stare hardens as he catches it; a brief glance from Ueno to someone at the front row, a quick nod exchanged like punctuation. He follows the direction, and it lands on Logan.

His gaze sharpens, jaw clenched with restrained fury.

And Logan looks back without flinching, an ugly grin settling on his face as if daring him to understand.