VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 439: One Hand, Many Lies

Chapter 439: One Hand, Many Lies

Ryoma’s gaze lingers across the ring, on Jade’s mouth. He reads the words as they form, the short exchanges with the corner.

So that’s the plan. Break the two-beat flicker. Knock it aside and let everything else die with it.

The realization doesn’t change Ryoma’s expression. It’s the same method he used back when he beat this same trick on Sekino.

His face stays loose, almost indifferent, as if the adjustment doesn’t weigh much at all.

Just then, the referee’s voice cuts through the arena.

“Seconds out!”

The red corner moves at once. The stool slides back. The towel is pulled away.

Jade rises to his feet, rolling his shoulder once. There’s uncertainty in his face. But beneath it, something firmer has settled. Whatever hit him before, he’s ready for what comes next.

The commentators fill the space as the corners clear, voices settling into that familiar cadence before violence resumes.

“You can feel the shift in the building,” one of them says. “That second round changed how people are looking at this fight.”

“Absolutely,” the other agrees. “The champion still looks composed, but Takeda showed he’s not here just to survive. He’s making McConnel think.”

“And when a champion starts thinking instead of acting,” the first adds, “that’s when things get interesting.”

Then finally…

Ding!

Round Three.

Both fighters step out of their corners without hurry. Measured strides toward the center, eyes locked, bodies already settling into familiar rhythms.

“Here we go,” the first commentator murmurs, anticipation slipping into his voice. “Round three. It might still be early, but don’t blink. This round could decide how this fight ends tonight.”

Jade claims the center immediately, planted and upright, staying with his southpaw stance, completely no adjustment. His shoulders are loose, chin tucked, eyes steady as he waits.

Ryoma doesn’t mirror him. He drifts instead, veering to his left with that lazy sway in his torso, left hand hanging low again, right tucked in.

The flicker stance returns like it never left. And this time, he doesn’t wait.

A textbook jab snaps out first, straight and clean, touching Jade’s guard.

Dug.

Before the left fully retracts, it swings wide, turning into that familiar flicker, light and slapping, meant to irritate more than hurt.

Jade’s lips curl, boredom flashing across his face. He slaps the hand away without effort.

“Too easy.”

But in the same instant, Ryoma’s right glove fires, compact, and sharp.

Jade’s eyes widen just a fraction. He brings his left glove up and pulls his head left at the same time, but not quite enough.

Dsh!

Leather clips his right cheek, not deep, not heavy, but clean enough to register.

The crowd reacts in a delayed ripple.

Ryoma doesn’t chase. He simply resets, left hand dropping again as his torso resumes that lazy sway. He shakes his head once, almost casually.

A quiet message, delivered without words.

“I still have more.”

The punch doesn’t stagger the champion. It doesn’t even slow him. But it does something else. It unsettles the picture he thought he had.

And for now, that’s enough. Confusion, after all, works best when it arrives early.

***

Ryoma repeats the cadence as if nothing has changed. Same sway, same invitation.

The two-beat flicker comes again, light and familiar. And Jade knocks it aside on instinct, already braced for the right hand that follows.

Dug.

He blocks the cross clean this time. Exactly as planned.

But the same left he just swatted away never retracted, stays extended. And now, Ryoma rolls his shoulder, and turns the left into something else entirely, a blunt sudden shot to the ribs.

Thud!

Jade exhales sharply behind his guard. His elbow clamps down an instant late, ribs tightening as he absorbs it. It’s not enough to draw a grimace, but his shoulders tense all the same.

“Did you see that?” one commentator says, voice lifting. “That left never came back.”

“He turned it into a weapon mid-motion,” the other adds. “The champion’s reading the first and the second beat, but he can’t track what comes after.”

“And that’s the problem right now,” the first continues. “Takeda’s left isn’t just landing. It’s refusing to behave. McConnel can’t get a clean read on it.”

Ryoma doesn’t chase. Again, he only shakes his head once, slow and almost dismissive, as if filing the reaction away.

“Yeah… keep reading me. Keep reacting.”

Jade hesitates. His eyes track the sway, the loose rhythm, the dangling left hand that doesn’t behave like it’s supposed to.

For a beat, the plan he carried into the round slips out of focus. The intent to act like a champion is forgotten.

And once that plan comes back to his mind…

“Damn it. I should’ve just focused on my own boxing.”

He steps in harder now, intent sharpening, forcing the issue the way a champion does when patience runs thin.

“Oh, here we go,” one commentator says, excitement rising.

“Jade’s had enough of the tricks,” the other adds. “He’s about to take this back on his terms.”

Jade finally moves first, not reckless, but assertive. From mid-range he starts to punch instead of wait, keeping everything compact, rebuilding his rhythm the way champions do when they’re done reacting.

A short jab to claim space. A tight follow-up meant to draw a response. The tempo is his again, deliberate and controlled.

But Ryoma reads it clean. He slips the first shot by a breath, ducks under the second, rolls with the third, his head moving in a smooth sequence that wastes nothing.

Jade feels the answers coming back empty, and that alone sharpens his focus. But Ryoma simply pumps his right shoulder, the arm twitching as if a counter is already on the way.

Jade flinches, just a fraction, and that’s all Ryoma needs.

The right never comes. Instead, the left snaps out.

Dsh!

The flicker slaps across Jade’s cheek, more insult than damage. And Ryoma is already drifting away, veering left to reclaim the space before Jade can answer.

Distance is restored, and rhythm intact. But the champion doesn’t reset the same way.

Before Ryoma can settle fully, Jade shifts his feet. Without stepping in, he switches to Orthodox stance, left foot forward, shoulders squared just enough to change the picture.

It’s not a trap, no. He simply changes the angle, thinking it will be easier to deal with Ryoma’s Philly Shell this way.

Ryoma sees it, and his composure doesn’t crack. To him, this is familiar ground now. A normal exchange between two orthodox fighters, nothing more.

He adjusts without hurry, rear foot anchoring as his lead foot begins to slide, small and precise. The sway returns, subtle and measured.

***

Ryoma’s pendulum rhythm comes back to life, ready to meet whatever the champion brings next.

Jade pauses, just long enough to sense an opening.

But Ryoma answers by killing the pendulum outright. The sway stops mid-breath, and he simply walks to his right, drifting toward the outside of Jade’s stance as if nothing urgent is happening.

Jade follows with intent. Two probing jabs snap out in quick succession, then a lead hook to close the door.

Ryoma stays disciplined, gloves tight as he blocks the first two, feet sliding back to take him clear of the hook’s arc.

Then the rhythm returns; rear foot anchors, the lead foot slides back and forth in a tight lane. The pendulum is small, economical, just enough to suggest presence.

But it’s not for long. The moment Jade reacts, recalibrating, Ryoma shuts it down again and resumes that casual walk to the right, almost dismissive.

In the blue corner, Nakahara gives a subtle nod. “That’s it, kid… just like we practiced. Let the champion show you his orthodox. Get used to his left first.”

The thing is, Ryoma doesn’t need much reading. He already feels it; the timing of Jade’s jab, the way it loads and releases.

Now he only needs to lay the invitation. He pauses, waits, and then he leans right again, as if to drift away once more.

Jade takes the invitation and steps in. Ryoma stops, his head tilts left, just a fraction, offering a target for Jade to hit.

Jade fires the jab, confident.

But Ryoma simply tilts his head to the right just enough, slipping outside. Jade’s left glove slips past, threading uselessly between Ryoma’s shoulder and the raised left glove.

Jade’s eyes snap to that left hand.

“Damn it… a trap!”

His right glove comes up instinctively, pulling back his left arm.

But even before his left retracts…

Dhuack!

Something snaps up from below, cracking his chin and jolting his head skyward.

“Wooo… what was that?” a commentator winces in surprise.

Pain flares in Jade’s head, sharp and disorienting. And his focus is still on Ryoma’s left.

“What hit me?”

Then the left finally comes, wide and obvious now.

Jade manages to catch it.

Dug.

But the next instant, a right hook digs deep into his left ribs, followed immediately by another right arcing into the side of his head.

Thud!

Dsh!

“Oooh…did you see that?!” one commentator shouts, words tumbling over each other. “That was a trap from start to finish!”

Jade’s head whips sideways, his balance skids out from under him. For a split second he tries to recover, but his glove brushes the canvas.

“Ups… the champion’s glove just touched the floor!” one commentator blurts out.

“Was that a down?” the other fires back, voice sharp with surprise.

The referee doesn’t hesitate. He steps in, arm cutting between them, and points Ryoma away.

“Neutral corner!”

“They’re calling it,” the first commentator says, still half in disbelief. “That’s a knockdown. It’s brief, but the glove touched.”

“And listen to this place,” the other adds. “The arena didn’t even realize what happened until it already did.”