VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 441: Why Champions Don’t Break Easily

Chapter 441: Why Champions Don’t Break Easily

The last ten seconds arrive the way they always do, with the unspoken urge to push further. But instead of exploding, both fighters grind into something tighter.

They end up nearly chest to chest, foreheads leaning in, breath loud and ragged in the narrow space between them.

A full minute of close-range exchanges has taken its toll. The slugfest fades into short sneaking punches to the body, thrown without wind-up, more reflex than intent.

Ryoma’s face remains clean, no swelling, no blood. But beneath him, his legs tell a quieter story, a faint tremor running through his stance as he shifts and braces.

Jade wears his damage openly. Swelling has risen along his left temple, darkened under his left eye, pulled at the right corner of his mouth.

Blood smears his lips. His breathing is rough, dragged in through clenched teeth. And yet, his posture holds.

“Look at them,” one commentator mutters, awe creeping in. “They’ve burned through everything and they’re still right there.”

Jade slips in another short punch to the side, nothing heavy, just a reminder.

Ryoma answers by pressing off with his right palm on Jade’s face, forcing a sliver of space open. In that gap, he snaps a compact one-two.

Dsh! Dsh!

Jade’s head jerks back twice, sharp and sudden.

“Oh! Clean shots!” a voice rises.

But Jade doesn’t give ground. It’s Ryoma who inches back instead, widening his stance, setting his feet with care.

And he times it on Jade draw breath, a right corkscrew into the solar plexus, tight and brutal, landing just as Jade tries to inhale.

Thud!

“Oooh… right in the body!” the commentators shout together.

Jade finally gives ground, staggering back two steps. Pain blooms deep, locking his lungs for a heartbeat.

Before Ryoma can follow it through…

Ding!

The bell cuts through it.

The referee steps in immediately. But both fighters linger where they stand. No chaos follows, no late shots, only simmering heat in their chests, held in check by discipline and respect.

“An unbelievable third round,” one commentator says, breathless. “That could’ve spilled over in a heartbeat.”

Jade turns first, walking back to his corner.

Ryoma stays for a moment, eyes fixed on the champion’s back as the system runs its scan. Jade’s stride is steady. No wobble. No sign of fatigue yet, no tremor from the damage he’s taken.

And that, more than anything, eats at Ryoma’s confidence. As he turns and walks toward his corner, he can already feel the toll settling into his legs. For now, he hides it, careful not to let the enemy notice.

***

Even after that slugfest, the system doesn’t let him breathe. And its tone only becomes even more annoying.

<< What… did you really think you could beat a champion with half-ass punches like that? >>

Ryoma’s jaw tightens. “Shut up…”

<< So what’s the excuse this time? >>

<< Jet lag? Go ahead, use it. >>

<< Tell the media after you lose the belt… then cry yourself to sleep over how pathetic that sounds. >>

Nakahara notices it again, that simmering edge that refuses to fade. He understands it. Despite winning the round clearly, this isn’t the result they were aiming for.

“Sit down, kid,” the old man says firmly. “Slow your breathing. Take whatever rest you can.”

Kenta steps in with a bottle, pressing it into Ryoma’s hand. Ryoma drops onto the stool and tips the bottle to his lips.

He swishes the water once, and then spits it out onto the canvas. The coolness is enough to trick his body, to quiet the thirst without giving anything away.

Nakahara turns to Hiroshi. “Work on his legs. Those body shots must’ve drained a lot of stamina.”

But Ryoma immediately shakes his head. “Don’t. You’ll tip them off. They still don’t know how bad our conditioning really is.”

Nakahara pauses. “But…”

“I can still use my legs,” Ryoma cuts in. “They’re heavy, not dead. It’s only been three rounds. If I show weakness now, it’s not just stamina I’m giving away. It’s telling them I can’t take punches anymore.”

Nakahara studies him for a moment. “How long can you last?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer.

“Eight?” Nakahara presses.

There’s still no answer.

“Seven?”

Ryoma exhales slowly. “I don’t rely on footwork much in this fight. With this rhythm, I can probably keep going until the tenth, maybe to the last bell.”

Then his voice drops. “But after five… my legs won’t support my punches the same way. I won’t be able to generate the power to put him down. From then on, I’ll just be absorbing shots. And eventually, he’ll break me.”

The corner goes quiet. No one looks at each other, but the weight settles in all the same. The realization creeps in slowly, unwelcome and heavy.

Aramaki murmurs under his breath, almost to himself, “So there’s really no option left… we have to end it early.”

“And I’ve tried,” Ryoma says, frustration leaking through. “I wanted to finish him, or at least damage him enough so he’d slow down with me. But even after all the punches I landed…”

<< What punches? >>

The system scoffs again.

<< Those soft taps? Don’t make me laugh. >>

<< You might break weak-ass boxers with that. But against a champion? You’re still too soft. >>

<< Your punch was much better when you beat Paulo Ramos. >>

Ryoma goes quiet, knuckles tightening against his thighs. He hates that it’s right.

In other fights, that kind of exchange would’ve been enough to end things, or at least tilt the balance beyond recovery.

And it’s true, against Ramos, his punches had been better. He could feel the difference even now.

But this time, his body feels weaker, so much so that the same excuse rises to his throat again. But after the system’s rambling tirade, even that urge dies. Complaining no longer feels worth it.

“I watched how he walked back to his corner,” Ryoma finally says. “From that alone, I can tell… Even if I pressure him with the same output for two more rounds, it won’t break him.”

Nakahara finally speaks, voice calm but heavy. “That’s experience. Years at the highest level. He’s been defending that belt for three years straight, fighting nothing but title challengers.”

He looks Ryoma straight in the eye. “And he’s ranked eight in the WBC. He’s faced world-class punchers before. You’re not the first tough man he’s stood across from. He’s taken worse than this. He’s learned how to live with it.”

The words don’t comfort anyone in the corner. They only sharpen the truth they’ve all been circling. If this fight is going to end on Ryoma’s terms, it won’t be by outlasting the champion.

“There’s only one way,” Ryoma says at last. “Step-in counter. Fully load the right. And he has to be committing toward me when it happens.”

Nakahara exhales slowly. “I’m not stopping you,” he says. “But understand this… he might already be there too. If he realizes that’s your only path, knowing you’re a natural counterpuncher, knowing you’re running out of options now… he’ll try to bait that exact shot.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts past the ropes, unfocused at first, then sharpening as it settles on the red corner.

Jade is talking now, lips moving steadily, and Ryoma finds himself reading them without trying, catching fragments that confirm everything he already fears.

<< …third round tells me enough. >>

<< …he’s going to try to end it on the counter. >>

The picture lines up too cleanly to ignore.

“Yeah…” Ryoma murmurs, eyes narrowing. “He’s already thinking about it.”