VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 476: He Did Everything Right

Chapter 476: He Did Everything Right

The bell rings for the ninth, sharp and unforgiving.

Ding!

Shimamura leaves the corner with a tightened guard and a posture drawn inward, built to endure rather than entice.

Across from him, Yanagimoto does not rush. The frustration is gone from his eyes, replaced by something colder, almost bored, as if Shimamura has already stopped being a puzzle worth solving.

He steps in behind his guard and goes straight to the body again, heavy shots thudding into arms, elbows, ribs, each one meant to grind something away.

In the booth, the tone shifts as well. “Yanagimoto is trying to break him down piece by piece.”

“And Shimamura isn’t firing back,” the other adds. “He’s purely defensive now. He’s betting everything on survival.”

Yanagimoto remembers Yoshizawa’s words as he works.

Keep working the body.

If he throws, force the exchange.

He won’t have room to slip.

And he won’t be able to take it.

Meanwhile, Shimamura can still slip some of the punches, and block the rest.

His drunken movement remains, but it is smaller now, tighter, less playful, and each retreat costs him space he cannot afford to lose.

Step by step, he is guided backward, until the ropes brush his shoulder blades.

Yanagimoto keeps it close to deny escape, patient enough to wait. He wants Shimamura to throw, wants the exchange where he knows his punch will land too.

But Shimamura refuses, teeth clenched, telling himself to endure just a little longer. Nakahara’s voice echoes in his head, calm and infuriating as ever.

You don’t need power for this.

Timing, angle, and the moment.

When they meet, the legs forget how to listen.

It won’t finish him. It just keeps him down until the last count.

So Shimamura waits. He absorbs the blows, blocks what he can, slips what remains, waiting for that perfect alignment that never quite arrives.

And then a hook digs deep into his gut, heavier than the rest, stealing the air from his lungs in one cruel instant.

Shimamura folds, breath gone, eyes wide as his knees buckle beneath him.

“He’s down!”

“That body shot did it… this might be the beginning of the end.”

In the blue corner, Shoyo grabs at Tadayuki’s arm, voice sharp with panic. “Enough, Coach. Throw it. Not that I care about him anymore. But if something happens, we’re the ones who’ll get in trouble.”

Ozaki steps in at once, urgent and cold. “There’s no reason to keep this going. This fight is already lost.”

Tadayuki grips the towel hard enough to wrinkle it, but he holds on. Shimamura is now dragging himself up using the ropes, chest heaving, legs shaking but upright.

The referee leans close. “Can you continue?”

Shimamura lifts his head and flashes a crooked grin. “I’m saving a secret weapon. Don’t steal it now, ref.”

The referee hesitates, then steps back.

“Box!”

Yanagimoto surges forward, eager, predatory.

“I’ll put you to sleep now.”

Shimamura sees the hunger in him, the rush. So he stops waiting for the opening and makes the gamble himself.

He deliberately drops his eyelids, gloves sink low, his body left naked and inviting.

Yanagimoto probes first, a jab to the gloves, then a hook to the body.

Bugh!

Pain detonates through Shimamura’s gut, but his right hand tightens, dropping just enough to be noticed.

Yanagimoto reads it and commits, forcing the exchange with a hook toward the head.

Shimamura’s right shoots first, short and compact, snapping into Yanagimoto’s jaw as the champion’s momentum pours forward.

The counter lands clean. But the hook still crashes under Shimamura’s ear.

BAM!

His body whips sideways, arm tangling into the ropes as he barely stays upright.

Yanagimoto swings again, and everyone is bracing for the impact, expecting for the finisher.

But suddenly, his legs go slack. Yanagimoto collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, confusion frozen on his face.

“What the…?”

Shimamura lets out a breathless chuckle as the referee waves frantically.

I did it…

He thinks the fight is end for his victory. But to his surprise, a towel has just landed in the ring.

Shimamura’s grin falters as he turns toward the blue corner, realization sinking in far slower than the pain.

For a heartbeat, the arena forgets how to breathe. No cheers, no gasps, not even outrage. There’s only a hollow stillness that makes the bell sound impossibly loud when it finally rings.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The sound cuts through the silence like a fault line opening. Heads turn. People look at one another, searching for confirmation that they saw what they think they saw.

In the booth, the commentators stumble over themselves.

“W–wait… hold on. What just happened here?”

“Both fighters traded. Shimamura hands on the ropes, but… Yanagimoto’s on the canvas. He’s not moving his legs.”

There’s a pause, then his voices lowering. “Is this… because the towel was thrown?”

Then clarity, slow and reluctant. “Yes. The blue corner has thrown in the towel. Once that happens, there’s no count. No continuation. He doesn’t need to get up anymore. The fight is over.”

The referee’s announcement seals it, final and merciless. Winner has been decided by corner stoppage.

Shimamura still can’t believe what he’s seeing. He slowly turns to the blue corner, eyes locked on Tadayuki, wide with disbelief, chest heaving as understanding crashes into him all at once.

Betrayal flashes hot and sharp.

Across from him, Tadayuki swallows hard as he meets his gaze, guilt carved plainly into his face.

“What… have I done?”

Across the ring, the red corner erupts into motion. Yoshizawa and his assistants rush in, hands on Yanagimoto’s shoulders, voices urging celebration.

“It’s over. You did it, Sinichi. You finally did it.”

They pull him to his feet, sharing the joy.

But Yanagimoto’s legs betray him. They wobble, numb, unresponsive, as if something vital has been switched off.

He sags against them, confused, unfocused.

“My legs…”

Yoshizawa blinks. “Your legs? What about your legs?”

“I… I can’t move them.”

The crowd notices. And gradually, murmurs ripple outward, growing louder with every second. If the towel hadn’t been thrown, what would have happened to this fight?

A single conclusion spreads through the stunned crowd, quiet but unmistakable.

Shimamura had endured everything, suffered through the punishment, just to force the fight into his own ending. And that ending was taken from him by his own corner.

Aki swallows, almost whispering to herself. “What happened to Yanagimoto…? Did Shimamura do something to him?”

Nakahara rises from his seat, eyes fixed on the ring. “It was the perfect counter,” he says calmly. “Not powerful, but precise. For a while, the champion won’t be able to use his legs.”

At last, Yanagimoto manages to stand. Even then, his legs tremble beneath him, and his expression remains clouded with confusion, as if the world has shifted without explanation.

Nakahara’s gaze moves back to Shimamura, pride and sympathy mixing in his chest.

“For the first time in his career,” he murmurs, “he finally pulled it off. He did everything right. But too bad. They stole the belt from him.”

Then he turns away without another look.

“That’s enough, boys. We’re leaving.”

For a moment, Nakahara’s fighters hesitate, uncertainty passing through them like a quiet ripple. Then, one by one, they rise from their seats and follow after him, heads lowered, steps heavy.

Only Kenta remains behind, standing still as the distance grows, torn between obedience and the ache of leaving a friend alone in his worst moment.

His chest tightens as he watches Shimamura, who is still leaning against the ropes, arms draped over them as if they are the only thing keeping him upright.

In the blue corner, his team is already packing their bags, voices low and efficient, hands moving with practiced indifference. No one looks back at him. No one.