VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 607: Beyond Imitation

Chapter 607: Beyond Imitation

He taps the door lightly with his knuckles, then pulls it open. The steady rhythm of gloves striking pads fills the air.

Across the room, Satoru is still working with Kenta, sweat already gathering along his temples as he snaps another jab into the mitts.

“Satoru,” Ryoma calls. “Maybe it’s time we start adding some of that Soviet system into your boxing. We still have time before your rookie tournament final.”

Satoru straightens instinctively. Kenta lowers the mitts with a faint grin, already sensing that the session is about to get a lot more fun now.

Behind them, the office door remains half open, the sound of the gym drifting back inside where Nakahara and Kurogane sit in silence for a moment longer.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Kurogane lets out a short chuckle, shaking his head with a look of disbelief.

Nakahara immediately shoots him a glare. “What’s so funny?”

Kurogane lifts his hands slightly in surrender, still smiling as he leans back in his chair. “Just remembering the first time I went to his place. Told him he needed someone like me, a proper manager to handle his affairs.”

He exhales through his nose, amused. “And yet the kid had already been managing himself better than most fighters I’ve ever met.”

Nakahara leans back in his chair, watching the open doorway that leads to the gym floor where Ryoma’s voice can faintly be heard.

“The kid…” he mutters. “He cares more about his ambition than money. For him, money is just a tool to reach whatever goal he’s chasing. Nothing more.”

Kurogane nods slightly. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

He reaches down beside his chair and pulls a folder from his bag, placing it on the coffee table between them.

“Speaking of goals,” he says, opening the file, “I’ve already started scouting a few potential opponents for him at the global level.”

That catches Nakahara’s attention immediately.

He rises from his desk and walks over to the sofa near the low coffee table, lowering himself into the seat as Kurogane spreads several documents across the surface.

Photographs, fight records, rankings, everything. Nakahara picks up the first sheet and studies it carefully.

“You…” he says slowly. “Since when have you been collecting all this?”

Kurogane shrugs. “Since I realized a lot of global fighters were going to show up at our Yoyogi event,” he replies. “Seemed like a good opportunity to start gathering information.”

Nakahara flips to another page. And one name catches his eye, Elliot Graves.

***

Outside on the main gym floor, Satoru stands inside the ring, gloves up, breathing steadily after finishing his previous drills.

Ryoma steps through the ropes and walks toward the center. He then gestures for Satoru to come closer.

“You’re relying on the pendulum step too much lately,” he says. “It’s good. But you’re treating it like a trick.”

Satoru frowns slightly. “Isn’t that the point of the Soviet system?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “The pendulum step is just the visible part. The real idea behind that system is rhythm control.”

He settles into a loose stance in front of Satoru. His shoulders relax, arms hanging lightly as he begins shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

His upper body sways gently with the motion, head drifting slightly off the center line.

“To someone watching,” Ryoma says calmly, “this looks lazy.”

He flicks a quick jab toward Satoru’s guard. The punch barely carries power.

Ryoma’s weight shifts again, and sends another jab, then another.

Satoru keeps his guard up but tilts his head. “Those punches feel light.”

“They’re supposed to be,” Ryoma replies.

He keeps the rhythm going, never stopping the sway. “The goal isn’t damage yet. The goal is disruption.”

Ryoma steps half a pace closer. “When you fight like this, your opponent sees a rhythm. Your body sways. Your feet shift. The jab keeps touching them.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“After a while, they start reacting to it.”

Satoru blinks. “Trying to time it?”

“Exactly.”

Then Ryoma suddenly changes the beat of his movement. Instead of swaying evenly, he steps a fraction earlier than before and snaps a sharper jab through Satoru’s guard.

Satoru’s head jerks back slightly in surprise. “Ah?”

“That,” Ryoma says, “is the moment you’re creating.”

He resumes the lazy sway as if nothing happened.

“The Soviet system builds a rhythm your opponent starts following. Once they sync with it, their balance and timing depend on your movement.”

Satoru lowers his gloves slightly, thinking. “So when I try to break the rhythm…”

“You’re already late,” Ryoma finishes.

He gestures toward Satoru. “Your final in the rookie tournament is coming up. That opponent will be aggressive. Fighters like that hate slow rhythms.”

Satoru nods. “They want exchanges.”

“Exactly.” Ryoma steps back and points at the canvas. “You’ve followed the footwork drills for this before. Now try to incorporate the beat into your jab rhythm and tempo.”

Satoru settles into stance and begins the pendulum motion. His shoulders sway slightly, though the movement is still stiff.

Ryoma watches carefully. “Relax your upper body. Your feet swing the rhythm. The rest of you just follows.”

Satoru loosens his shoulders and keeps moving.

“Good,” Ryoma says. “Now jab without stopping the sway.”

Satoru throws a jab. It comes out a little awkward as his weight shifts.

“Again.”

Another jab.

“Don’t load it,” Ryoma says. “It’s just a touch. Like you’re poking someone to annoy them.”

Satoru smirks faintly and throws another light jab.

Ryoma nods. “Better.”

Satoru keeps swaying.

Left. Right. Tap.

Left. Right. Tap.

After a few seconds Ryoma steps closer, watching his balance.

“Remember this,” he says quietly. “The rhythm isn’t for style. It’s a trap. If the opponent starts chasing your timing, their balance slowly breaks.”

Satoru glances at him. “And that’s when the real punches come?”

Ryoma smiles faintly. “Exactly. Keep going. First get comfortable with one tempo. Once your body stops thinking about it, then we’ll start adding different rhythms.”

Satoru nods and continues. The jab slips out again, light and casual, while the swaying motion continues.

Ryoma watches closely, arms folded, occasionally adjusting Satoru’s stance with a small gesture or a quiet correction.

“Loosen the shoulders,” he says. “You’re still carrying tension.”

Satoru exhales and relaxes slightly, letting the sway flow more naturally.

Meanwhiel, without them realizing, a man stands near the entrance door, has been quietly watching for a while now.

His posture straight with the kind of stillness that suggests long familiarity with fighting gyms. His coat hangs loosely over a dark shirt, and his sharp eyes follow every small movement inside the ring.

It’s Sergei Volkov, trainer and promoter of Elliot Graves.

For several minutes, he says nothing. He simply watches as Ryoma demonstrates a slight timing shift, as Satoru tries to replicate the rhythm, as the light jabs begin to fall more naturally within the pendulum motion.

Nearby, Sera is reviewing a training chart on a clipboard. But then, something about the unfamiliar presence near the door finally draws his attention.

He glances up, and then blinks. Recognition hits him almost immediately.

“Sergei Volkov?”

Sera straightens slightly, clearly surprised to see him here. Just as he starts moving in that direction, Sergei lifts a hand casually, signaling that it’s unnecessary.

Instead, the Russian trainer walks closer to the ring. “So,” Sergei says in a calm, accented voice, “you’ve gotten good enough that you’re teaching the Soviet system to someone else now.”

His present finally catches Ryoma’s attention. Ryoma turns his head slightly, blinking, and then surprise.

“You are… Elliot’s trainer?”

Sergei stops just beside the ropes and looks up at him, studying him for a brief moment. Then he gives a small, approving nod.

“Long time no see, kid,” he greets. “Though it hasn’t really been that long. The last time I saw you, you were stealing the system during a spar. Now you’ve mastered it well enough to teach it.”