VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 668: The Pace He Can’t Match

Chapter 668: The Pace He Can’t Match

The noise from the arena doesn’t fade after the previous fight. It lingers, uneven and restless, carrying over from the knockout that still plays in the minds of the crowd. Even as the lights settle back onto the ring, the energy doesn’t reset, it simply shifts, building again with a different focus.

Inside the ring, Kenta stands in the blue corner with his gloves hanging casually on his sides. His shoulders loose without fully relaxing, as if something in him is still trying to catch up to the moment.

He doesn’t look toward the crowd, nor does he acknowledge the noise that continues to build around him. His attention stays fixed on Nakahara.

Nakahara studies him first before speaking. “Don’t rush the first round. Take your time and feel the ring. Let him take the initiative.”

Across the ring, Dela Cruz is already moving, shifting lightly on his feet, his body loose in a way that suggests complete familiarity with the stage.

“He usually starts high,” Nakahara continues. “Mid-range, straight punches. He doesn’t go downstairs early. So keep your defense up top. Don’t give him easy control.”

Behind him, the announcer steps toward the center of the ring with the microphone, and the crowd swells again before his voice fully cuts through.

“Ladies and gentlemen… We are set for the next contest of the evening. This bout is scheduled for twelve rounds, and it is for the WBO Asia Pacific Welterweight Championship!”

He then turns toward the blue corner, extending his arm. “Introducing first… fighting out of the blue corner. Standing 176 centimeters tall, weighing in at 66.5 kilograms. He enters the ring with a professional record of 12 wins, 3 losses, and 1 draw. Currently 28 years old, representing Nakahara Boxing Gym… please welcome Kenta Moriyama!”

The response is modest, scattered applause and a few cheers. But Kenta doesn’t acknowledge it. His focus remains on Nakahara, taking in the final words rather than the crowd.

“Remember what we talked about,” Nakahara says, his tone low but firm. “Don’t overcomplicate it, don’t overthink about the strategy. Keep it simple for now.”

Kenta gives a small nod, his guard still slightly raised as he settles back into position.

Across the ring, Dela Cruz has been watching the entire exchange. A faint smirk forms as he leans slightly toward his corner.

“Look at him,” he mutters. “Almost thirty, and he still looks like he’s waiting to be told what to do.”

Behind him, Lawrence Hermosa doesn’t share the amusement. “Stop underestimating him. You know he’s four years older than you.”

“Yeah. I’m four years younger,” Dela Cruz replies, rolling his shoulders as his gaze stays fixed on Kenta. “And I’ve fought nearly twice as many times as he has.”

Meanwhile, the announcer’s voice rises over the noise before anything else can follow.

“…He holds a professional record of 27 fights, 25 wins, 2 losses, with 18 victories coming by way of knockout.”

The crowd starts reacting before the name is even called, the energy building in anticipation.

“The reigning WBO Asia Pacific Welterweight Champion… Arvin ’El Martillo’ Della Cruz!”

The reaction hits the moment his name is called. It’s immediate, loud, and fully committed. The earlier chants now come together into something unified, rolling across the arena with far more weight than before.

Flags rise in the stands, hands slam against the barricades, voices overlapping as they call out his name with growing intensity.

Dela Cruz acknowledges it with a small lift of his glove, nothing exaggerated, just enough to meet the energy halfway before letting it settle.

Across from him, Kenta remains unchanged. His focus doesn’t drift, not toward the crowd, not toward the noise. It stays where it has been since the beginning.

The referee steps in, giving the final signal. Both cornermen immediately move as each team steps down from the apron one by one. The ropes are left empty, leaving only the two fighters inside, separated by distance that feels smaller now than it did a moment ago.

As the referee calls both fighters to the center for the final instructions, the commentators pick up seamlessly, filling the moment without breaking the flow.

“Kenta Moriyama stepping into a major title fight tonight,” the lead commentator begins, his voice steady. “Currently ranked number two in the OPBF, and this is easily the biggest opportunity of his career so far.”

The second commentator lets out a small breath before adding, “That ranking did come under unusual circumstances, though. His last bout against Arman Sargsyan ended in a no contest after Sargsyan walked out right after the opening bell.”

There’s a slight pause as the context settles in.

“It caused quite a stir at the time,” he continues. “Sanctions followed, and Moriyama moved up in the rankings because of it. Now he finds himself here, challenging for the WBO Asia Pacific title.”

The lead commentator picks it back up, shifting the focus. “And standing across from him tonight… Arvin ’El Martillo’ Dela Cruz. A fighter who’s built his reputation the hard way, through activity, through pressure, and through finishes. Twenty-five wins, eighteen by knockout. That kind of ratio doesn’t happen by accident.”

His tone sharpens slightly as he continues. “He’s aggressive, he’s consistent, and once he finds his rhythm, he doesn’t give it back easily. We’ve seen it before. Fighters who try to match him head-on often end up getting broken down.”

Inside the ring, both men stand ready now. And then…

Ding!

The bell for round one rings. Both fighters move at the same time, stepping out of their corners without hesitation.

“And here we go… Oh…?”

The lead commentator cuts himself off mid-sentence.

“…Dela Cruz wastes no time!”

“The champion surges forward,” the second commentator adds, “closing the distance with intent.”

“His lead hand snaps out first, a sharp jab to establish range, followed instantly by a straight right.”

“He doesn’t reset. The motion continues, a tight lead hook whipping across before another straight drives through the center.”

“Four punches in one sequence. Clean. Direct. Aggressive.”

Kenta brings his guard up in time, catching the shots on his gloves and forearms. He blocks everything, but the impact still pushes him back half a step, the force carrying through his frame.

But his footing holds. He absorbs it without breaking position, eyes still locked forward as he steadies himself.

“He’s opening fast,” the commentator continues, the surprise still in his voice. “Dela Cruz already trying to take control of the pace here.”

More punches come, and despite Kenta still blocking everything, he’s gradually pushed back toward the ropes.

The moment he feels the space behind him tightening, Kenta plants his feet and answers, not with force, but with intent.

His lead hand snaps out twice in quick succession, both jabs driven toward the chest, aimed more at disrupting the advance than taking control.

Dug. Dsh!

The first lands light. But the second sinks in a little cleaner, nudging into the upper chest just enough to check the forward momentum.

But it doesn’t stop the champion. He fires back immediately, answering with a powerful right.

DUGH.

The cross crashes into Kenta’s guard, but the impact is heavy enough to pin his right forearm inward, compressing his defense for a split second.

Della Cruz doesn’t pull the hand back right away. Instead, he steps in, rear foot sliding forward to close the distance even further.

The follow-up comes without reset, A tight right hook whips across.

Kenta stays compact, reading it just in time. His shoulder lifts, chin tucking deeper behind it, turning the impact into his upper arm rather than his head.

BAM!!!

Not a scoring blow, but the shot still lands hard, driving through his frame, forcing his body to swing to the side under the weight of it.

“He’s in danger already,”

the lead commentator cuts in, the shift in tone immediate. “Moriyama’s blocking, but he’s getting moved around.”

The second commentator follows, sharper this time. “That’s the difference in strength. Every shot from Dela Cruz is carrying through his guard. He’s not breaking it yet, but he’s controlling him, like a pendulum.”

Dela Cruz steps in again, looking to press the advantage while Kenta’s balance is still recovering.

But Kenta doesn’t give him the space. He snaps a short right hook from close range, compact and sharp, cutting through the air between them and forcing Dela Cruz to check his step for a brief moment.

It doesn’t land, and it’s only halt the champion’s forward surge only for a beat. Because Dela Cruz answers immediately; a tight one-two, fast and direct, snapping straight through the center.

DSH! DSH!

There’s no wind-up, no excess motion. Both punches land clean, jolting Kenta’s head back in quick succession before he can fully reset.

Dela Cruz doesn’t pause, doesn’t step out. He follows with another pair of heavy shots, both hands coming through with weight behind them, still targeting high.

Dug. Dug.

Kenta’s guard comes up in time, catching them on his gloves and forearms, but the force still drives into him, pushing him back another step.

Dela Cruz then dips to his left, a subtle shift, and a feint toward the body.

Kenta reads it, or thinks he does. His guard lowers just slightly, adjusting to cover the expected angle.

But Dela Cruz pivots off that position and fires again, a sharp one-two coming from a different line, cutting back up top before Kenta can recover the opening.

Dsh! Dsh!

Both shots land clean again.

“That’s the trap! Dela Cruz pulling him out of position!”

Kenta’s head snaps twice, the impact sharper this time, forcing him to give ground as his footing breaks for the first time in the exchange.

Nakahara’s gaze sharpens from the corner. “Calm down… Kenta,” he mutters under his breath. “This shouldn’t be enough to shake you.”

Back in the ring, Kenta’s expression tightens, irritation flashing across his face.

“Shit… should’ve kept my guard high.”

Della Cruz makes another feint, just a half-step with his lead foot. Kenta instinctively takes another step back, and then the ropes meet his back before he can realize it.

“Oh, no… What do I do now? He’s coming.”

He knows he shouldn’t overwork his mind in a situation like this. It only leads to hesitation, slows everything down when he can least afford it.

“Come on… think. Fast.”

“I need to do something…”

“But… what?”