VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 674: The First Interruption

Chapter 674: The First Interruption

For a brief stretch, Kenta’s lazy pendulum rhythm works again. The tempo dips slightly, just enough to disrupt the immediate follow-up.

“And you can see it here,” the lead commentator picks up as the rhythm settles. “That slow sway… Moriyama’s not just moving, he’s starting to touch with it now.”

“Yeah, look at the shoulders,” the second adds. “He’s letting them roll with the rhythm. Light lead hook… light jab…”

Dug. Dug.

“…nothing heavy, just feeding that cadence.”

“And then… there!” the lead cuts in.

DUGH.

“He suddenly shifts it! Heavy cross right down the middle!”

“That’s the Soviet beat,” the second follows. “Soft touches to set the rhythm, then a sudden change of tempo to catch you off guard.”

“And Dela Cruz is reading it in real time,” the lead continues. “He’s staying in front, gloves tight, not overreacting, just trying to get the timing, the angle, the distance before he commits again.”

“He’s not biting on the rhythm,” the second adds. “He’s studying it… and waiting for the moment to break it.”

But that moment of slow tempo doesn’t last. Within half a minute, Dela Cruz is already taking back his rhythm again, closing the space with that same forward insistence, herding Kenta toward the ropes with pressure that never quite pauses long enough to be escaped.

“Dela Cruz is already stepping back in, taking that rhythm away from him.”

“He’s not letting Moriyama sit in that tempo. The moment it starts to settle, he pushes right through it.”

“And look at the pressure. He’s not just attacking, he’s driving him back again.”

“Yeah, cutting the space off. Every step Moriyama takes, he’s being walked closer to the ropes. No room to keep that rhythm going.”

Once Kenta’s back nears the strands, the champion resumes without hesitation. The first sequence comes long and structured, straight punches driving through the middle before expanding outward.

Left-right-left, tight and direct, then a long lead hook, followed by a straight right behind it.

Kenta keeps his guard high, elbows tucked, angling his forearms to take the edge off, but the volume alone forces him to stay locked in place.

“And here it comes,” the lead commentator says as the sequence unfolds. “Constant pressure from Dela Cruz, straight down the middle…”

Dug.Dug.Dug.

“…then he widens it, lead hook…”

Dsh!

“…and the right hand behind it!”

Dug.

“That’s beautiful structure,” the second adds. “Everything starts tight, then he expands it just enough to break the guard.”

Dela Cruz gives a brief reset, barely more than a beat, before stepping in again, this time tightening everything.

The second sequence comes again, stiffer, driven with a slight shift of angle as he inches closer.

“And listen to that,” the lead commentator cuts in as the second sequence lands. “That sounds different already.”

Dug. Dug. Thud!

Dug. Bugh! Dug.

“He stepped in closer for this one,” the second adds. “Tighter angle, less space, more weight behind every shot.”

Eleven punches in total across both sequences, thrown from mid-range with a rhythm that feels continuous even when it isn’t.

Kenta absorbs most of it on his guard, shoulders rolling, gloves adjusting with each impact, but it’s not perfect. A lead hook slips through in the first set, and two straight shots dig into his chest in the second set.

Still, he holds. There’s no panic in him now, no frantic attempt to escape. He endures it, reading through the pressure, waiting for something he now knows will come.

“He’s going to take a break now…”

And it does come; Dela Cruz stepping back, not far, just enough to slip out of range.

His gloves lower slightly, shoulders loosening as he exhales, drawing in a deeper breath than the ones hidden between exchanges. It’s brief, controlled, but unmistakable.

Kenta sees it clearly this time. And instead of letting it pass, he makes a move.

His left glove drops slightly as his right tightens under his chin, his posture shifting forward with intent rather than retreat.

The reaction is immediate. Dela Cruz’s body tightens again, his gloves snapping back into position as his lead foot slides forward to close the gap before anything can develop.

He cuts the moment short himself, stepping back into range with urgency that wasn’t there before.

And a short combination fires out; left-right-left, straight down the middle. Kenta pulls his lead foot back and brings his guard up again, meeting all three cleanly.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

There’s a brief reset, but instead of stepping away, Dela Cruz anchors himself closer this time, his rear foot inching forward as he keeps the distance compressed.

Another short sequence follows, aimed tighter now, lower. A jab, then a compact overhand to the chest.

Dug. Dug.

Both land on the guard, but the impact pins Kenta’s arms in place for a moment, limiting his movement rather than breaking through it.

“Even when those land on the guard,” the lead continues, “they’re pinning his arms. He can’t move, can’t reset.”

“That’s suffocating pressure,” the second follows. “You’re not getting hit clean, but you’re not getting out either.”

A low murmur rolls through the arena, the crowd reacting to the sustained control, the constant thudding rhythm echoing off the ropes as the champion keeps Kenta trapped in place.

Dela Cruz pivots slightly, shifting his angle to the right, masking another inhale within the motion before launching again.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Another cluster of punches, fast and compact. Not as heavy as before, but insistent, meant to maintain pressure rather than deal damage.

In that short span, he adds nearly another full sequence, keeping Kenta locked in place. But Kenta feels the difference.

The weight isn’t the same. The punches still carry force, but not the same depth as the earlier exchanges. They land, they press, but they don’t drive through him in the same way.

And when Dela Cruz steps back again, the reason is already clear; he needs a break so badly. But this time, he covers it with a smirk, a taunt.

“Come on, old man. Fight…”

Yet he doesn’t get to finish it, because Kenta steps in first.

A compact one-two shoots straight up the middle, snapping into the champion’s guard and forcing it high.

“And there… Moriyama fires back!” the lead commentator reacts as the one-two lands.

Dug. Dug.

Before Dela Cruz can reset or answer, Kenta closes the distance completely, stepping into him and locking him up in a clinch.

“But look at this… he goes straight into a clinch!” he continues.

“He needed that,” the second adds immediately. “After all that pressure on the ropes, he just had to stop the momentum.”

“Smart move,” the lead follows. “He’s been taking a lot, even on the guard. Sometimes you just need to break the rhythm, take a second.”

“Yeah, he’s not trying to fight his way out there,” the second says. “He’s buying himself space, buying himself a breath.”

But it’s not just a break for himself. Kenta’s taking the break away from the champion by applying his own weight, leaning forward, pressing in.

Dela Cruz notices the intention and reacts instantly, trying to free his left arm, pulling it downward to create space.

But the moment it shifts, Kenta answers with two short punches tucked into the opening under the arm.

Thud! Thud!

They’re not powerful, but they’re clean, deliberate, placed with intent.

And for the first time, they’re close enough that Kenta can hear the champion’s breathing clearly, heavier now, less controlled than before.

He leans in just slightly, voice low but edged with something sharper than before.

“What’s wrong, champ?” he mutters with his limited English. “Tired already?”