VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 691: Invisible Entry

Chapter 691: Invisible Entry

Ryoma raises his guard slightly, bringing it higher than before. The adjustment comes with a quiet realization settling in.

<< The sway won’t be enough to throw him off. >>

The pendulum continues, but now it sits behind a tighter structure, less open than before.

“And you can already see the difference,” the lead commentator says, tone sharpening. “Just two jabs, and Ryoma’s bringing that guard up.”

“That tells you everything about Villanueva’s left hand,” the second adds. “It’s not just range. It’s timing and weight. Enough to demand respect right away.”

Villanueva adjusts just as quickly, syncing his timing with the measured distance. Jab, jab, lead hook, everything reaches, landing solid against Ryoma’s right guard and upper arm.

Dug. Dug. DUGH.

Ryoma shifts again, taking a step back to widen the gap. This time, he brings both gloves a little farther forward, aiming to intercept the punches earlier.

But Villanueva has the correct answers for this one too. He slaps Ryoma’s right glove downward, then slides his lead foot in, lowering his level as he drives a sharp jab into the midsection.

Ryoma retreats, but Villanueva’s motion is too smooth and quick, too well-timed.

Thud!

“And he still reaches him! That’s the first clean shot of the fight.”

“Less than twenty seconds in! And Villanueva is already setting the tone.”

Before the left fully retracts, Villanueva pulls his rear foot in and suddenly springs forward, chaining the attack; a jab and a cross aimed at the same spot.

Ryoma disrupts the jab with his right hand and steps back again, slipping away from the cross. He avoids both cleanly this time, but the retreat has already taken him too far.

“Oh, he’s on the ropes already! That’s incredible from Villanueva!”

“Against someone as elusive as Ryoma? This early? That’s not easy to do at all!”

The crowd reacts instantly, the tension spiking as anticipation surges through the arena, the sense that something could break open far sooner than expected.

But Ryoma doesn’t stay there. He gives a subtle half-step to the left, just enough to draw the line, and then slips sharply to the right, a smooth wide sidestep that opens space in an instant.

“Oh… he’s gone. What a smooth movement.”

Within a second, Ryoma’s out of danger, slipping cleanly into open space. Then, with unhurried steps, he casually walks sideway to reclaim the center of the ring.

“And just like that, he denies it! Villanueva had him there for a moment… but Ryoma refuses to be held.”

Villanueva doesn’t rush after him. He turns with measured steps instead, eyes locked, tracking every movement without breaking his stance.

There’s a quiet acknowledgment in the way he watches. Ryoma made the read quickly, adjusted just as fast, and through it all, never once looked rushed, never once he looked under pressure.

This kid is good.

I need to do extra effort to stop his movement.

As he tracks him calmly, Ryoma breaks the rhythm with a sudden entry, sliding his lead foot forward and snapping a flicking jab from what seems like a safe distance.

At least, that’s how Villanueva reads it at first.

But Ryoma leans deeper into his lead shoulder, extending the line just enough to steal extra reach.

“It’s… reaching me.”

Villanueva reacts on time, pulling his head back. The glove cuts through the space just short of his face before snapping back.

It doesn’t land. Still, Villanueva’s expression tightens for a brief moment.

“He could actually reach me from there?”

By frame alone, the reach should favor him. Yet the way Ryoma uses his lead hand quietly erases that edge.

And the fact that Ryoma throws it with that kind of confidence tells its own story. He’s reading the distance just as clearly, and he knows exactly where he can reach.

***

The fight settles into a quiet battle of lead hands. They circle in small increments, each step opening a new angle, each angle answered with another jab.

“Both of them working off the lead hand here,” the lead commentator notes. “Trying to take control without overcommitting.”

Left after left cuts through the space, probing, testing, asserting presence more than damage.

“And look at the distance,” the second adds. “Neither one giving the other a clean look.”

Most of the shots fall short. Both read it too well, slipping just outside the edge, reacting before anything can land clean.

“And even when they step in… it’s all getting picked off.”

Shots are caught, redirected, deflected before they find anything solid, the rhythm staying controlled, almost stubborn in its balance.

Nearly two minutes pass like that, until Villanueva makes the first adjustment.

“Time to shift gear…”

His feet grow more active, breaking away from the static circle into something sharper. The motion takes on a pendulum form, but unlike Ryoma’s loose sway, this one is tighter, more direct.

“Now that’s a change,” the lead commentator points out. “Villanueva’s not just measuring anymore. He’s starting to step in with intent.”

Villanueva steps in deeper and fires a compact one-two. Ryoma meets it with a tight guard, and before any counter can form, Villanueva is already out, circling to the side before stepping in again from a new angle.

“And he’s not staying there,” the second adds. “In and out, changing angles before Ryoma can answer. That’s high-level control.”

“That’s clean work,” the lead continues. “He’s touching the guard, but more importantly, he’s dictating when the exchanges happen.”

It becomes a measured hit-and-run layered over his control.

And just before it begins to tilt too far in one direction, Ryoma answers in kind. He rises onto the balls of his feet, matching the tempo with a lighter, more elastic bounce, stepping in and out with the same intent.

“And there it is,” the lead commentator says. “Ryoma’s matching him.”

“That’s not new for him,” the second adds. “Before all the adaptations, before the ’Chameleon’ identity, this was his base. This kind of movement… that’s where he started.”

Now both operate on the same rhythm, meeting each other step for step. And from there, the exchanges sharpen without breaking open.

Villanueva still holds the natural edge. His frame and reach give him first claim to the space, his left hand continuing to dictate where the fight can happen. Each time he steps in, his jab is already there, extending just far enough to force Ryoma using his footwork to get away before he can begin his own offense.

But Ryoma matches it in a different way. His better footwork becomes the equalizer. He never stays where Villanueva expects him to be, shifting just outside the line at the last moment, slipping, rolling, letting shots brush past guard and shoulder rather than taking them clean.

When Villanueva steps in with a flurry, Ryoma is already turning off the line, giving ground only to reclaim it a second later from a new angle.

Once and a while, they collide in bursts, engaging at mid range before they step away again.

But Villanueva’s longer reach always finds him earlier before Ryoma begins his strike. He steps in, jab and cross. Ryoma reads it, catches the jab, rolls under the cross, and answers with a quick jab of his own that stops just short as Villanueva leans away.

They reset, circle half a step, and Villanueva steps in again, doubling the jab to pin Ryoma in place.

For a split second, Ryoma gives him the line, then slips off it, pivoting just enough to stay within reach of center as he fires back, a quick orthodox jab flowing into a flicker.

Villanueva reads it clean. The first is caught on his palm, the second thuds lightly into his upper arm before he disengages, already stepping out of range.

“Still… no clean shots land!”

“But nothing feels slow!”

Every movement carries intent, every entry threatens to become something bigger before it dissolves just as quickly.

The pace builds, not through damage, but through constant engagement, each man testing the other without giving anything away.

“This is high-level right here,” the lead commentator says over the rising noise. “No wasted motion, no easy openings.”

“You can feel it,” the second adds. “They’re pushing each other, but neither one is breaking first.”

The crowd responds to it, drawn into the rhythm, reacting to near-misses, to the speed, to the tension of something that feels like it’s always one step away from exploding.

***

It holds until the round begins to drift toward its closing minute, and Ryoma realizes the rhythm isn’t favoring him.

Due to reach disadvantage, he has to work harder just to stay even. Not to mention that Villanueva has already landed one clean blow before this.

“This won’t do…”

So he begins to adjust, subtly, almost invisibly.

The bounce in his footwork softens, gradually giving way to a slower, swaying pendulum. His pace dips, his movement loosens, until he starts to look like he’s falling a step behind.

Villanueva senses the shift, but not the intent. To him, it feels like control tightening, like the momentum is finally settling in his favor.

So he commits more, steps in behind a heavier entry; a jab, then a lead hook.

But this time, both punches miss by inches. Ryoma leans away with a wider step, the slow sway pulling him just out of range.

And then, he makes a sudden ’ghost step’, both feet glide forward half a beat, almost imperceptible.

And his left snaps out like a spark. Villanueva couldn’t even react as the glove simply appears bigger to his eyes…

Dsh!

…striking his face and snapping his head back.

His expression tightens, confusion breaking through.

“What was that…?”

And Ryoma is already moving. His lead foot slides in, stance widening as the same left hand swings into a sharper arc…

Dsh!

The hook clips Villanueva’s cheek, turning his head to the side.

And before the motion even finishes, Ryoma drives his rear foot forward another inch, then fires a stiff, piston-like jab straight through the opening…

Dhuack!

Villanueva’s head jerks back again.

“Three shots… three lefts in a single burst!”

“And he didn’t see any of them coming!”

Villanueva gives ground immediately, stepping back to reset, the space between them widening as he tries to shut down the sudden surge.

“Within a second, Ryoma Takeda has completely flipped the exchange!!!”