VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 692: The Shape of Something New

Chapter 692: The Shape of Something New

Ryoma doesn’t pursue the retreat. He lets Villanueva drift away on his own terms, choosing not to chase the momentum that’s just been created.

For a few seconds, Villanueva has the luxury of distance without pressure. So he uses it, not to relax, but to reassess.

His eyes narrow slightly as he replays what just happened in his mind; the way Ryoma’s timing shifted, the sudden burst of precision, the three clean lefts that had overturned the rhythm of the round in an instant.

It was control taken back in a single sequence, and he knows it. But how it was done, he absolutely has no clue about it at all.

And he doesn’t get much time to decipher it either, as Mendosa slams the apron hard from the blue corner, signaling for the last ten seconds.

“Ten seconds! Now push it!”

Villanueva hears it, and Ryoma is aware of the timing too. The atmosphere tightens at once, the air between them feeling denser, as if the ring itself has contracted.

Villanueva steps forward. This time, there is no caution in his entry. Not recklessness, but commitment sharpened by urgency.

He knows the round is slipping, and if he stays passive, the earlier damage will define everything. So he chooses escalation, even if it means exposing himself more than before.

“Villanueva’s stepping in now!”

“He knows he can’t let those last exchanges decide the round!”

He closes the distance at mid-range and begins to work. The jab comes first, sharp and direct, followed immediately by a cross that carries more weight than anything he’s thrown in the round so far.

Ryoma, fully committed to defense, reads the motion as it forms rather than reacting after it arrives. The system feeds him angles and timing cues in rapid succession, but it’s his control that keeps everything aligned.

Dug. Dug.

The rhythm doesn’t pause there. Villanueva chains the next sequence without resetting his feet; lead hook into cross, then another step deeper as he drives his weight into a heavier hook on both sides.

Ryoma’s guard rises and shifts with precision, catching the lead hook, absorbing the cross, and deflecting the next short hooks away with his forearms.

Dugh. Dug. Dug. Dug.

The rhythm of impact builds, but nothing breaks through.

Ryoma steps back, giving ground. But Villanueva steps in again, trying to compress the space further, bringing both sides into play with heavier hooks now, left then right, aiming to overwhelm the guard through volume and force rather than openings.

But Ryoma stays composed inside the pressure. He adjusts subtly with each strike. When the angle shifts, his guard shifts with it. When the range tightens, he tightens with it.

Dug. Dug. Dugh.

Dug. Dugh. Dug. Dug.

There is no panic in his movement, only continuous correction.

“That’s a serious surge from Villanueva! He’s throwing everything to steal this round!”

“But look at Ryoma’s defense… It’s airtight! He’s reading every shot and taking nothing clean at all!”

Even the final hook of the sequence finds nothing solid. Ryoma ducks low beneath it, slipping just under the arc before it can graze him.

The punch cuts through empty air above his head, carrying Villanueva’s momentum slightly forward and momentarily stretching his posture out of balance.

“Again… he’s slipping everything at the perfect range!”

Ryoma is already loading from below. From the crouched position, his left side begins to coil, the intention forming quickly, a short counter ready to release.

But Villanueva is already in motion for his follow-up. A compact uppercut shoots up through the centerline, tight and immediate.

“Villanueva hasn’t finished yet!”

The system flashes red, and Ryoma sees it instantly. He abandons the strike without hesitation, pulling his head away just enough to clear the line.

The uppercut rises through empty air, missing his face by an inch.

“Oh, that was close!”

“Ryoma nearly walked straight into that uppercut, but he pulls out just in time!”

And finally…

Ding!

The bell rings first. The sound slices through the tension just as Villanueva begins to extend again.

The referee is in immediately, stepping between them with both arms raised.

“Stop! Stop!”

Villanueva halts mid-motion, forced to check his forward step. His gloves hover for a brief moment before he slowly brings them down, exhaling through his nose as he takes a half-step back. There’s a clear look of dissatisfaction on his face.

Ryoma, meanwhile, remains composed, already stepping back under his own control, breathing steady as the referee ensures full separation.

“And there’s the bell!”

the lead commentator calls out immediately. “That’s the end of a very high-tempo final exchange!”

“But Villanueva wanted more there,” the second adds quickly. “You could see it. He was still coming forward when the bell saved Ryoma. The referee had to step in fast to stop any continuation.”

The lead commentator continues, voice steady but impressed. “That last sequence really summed up the round. Villanueva came out strong early, established pressure, landed the first clean shot, and forced Ryoma onto the back foot for stretches.”

“But Ryoma adapted,” the second picks up. “He weathered the pressure, stayed disciplined defensively, and then that three-punch burst completely shifted the momentum of the round. That was the turning point.”

***

Ryoma walks back toward his corner at a steady pace when his gaze locks directly with Hugo Ramirez at ringside, and then with Jackson Rhodes. Ryoma’s expression stays composed, but there’s a clear edge behind it, a quiet contempt held carefully in check.

And even with Ryoma winning that round, they meet the stare with a confident smirk, like the round didn’t change anything at all. They look unbothered, almost dismissive, as if everything Ryoma just did was expected.

Jackson even rolls his right shoulder, slow and deliberate, a silent reminder of the dislocation. He holds the gesture just long enough to make sure it’s seen before leaning back slightly, still wearing that same expression.

Ryoma clicks his tongue once, low and sharp, then finally breaks eye contact. He turns away and reaches the corner where Nakahara and the rest of his team are already waiting.

The old man sees where Ryoma’s attention had been, but he doesn’t acknowledge it directly. This isn’t the time for distractions.

“Good job, kid,” Nakahara says as Ryoma arrives, his tone calm but firm. “You did well in that last exchange. That defensive stretch at the end… you completely shut him off. Didn’t give him a single clean shot.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose, still irritated from what he just saw, but he says nothing at first. He lowers himself onto the stool, rolling his right shoulder once as he sits.

“I did tell you,” Ryoma says after a moment. “I don’t need to be in the zone for this fight. My eyes alone are more than enough.”

Nakahara raises an eyebrow slightly. “Is that so?” Then he leans in just a little, watching him carefully. “Then why are you still looking so uptight?”

Ryoma lets out a slow breath, trying to settle his expression, but it doesn’t fully leave him.

“First, my opponent is quite good,” he says. “Maybe only Jade McConnel is stronger than him. And I’m worried I won’t be able to put him down that easily.”

“Then play it safe,” Nakahara replies without hesitation. “You’re ahead now. Just keep the lead. Let him chase you.”

Ryoma shakes his head immediately. “Leading with the score isn’t enough. Don’t forget what happened to Kenta.”

He lifts his gaze, and now there’s no attempt to hide the seriousness in his face. “I know that ring doctor was bribed.”

From behind, Kurogane speaks up. “We made the commission change the ring doctor.”

Ryoma looks away, glancing at the other officials now. “I’m afraid the ring doctor isn’t the only one who’s been bought. We never know who else is in their pocket… maybe even the judges.”

***

In the blue corner, Villanueva’s irritation doesn’t linger for long. It fades into a light amused smile, acknowledging the round for what it was without letting it weigh on him too heavily.

“Maaan… that’s the best first round I’ve ever had in my career,” he says, almost laughing at himself.

His second, Mendosa, leans in immediately with a scoff. “Still smiling after losing that round. Does that mean the kid isn’t too much of a problem to you?”

“What are you talking about?” Villanueva fires back with a disbelieving laugh. “I controlled the fight the entire round, but only managed one clean blow. Even that was just a light tap to his belly. And what did he do in return? Three lefts in a sequence. Within seconds, and he took the round from me.”

Mendosa straightens, crossing his arms as his expression tightens slightly. He lets his eyes drift briefly toward Ryoma’s corner, reassessing what he just saw before looking back at Villanueva.

“His defense is top notch,” he says calmly. “Best you’ve faced so far. That last ten seconds tells you everything.”

“Yeah,” Villanueva replies with a sigh. “I only meant to take a bit more risk, but ended up pushing too far out of frustration.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “And still failed miserably.”

And then, for once, Villanueva’s expression settles completely. The amusement fades, replaced by something more focused as he replays the sequence in his head, the moment right before he ate those three clean shots.

“Did you see what he did?” he asks quietly. “Before he landed those three punches?”

“I noticed he settled back into that swaying pendulum step,” Mendosa replies without hesitation. “We’ve studied that cadence more than enough. Did you still find it troublesome?”

“I did feel his pace slow down a little,” Villanueva murmurs.

But then he shakes his head almost immediately, as if rejecting that thought on its own.

“No… I don’t think it’s just the pendulum step,” he continues. “There’s something else in it. Something he hasn’t shown before.”

He studies Mendosa’s face after saying it, looking for confirmation, some sign that the coach caught what he missed.

But Mendosa’s expression stays unreadable for a moment longer than usual, and then settles into something close to uncertainty.

Villanueva exhales through his nose, a quiet resignation settling in, though he quickly masks it with a casual chuckle.

“If even you couldn’t see it clearly from out here, then I’m going to be in serious trouble.”