VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Chapter 471: Dancing with Gravity

Yanagimoto’s feet keep moving, but the certainty in them begins to thin. His punches no longer flow from position to position. They start from intention instead.

Each jab is thrown with the same thought behind it now, not range-finding or setup, but fixation.

Hit his face. Hit that annoying ugly face.

“This bastard… how could he be smiling now?”

Shimamura’s movement invites it. The sway is ugly and loose, his head dipping and rolling like it belongs to a man who is barely holding himself upright.

His mouth hangs open as he breathes, sweat streaking down his neck and chest. Everything about him looks like a provocation.

In the booth, one of the commentators lowers his voice without meaning to. “Look at his face,” he says. “That is not a man trying to survive a bad round.”

His partner hesitates, then nods slowly. “Just a while ago, he was getting punished,” he says. “Clean body shots. Heavy punches on the face. This should be the part where a challenger starts backing up.”

“But he’s enjoying this,” the first commentator continues. “You can see it. He’s exhausted, and yet he looks… pleased.”

“That’s the worrying part,” the other replies. “When fighters start smiling after taking punishment, it usually means they’ve stopped thinking about damage.”

“Whatever this is,” the first says after a beat, “it isn’t confidence. It’s something else.”

Yanagimoto snaps probing jabs again, not to hurt, but to track. The glove brushes a shoulder. Another grazes the side of the neck. One skims across the upper back as Shimamura turns away at the last instant.

But each touch only tells Yanagimoto where the head was, never where it ends up.

The champion exhales sharply through his nose and keeps at it. Jab after jab, light and measuring, his eyes narrowing as he watches the sway, the roll, the dip.

Shimamura’s head keeps moving in the same lazy arc, ducking low and drifting back up, slipping the punches by margins that look accidental.

In the booth, voices rise together.

“He’s repeating it,” one commentator says. “That head movement is looping.”

“And Yanagimoto sees it,” the other answers. “He’s waiting now.”

The crowd feels it too. The noise swells, people leaning forward in their seats as if they might catch the moment by moving closer.

Yanagimoto clenches his left glove, and then keeps the jab going, tapping and touching, feeding the pattern.

His eyes stay locked on Shimamura’s head as it dips again, and again, just as before.

And finally…

“Here!”

He plants his foot and throws the cross with full weight, confident, committed, certain he has finally timed it.

But the pattern breaks. Shimamura does not duck. He pulls his head instead, and Yanagimoto’s punch only slices through empty space.

In the booth, one of the commentators blurts out, unable to stop himself. “How did he miss him?”

In the same breath, Shimamura’s left hand drives into the champion’s midsection, deep and ugly.

Bugh!

And a straight snaps up from below and cracks against his face.

Bam!!!

The sound cuts through the arena, sharp and undeniable, and for the first time all round, Yanagimoto’s feet freeze where they land.

“He had him lined up,” the second commentator’s voice comes in louder. “That cross was loaded, and I was so sure it would connect.”

“He threw everything at him,” the first commentator continues, “and he still couldn’t touch him. And he paid for it immediately.”

Yanagimoto staggers back two short steps before he catches himself. He tightens his guard immediately, elbows tucking in as he steadies his stance, his jaw clenched while the dizziness clears from his head.

Shimamura follows, but there is no urgency in it. His strides remain loose and oddly exaggerated, one leg lifting a little too high before dropping back onto the canvas with a careless plant.

Whether his legs are truly that heavy or whether he is savoring the moment is hard to tell, but the movement creates a rhythm that is unmistakably his.

Yanagimoto throws a lead hook to halt the advance.

Shimamura dips so low it almost looks like a bow, his head folding forward beneath the punch. He then pivots outside with that same drunken cadence, shoulders rolling as his feet slide past Yanagimoto’s lead side.

“Smooth movement by the challenger.”

“It may look sloppy… but Shimamura keeps getting away from the champion’s hunt.”

Shimamura ends up behind the champion without throwing a single punch. Yanagimoto turns sharply, instinctively, his guard rising as he catches sight of Shimamura’s right glove coming up late.

But the punch never comes. Instead, Shimamura swings his left hand into the midsection again, deep and ugly.

Bugh!

And a right hook follows, loose and whipping, striking his cheek like a slap.

Dsh!

“Two punches land home!”

“Champion’s lost track of the challenger’s movement.”

Yanagimoto answers immediately with his own lead hook, thrown more in anger than calculation.

Shimamura tilts his torso to the right, letting the punch sail above him, then straightens again with that same faint grin still clinging to his face.

“Wohoo… another sloppy defense from Shimamura.”

“Sloppy, but effective.”

Shimamura does not press. He simply flicks a light teasing punch from a crooked angle, barely more than a touch, brushing against Yanagimoto’s ribs.

Yanagimoto sets his feet again, jaw tight, determined to answer. But the bell cuts through the noise before he can.

Ding!

The sound lands like a reprieve, freezing them both in place as the round ends.

Yanagimoto looks at him, irritation breaking through his composure. Shimamura catches the look and smiles.

“What?” he asks softly. “You’re not raising your hand this time?”

Yanagimoto says nothing. His gloves remain where they are, his chest rising sharply as the anger gathers there, hot and contained.

Shimamura tilts his head. “I know it hurts your pride,” he says, still smiling. “But try enjoying the fight a little.”

Only then does he turn away, drifting back toward his corner with that same lazy sway, leaving the words hanging as the crowd roars around them.

The commentators’ voices rise again, barely concealing their excitement. “It just keeps getting more interesting,” one says. “We thought that would be the round where Yanagimoto ended it. Instead, Shimamura surprises us all with his unorthodox rhythm.”

“Look at the champion’s face,” the other adds, leaning forward. “He clearly doesn’t like it. Not at all.”

In the red corner, Coach Yoshizawa’s hands lift in disbelief. He leans toward Yanagimoto, his voice sharp with frustration. “What are you doing? Against someone clearly hurt and exhausted, and you’re moving like that?” His eyes sweep the canvas. “Slow, sloppy, ugly… and you couldn’t even land a single punch?”

Yanagimoto drops onto his stool, silent. He does not answer. He cannot.

“Damn it… How did it turn to this?”

The confusion is mirrored in his own eyes. As Yoshizawa said, Shimamura’s movement isn’t fast or sharp. It’s heavy, seemingly dragged down by gravity. Random but sloppy, predictable enough in theory.

And yet, every time Yanagimoto thought he had the timing, every punch that should land clean, it missed by a breath.

It is the kind of ugly, improvised boxing he once dismissed as nonsense, something only effective against low-level fighters. But tonight, he is trapped by it himself, running into the same frustration Shimamura’s past opponents once experienced.