VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Chapter 519: The Cost of a Lucky Punch

Back in the ring, the referee’s voice cuts through the roar.

“Seconds out!”

Nakahara and Ryoma step through the ropes, their faces grim, while Sera lingers for a final, desperate pat on Ryohei’s shoulder.

Across the canvas, Ishimaru simply pulls the stool away, leaving Umemoto standing tall, eyes locked on his prey as the ring clears.

Shoji Hamakawa turns his gaze from Ryohei to Umemoto, who stands in the red corner looking like a demon reborn.

There is a cold professional edge to Hamakawa’s focus. He knows that after tonight, Umemoto will have no choice but to face him next in a mandatory defense. And he is already preparing to take back his dignity.

Enjoy your moment, Umemoto…

Because when our time comes, I’m taking my belt back.

The bell for the sixth round rings, but for Umemoto Kimitada, the sport of boxing has ended. Now, the harvest begins.

He steps out of the red corner with a terrifying calmness. He doesn’t rush. He simply occupies space like a tiger calmly watching its prey.

Across from him, Ryohei initiates that same pendulum sway, but the rhythm is decaying. The bounces are lower, the lateral movement restricted to a cramped desperate circle.

Umemoto looks at the flickering ghost and smiles. The ’distance-blurring’ effect that had frustrated him for five rounds has finally evaporated.

To his predatory eyes, Ryohei is no longer a puzzle, but a stationary target.

“Look at Umemoto’s face! That is the grin of a man who has finally solved the equation!” the lead commentator exclaims, his voice dropping an octave in sudden apprehension.

The champion lunges with a violent forward explosion. Ryohei desperately tries to trigger his step-back trap, but the ghost has lost its speed.

Umemoto’s right straight doesn’t just graze the glove this time. It crashes into it with the full weight of his momentum, knocking Ryohei’s guard aside like a flimsy wooden gate.

Before Ryohei can reset, Umemoto follows through with a vicious lead hook.

Thud!

The blow digs deep into the purple wreckage of Ryohei’s ribs.

Ryohei gasps, the air leaving his lungs in a ragged wheeze, but he manages to fire back two sharp jabs in a dying reflex.

Dsh! Dsh!

Umemoto ignores them. He doesn’t even blink as the leather stings his face.

He steps deeper into the pocket, anchoring his lead foot like a harpoon. And the punishment begins. Blow after blow rains down from both sides, heavy concussive hooks that rattle Ryohei’s entire frame.

Dug. Dug. Bugh!

Dug. Bugh!Thud! Dug.

As Ryohei’s guard drop, Umemoto shifts his sights upward, uncorking a singular, massive right hand to the temple.

Crack!

The impact is clean. Ryohei’s knees buckle for a heartbeat, and he is forced into a full turtle shell, his survival instincts taking over.

Sensing the end, Umemoto shifts his angle with surprising agility, mixing his punches high and low. It forces Ryohei to arc his back and shrink his posture just to protect his vitals.

Umemoto doesn’t stop. He pounds his heavy gloves against Ryohei’s upper arms, the sheer force of the impact swinging Ryohei like a limp pendulum.

“He’s drowning him! Umemoto is absolutely drowning him against the ropes!” the lead commentator bellows, his voice nearly hitting a scream. “There’s no rhythm left to read, no ghost to chase! Ryohei is just a bag of meat being tenderized by the most dangerous hands in the division!”

“It’s a firing squad!” the co-commentator yells back over the deafening roar of the Osaka crowd. “Ryohei is curled up like a child trying to survive a storm, but those shots to the arms are doing just as much damage!”

“He’s being swung back and forth like a ragdoll! If the referee doesn’t see a counter-punch soon, he’s going to have to step in and save Ryohei from his own bravery!”

With every hammer-like blow, Umemoto grinds him backward, inch by agonizing inch, until the challenger’s heels hit the bottom rope.

The ghost is gone. There is only a man pinned to the ropes, and the monster who finally caught him.

***

For once, Umemoto grants Ryohei a momentary breath. Not out of mercy, but to savor the sight of a broken man. He wants to destroy Ryohei’s spirit before he finishes the body.

“What’s wrong?” Umemoto grins. “Can’t you dance anymore?”

Driven by a spark of desperation, Ryohei snaps. He swings a wild looping hook, but the champion is ready.

Umemoto simply pulls his head back, watching with cold amusement as the leather whistles harmlessly through the air inches from his face.

“Ryohei swung for the heavens and hit nothing but air!” the lead commentator cries out, his voice tinged with dread. “That was a desperation heave, and Umemoto just toyed with him!”

Umemoto strikes back, digging a clinical left hook deep into Ryohei’s mangled midsection.

Thud!

Ryohei reels, his vision tunneling from the agony.

“It’s over. When you swing that wide against the champion Umemoto, you’re just inviting the executioner in.”

“Look at Ryohei’s face… the lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

Umemoto actually steps back, mocking him with a cruel tilt of the head.

“Oops! Did that hurt?”

Then he pivots his lead foot forward, and starts pounding Ryohei’s ribs from both sides in a rhythmic, soul-crushing barrage.

And he resets again, playing with his food.

“You shouldn’t have won that final,” Umemoto rasps.

Then he slams Ryohei’s upper arm with a heavy blow that sends the challenger stumbling into the corner.

Umemoto follows with lazy predatory strides, the very image of a man who knows he has already won.

“Look at what that lucky punch cost you,” he sneers.

Ryohei feebly throws a jab, but Umemoto swats it away like an annoying insect. He anchors his stance in point-blank range, trapping Ryohei against the turnbuckle.

“It put you in a cage with me.”

The torture begins. Umemoto focuses entirely on the body, hammering away with methodical cruelty.

“This is hard to watch! Umemoto is no longer boxing; he is dismantling a human being!” the lead commentator’s voice shakes with a mix of awe and horror. “He’s digging those hooks into the same bruised ribs over and over again. It’s systematic. It’s cold-blooded!”

Ryohei keeps his turtle guard compact, his entire world shrinking down to the searing pain radiating from his midsection. He is a shell of the fighter who dominated the early rounds.

He flicks out a weak jab and rear hook every few seconds, not to score, not to hurt, but simply to convince the referee that he is still active so the fight won’t be stopped.

“Ryohei is in survival mode!” the co-commentator shouts over the deafening chants of the Osaka crowd. “Those jabs are just a distress signal! He’s still here, but his body is screaming for an exit.”

“He’s effectively a standing punching bag at this point,” the lead commentator adds grimly. “Every second must feel like an hour in that corner. He is being buried alive under a mountain of leather!”

Ryohei is no longer fighting for the championship. He is fighting just to reach the safety of the stool.

Back in the blue corner, Ryoma watches in a haunting silence. His eyes aren’t just seeing Ryohei’s struggle. They are projecting a future shadow.

His upcoming opponent, Thanid Kouthai, a Muay Thai legend and ONE Championship kick boxing champion, is also a monster of endurance and instinct. By every metric, Kouthai is a tier above Umemoto.

Seeing Ryohei being dismantled in that corner feels like a premonition. Ryoma’s mind begins to blur the two images; Ryohei’s suffering and his own potential fate.

He realizes that unless he finds an answer to this raw primal violence, he might be the next one trapped in a cage with no way out.