Chapter 3: Slipping Into the Zone

He still remembers it, clear as day. In his previous life, the post-fight interview, Tōjō grinning at the camera, cocky as hell, saying something like:

"Nah, man, I didn’t really train for this one. Just cardio and a few bags. The guy was straight outta high school. I didn’t need to go full camp for a rookie."

It had burned Ryoma back then, like acid poured down his throat. He’d been knocked out and humiliated, and Tōjō hadn’t even taken him seriously, not for a second.

Then the announcer’s voice cuts in, snapping Ryoma back to his current reality.

"And in the blue corner, making his professional debut... last year’s high school interhigh gold medalist... representing Nakahara Gym... RYOMA TAKEDA!!!"

"It’s been a while since we’ve seen him in the ring, but the talent’s there. Let’s see if it holds up under pro pressure."

The referee waves both hands, beckoning both fighters to the center of the ring. Ryoma rises, and walks to the center with no theatrics. His body relaxed, but his eyes locked in.

Tōjō struts in, bouncing on his heels, smirking like a man already posing for his post-fight interview. When they’re face to face, he leans in just slightly, whispering loud enough for the cameras to pick up.

"This isn’t high school anymore, golden boy. You’re in a man’s ring now. Hope you’re ready to bleed for real."

This fight isn’t the main event, just the second bout of the night. But Tōjō knows exactly how to steal the spotlight.

Ryoma, however, doesn’t blink, just examines the man with his sharp eyes, letting his Vision Grid system digest more data.

His opponent smells like cologne and ego. There’s a trace of poorly timed weight cutting on his breath, dry gums, stale coffee, and the faint sourness of someone who skipped more meals than he should’ve.

And the chin? It stays high, like a challenge waiting to be answered. But Ryoma sees through everything, Tōjō’s posture, the swagger, it’s all bluff and bait.

The referee finishes his instructions, but neither fighter touches gloves. Then, as they head to their corners, Tōjō calls out again, loud this time:

"Try not to fall apart too fast, pretty boy. I promised a girl I’d win pretty tonight."

Ryoma doesn’t respond. He simply turns his back and walks calmly to his corner, showing no reaction at all.

And that quiet indifference, after all of Tōjō’s carefully rehearsed mind games, gnaws at him more than any insult could have. Tōjō clicks his tongue, eyes narrowing as he watches Ryoma’s back

"Fine," he mutters under his breath. "Let’s teach this pretty boy some manners."

Nothing has changed this time, at least, not in the sequence of events. The bell still rings at the same second, the footwork still echoes in the same rhythm.

But Ryoma is different. His composure is cold and detached. And it unsettles Tōjō, just enough to throw a hairline fracture into his timing.

The opening exchanges play out like choreography Ryoma could dance blindfolded. He jabs, blocks, slips left. Tōjō rushes in with the same flashy double feint, but catches nothing but air.

Ryoma even lets him land that same grazing shot on the shoulder, the one that had surprised him all those years ago. But this time, he sees the motion coming before it’s thrown. Nothing shocks him now.

"Takeda’s looking sharp tonight," the commentator notes. "Calm footwork, steady hands, not bad at all for a debut match."

But Ryoma isn’t interested in making an impression. He’s testing something else, watching, feeling, getting used to the new perspective shown by that Vision Grid system.

→ Target Momentum Detected

→ Calculating Directional Flow

→ High Probability Vector Marked

Inside his vision, faint digital trails arc and flicker with every movement Tōjō makes, lines and curves overlaid like ghostly diagrams.

The system breaks down motion into probabilities; the boldest ones glowing bright red, showing the highest chance of action. Others remain faint, transparent like an unrealized future.

After a quick feint with his right, Tōjō follows through with a powerful left hook. But Ryoma catches the subtle twist of his shoulder just before the punch is thrown. Instinctively, he slides one foot back and pulls his head just an inch away.

The punch whistles past him, slicing through empty air.

"Whew... that was close," Ryoma exhales, steadying his breath.

"Tch... lucky flinch," Tōjō mutters, jaw tightening.

Not willing to take any risk, Ryoma deepens his focus, trying to decipher how the system works. And the system isn’t actually guessing; it’s translating the information his sharpened eyes are taking in, frame by frame, almost like it’s syncing with his perception.

After nearly a minute of careful study, Tōjō suddenly launches a flurry of jabs, each one chipping away at Ryoma’s guard and throwing off his rhythm. But when he caps the combo with a sharp right hook...

Swssh!!!

Ryoma slips it once more, narrowly, but just enough to stay untouched.

Irritated, Tōjō begins to put more pressure, throws all kind of feints, mixing his jabs with hooks in different angles.

But this time, Ryoma doesn’t even let one jab touch him. And the more he evades, the more his heartbeat slows, and his focus sharpens even deeper.

"Stop running away, kid," Tōjō taunts, circling with a smirk. "Is that all you’ve got, fancy footwork and no bite?"

But Ryoma doesn’t take the bait. His focus isn’t on striking back. He’s too absorbed in tracking the arrows, analyzing their trajectories. Right now, all that matters to him is observing every detail within the ring.

Noise begins to fade. And the crowd, the ring, even Tōjō’s footfalls feel distant now, as if sound is muffled behind a thick pane of glass.

"Let me tell you something," Tōjō growls. "You don’t survive in this ring by running."

Tōjō closes the distance and drives Ryoma into the corner with bold, relentless pressure. He unleashes everything in his arsenal, punches flying from three different angles in rapid succession.

But Ryoma keeps his head and torso in constant motion, weaving through the onslaught with sharp precision. He blocks and parries whatever his hands can reach, slipping the rest with subtle shifts in that tight space.

He begins to feel a strange thrill in every missed punch, in the sharp hiss of each swing slicing through the air. But instead of fear, there’s excitement in his eyes. They widen, alert and alive.

All motion looks viscous to him now, every gesture drawn out like it’s submerged underwater. And somewhere between one breath and the next, his thoughts drop away.

There is no past or future, just this one unfolding moment. For the first time in either of his lives, Ryoma slips into the zone.