VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

May 8th, 2015.

Korakuen Hall hums with the restless energy of fight night. The lights burn brighter than the crowd itself, every seat filled with hopeful fans, gamblers, and scouts with sharp eyes. Posters of the Rookie King Tournament Quarterfinals Block A line the walls.

But Ryoma isn’t here tonight to fight. He sits quietly quite far from the ringside, hoodie up, his eyes fixed on the squared circle.

He came to watch, to measure, to remind himself who his real enemies are. Two names matter to him more than the rest.

First, Junpei Teshima, the man who—at least in Ryoma’s previous life—went on to win this very tournament.

The second, Leonardo “Shishi” Serrano, the flashy outsider Kirizume scouted to break and humiliate him.

***

The announcer’s booming voice fills the hall. The first match for Super Featherweight Division today is Junpei Teshima vs. Keisuke Sawatari.

Junpei strides in first, lean but wiry, gloves raised, face calm as stone. His reputation precedes him, sharp fundamentals, and that unnerving flicker jab that snaps like a whip and keeps opponents frozen.

Ryoma leans forward slightly. “…this is the guy. In my previous life, he took the whole thing. If I don’t want history to repeat, I need to know how he fights.

Soon, the bell rings.

Ding!

Junpei doesn’t rush. He holds his guard low, left hand flicking out again and again, never at the same rhythm. Sometimes they tap the air, sometimes snapping hard at Sawatari’s forehead. The jab isn’t just a punch; it’s a metronome, bending time to Junpei’s pace.

Sawatari tries to slip inside, but every entry is punished.

Flick, flick… SNAP!!!

His head jerks back, his guard cracks open, and the crowd roars as Junpei digs a clean right straight to the chin.

Dsh!!!

A commentator booms, “What a shot from Teshima!”

Another adds, “That right straight landed flush. Sawatari never even saw it coming!”

By the start of the second round, Sawatari’s face is already swelling. He’s too hesitant to even advance, maybe scared, or just confused. Junpei’s jabs control him like a leash.

And finally, a quick feint, a jab that blinds, and then…

BAM!!!

…a right cross drops Sawatari flat.

The referee waves it off. And the audience erupts.

Ryoma’s eyes narrow with focus, his Vision Grid relaying detail descriptions of what he has observed. For him, the ring isn’t about spying or scouting enemy. It’s about absorbing everything he can, until he has an answer for anyone who stands across from him.

Even before having the Vision Grid system, he had always been this way, an observer by nature, storing every quirk, every rhythm, every small detail worth to study.

That flicker jab… maybe I should add it to my arsenal too.

It isn’t the first time he’s seen it. He’s always had a fascination with all kind of weapons in the ring. He never fixates on a single style. If something works, he’ll take it, sharpen it, and make it his own.

***

The next fight takes the spotlight. This time is Koji Tanabe vs. Leonardo ’Shishi’ Serrano.

The lights dim, and music thunders. Serrano enters in gold shorts, arms spread wide like a showman, phone in one glove, livestreaming as he walks.

The crowd reacts instantly, half cheers, half jeers. His subscribers call him “Shishi,” the lion, a fighter who made his name exposing fake martial artists on YouTube with his knockout compilations.

But tonight, he’s not just chasing views. He’s here under the wing of Daigo Kirizume. And Ryoma knows it.

Finally, the bell rings.

Ding!

From the first exchange, Serrano already shows his colors. Hands low, chin out, dancing side to side with a grin.

His movements are wild, reckless, but effective. He lunges in with wide-angled hooks, leaps back with his torso leaning absurdly far, then springs forward with a counter from nowhere.

Tanabe tries to box proper, keeping his guard up, jabbing straight. But Serrano slips, bends, and fires back from odd angles. One punch scrapes, another slaps, but then…

Crack!

…an overhand left drops Tanabe to his knees.

The crowd gasps, half thrilled, half horrified.

Serrano spreads his arms, shouting into the camera still running from his corner.

“Shishi power, baby! Easy work!”

Tanabe struggles up, but his rhythm is gone.

Serrano smells blood. He starts taunting mid-fight, dropping his hands, sticking his tongue out, daring Tanabe to swing. Every miss brings another unorthodox counter.

Ryoma narrows his eyes, tracking every movement. Serrano’s punches are sloppy, his balance off-kilter, his guard full of holes.

“Such a reckless style…” Ryoma mutters under his breath.

By textbook standards, it’s a disaster. But somehow, wild or not, they keep landing. And the worst part? Serrano knows how to work the crowd with it.

It reminds him of Naseem Hamed, flashy, unpredictable, dangerous in its own way. Interesting to watch, sure. But Ryoma feels no urge to study it.

Styles like that can’t be broken down into drills or mechanics. They’re born from instinct, from raw talent, from a kind of chaos you can’t teach or steal.

Before the end of the first round, Serrano lands a looping right that flattens Tanabe against the ropes. And the ref doesn’t even count. He just crosses his arms, signaling TKO.

The commentators roar.

“And just like that, folks! It’s over!”

“Serrano turns the ring into his playground… and Tanabe’s night into a nightmare!”

The arena erupts again, laughter, boos, cheers, Serrano eats everything. He climbs the ropes, shouting into his phone, every second uploaded live.

“This is the show, baby! Serrano delivers, every damn time!”

The crowd roars louder, but in the middle of it all, Serrano’s grin falters. His eyes lock onto a single face among the spectators. It’s Ryoma, silent, unmoving, unshaken by the storm around him.

Serrano’s lips curling into something darker. Slowly, he raises his finger and points straight at Ryoma, sharp, deliberate, leaving no doubt who the gesture is for.

And then, with the same hand, he drags his thumb across his own throat. The crowd doesn’t even notice the shift, but Ryoma does. The threat is clear.

Ryoma just grips his knees, jaw tight. “You can have your circus now. But when it’s my turn… I’ll end your little show.”

***

The next day, Ryoma’s grind continues; roadwork before sunrise, sweat dripping into his hood, every breath a reminder of the weight he still has to shed.

One week left before his own fight. Most of his sessions now revolve around cutting weight, trimming every last gram.

But at the gym, Ryoma throws a curveball.

“Coach,” he says as Nakahara finishes taping the mitts. “I want to add some variety to my left. Can you help me with this?”

Nakahara raises an eyebrow. “Variety? What exactly are you aiming for?”

“Flicker jab.”

That gets him a long pause. Nakahara lowers the mitts, frowning. “Flicker jab? Your fight’s in a week, and now you’re talking about adding that?”

Ryoma shrugs, dead serious. “If I can’t use my right the way I want, then I need more tools in my left, don’t I?”

Nakahara’s brow furrows deeper. “Kid… flicker jab isn’t a trick you pick up in a few days. And truth be told, I’m not even sure I can teach you the way you’re imagining it.”

“It’s fine.” Ryoma’s eyes narrow, sharp with resolve. “I’ve already got an idea of how I want to shape it. Just help me with the mitts.”