VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After telling both Seconds out, the referee commences both fighters to the center. As they square up, the irony cuts sharp.

On paper, Junpei holds the edge, one centimeter taller, nearly identical weight at the scale. Yet standing across from him now, Serrano looks carved from another mold.

Serrano’s frame is thicker, shoulders broader, every line of muscle swollen and defined, as if the last thirty hours had packed him with steel.

“Alright, gentlemen,” the referee says, steady, the same ritual before every fight. “Protect yourselves at all times. Listen to my commands. Keep it clean.”

He lifts a hand, and the last line leaves his lips.

“Touch gloves if you will, and back to your corner!”

Junpei extends his glove without hesitation, calm and businesslike. Serrano meets it with a lazy tap, chin tilted high, swagger dripping from every motion.

As they turn back to their corners, Serrano throws a grin over his shoulder, voice carrying just enough for Junpei to catch.

“This’ll be over quick.”

Both fighters bounce in their corners, arms loose, ready to strike. The bell alone keeps their legs in chains.

And then…

Ding!

The bell finally cracks the air.

Junpei steps forward in measured rhythm, chin tucked, his left hand twitching, always ready to flick. His right glove rests close to his cheek, his body coiled in that distinctive shoulder roll. His footwork is sharp, precise, every movement a product of drilling and discipline.

Across from him, Serrano all but struts. His stance is loose, too wide, his guard hanging low, his chin exposed as though he’s daring someone to aim for it.

He bounces from side to side, switching stance without a thought, his movements jerky but charged with raw energy.

The commentators set the tone.

“Here it goes, folks! Junpei’s trademark, the Philly Shell stance. He’s such a true technician even at this rookie stage.”

“And Serrano… well, Serrano is like a wild beast stalking its prey. This could be a nightmare to read, or a gift for Teshima.”

Both fighters start pivoting, circling while gauging their distance.

Junpei tests his range first with a jab, the glove flicking out like a whip. Serrano slips, not with polish, but with sheer reflex, his head snapping back at the last moment, lips curled into a grin. He shuffles right, and left, his arms dangling, then bursts forward with a leaping left hook.

The crowd gasps in. But Junpei, keeping his composure, simply raises his lead shoulder, deflecting the wild hook.

Dug!

His right shoots out in the same instant, a straight aimed like a spear. Serrano flinches back with a cat’s reflex, head snapping just out of line, but not far enough.

Dsh!

The fist grazes his cheek, skin popping with a sharp smack that echoes through the hall. His head jerks with the contact, but the grin doesn’t fade.

“Not bad,” he whistles.

Junpei doesn’t linger. He’s already pivoting, steps crisp, sending another jab, then a flicker of two in rapid sequence.

Serrano eats one, ducks the other, and comes barreling back with a wild uppercut that skims air.

He misses, but the rhythm builds.

His punches snap from strange angles, arms whipping loose, one moment arcing high, the next diving low. Most cut air, but each swing carries enough menace to keep Junpei disciplined.

Junpei’s lead shoulder stays tucked, eyes fixed, his counters firing only through the narrow cracks Serrano leaves behind.

A jab flicks out from Junpei. And again, Serrano jerks his head back with that catlike twitch, then slings a wild punch from his hip.

Junpei slips clean, answering instantly with a jab–right combo…

Swsh, zrsh…!

…sharp and precise, but Serrano is already drifting away, his heels carrying him just outside reach.

The punches carve nothing but air. And Serrano laughs, shaking his head, chin high.

“Same trick won’t land twice.”

Junpei doesn’t bite. His eyes narrow, his feet keep sliding in rhythm, his flicker jab snapping at Serrano’s brow again, again, and again.

Dsh, dsh, dug… dsh!

They are not heavy but relentless, each touch scoring, each one claiming ground.

“Junpei’s starting to seize the ring,” one commentator notes, his tone sharp with observation. “Those flickers aren’t just points. They’re pushing Serrano back, forcing him into Junpei’s rhythm.”

The crowd roars as Serrano suddenly drops both hands, swaying his torso side to side, his body weaving with reckless abandon.

He’s bought himself a step of breathing room, regaining his footing in the open, widening the gap to avoid being herded into the corner.

“This guy…” Serrano mutters, “…keeps throwing lefts. Is he a lefty?”

Junpei catches the words, and blinks in disbelief mid-step. Serrano’s words, to mistake a jab for a southpaw lead, sounded outright ignorant. Even the casual spectators know orthodox boxers set up with their left.

“Is he… a total beginner?”

Carefully, Junpei measures him, and then lashes with a quick one-two.

Serrano bends low at the last second, the punches swishing past his head. He then springs upward with a straight left from his southpaw stance.

Swssh!!!

The glove smacks into Junpei’s guard, heavy, and Junpei stumbles a half-step. The audience gasps, and Serrano spreads his arms, soaking the moment like a showman.

“How was it?” he rises an eyebrow.

Junpei resets, his face still looking calm. But then he narrows his eyes, confused. Just moments ago Serrano attacked him in southpaw stance, but here he is standing orthodox again, left foot forward, right cocked back.

Like he just switched without rhythm, as if stances were costumes he could change at will. To Junpei, it screamed not versatility, but inexperience.

“What’s with this guy? Didn’t they teach him the basic?”

Serrano lashes out with both hands, left and right snapping forward in crude rhythm. Junpei blocks them all, but his brows knit, looking unsure. Neither of Serrano’s punches feels like a setup.

Which one’s supposed to be the jab? Which the cross? Both hands crash with the weight of finishing blows, as if Serrano only knows how to throw powerful punches, no jabs.

From the commentary desk, one voice rises above the din. “Junpei’s shell is holding, but look… he’s spending more time reacting than dictating. Serrano’s pressure is dragging him off his rhythm.”

Another commentator cuts in. “Exactly. Junpei’s supposed to be the one controlling space with his flickers, but right now he’s stuck blocking. It makes you wonder, did the weigh cut drain him more than we thought? He doesn’t look as sharp tonight.”

At ringside, Junpei’s Second shifts uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing. He has studied Serrano’s fight before, brushed him off as raw and unpolished, a brawler who just got lucky against a weak opponent.

But tonight, even with that same amateurish form, Serrano is forcing openings, dragging Junpei into a fight that doesn’t move to his rhythm.

The cutman leaned closer. “Boss, Junpei’s guard is slipping, he’s getting tagged too easy.”

Junji waved him off without looking, his eyes fixed on the ring with a simmering scowl.

“What are you doing, Junpei!” Junji barks. “Fire back! Throw more punches! Seize back the control!”

Somehow, Serrano’s chaos is working. And in the blue corner, Giichi Shigemori watches with a sly smirk, as though the disorder unfolding in the ring is no accident at all, but part of the script he had in mind.

“You don’t get it, do you? Bet you’re confused now. We were confused too, at first. But that’s just Leo, wild, untamed.”

It’s not that they neglected to teach Serrano how to jab. It’s that they believe that his raw, his unruly style, is far more lethal when left unchained.