VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma can see the punches coming, his sharp eyes tracking every fist. But his body isn’t ready. His legs drag, slow to react, still dulled from the knockdown.

He can’t slip, can’t counter. All he can do is lift his guard higher and higher, catching Serrano’s storm on his arms.

Each shot rattles through him. And the crowd rises with every blow.

“Ryoma! Fight back! Don’t just take it!”

“No… Just hold the guard! Stay tight and survive the round!”

But gradually, Ryoma’s heels inch back, one step after another. His guard shakes under the barrage and constant pressure.

And Serrano’s grin widens as he keeps hammering Ryoma from both sides, fists pounding like a drum.

Bam! Thud! Thud! Bam! Thud!

Eventually, Ryoma’s back kisses the ropes.

Pinned, smothered, gloves trembling under the relentless barrage, he feels the ring close in around him.

The bell hasn’t rung. Hell, it hasn’t even a minute yet. The referee won’t step in any soon, and Serrano is still swinging.

Then finally, Ryoma snaps something back, compact, and sharp.

Serrano jerks his head aside, but…

Thud!

…the glove still grazes his cheek, halting the storm for the first time. He stumbles back on those swaying steps, but the grin never fades.

“You finally fight back, huh? That’s it… that’s more like it.”

Ryoma scowls and steps forward. But his legs are still heavy, sluggish. At least his arms feel free now, his torso looser.

He starts to bob his head, gloves twitching with feints, probing with half-hearted jabs. Now he looks like a boxer again, not a mad bull.

His head is clearer; and the Grid speaks, dry but with an oddly conversational bite:

>

The voice is machine-precise and casual at once, pulling at Ryoma’s focus like a metronome, clinical and insistent.

Up at ringside, one commentator leans in. “Has Takeda regained his rhythm? Or is this just a spark before the storm swallows him again?”

***

Still taking the fight lightly, Serrano begins the swagger again, arms spread wide, loose and exaggerated, torso bobbing.

Ryoma’s Vision Grid begins its scan, as always, trying to break Serrano’s pattern down. Yet tonight, the calculations stall, slower than usual, as if the system itself can’t keep up with him.

Before it can settle on a result, Serrano’s left arm whips through the air. It’s not even a punch, just a wild swing, like a hanging root cutting across the jungle path.

Swss!

Ryoma pivots his weight back, evading, then shifts a foot into position, sending out a few stiff jabs in return.

Serrano blocks the first two jabs, and bends away, chest arching clear, then slinks back into motion. His head and hips sway in rhythm, as if the fight itself were his music.

The crowd erupts in boos. Jeers rain down from every side, louder than the ring announcer’s mic.

“Fight properly, you clown!”

“Is this boxing or a street dance?”

“Quit prancing, gaijin!”

“Show us you can throw a real punch!”

The chorus grows harsher, a wall of contempt pounding down on him. But Serrano only grins wider, soaking it in like applause.

Then suddenly, he smacks his gloves together, plants his front foot, and rams the left forward, again, then again.

This time they’re closer to punches, shorter, sharper, though still unrefined. Each thrust pushes his torso forward, head low, the left snapping like a piston firing without pause.

His right arm hangs wide, swinging for balance instead of protecting his chin. It’s unpolished, but still heavy.

Each landed strike rattles Ryoma’s guard, forcing his gloves high, absorbing each blow he can’t slip.

The commentators’ voices rise above the noise:

“Look at this awkward style… so raw, so unrefined, but those left hands carry real weight!”

“Ryoma can’t answer them yet, he’s still blocking everything upstairs!”

Then something shifts.

>

Ryoma slides his right foot back, torso angling sideways. He squares his stance to one thin line, showing Serrano almost nothing but his shoulder only.

His left arm tucks tight to his ribs, right hand tight under his chin.

The commentators’ voice spike, almost gleeful:

“Here it comes, folks! The Philly Shell!”

“Will Ryoma rely on his flickers just to survive this round?”

Once Serrano steps into range, Ryoma fires.

Swss! Swss! Swss!

Three flicker jabs snap from different angles. Serrano smothers two on his guard, but the third cuts empty air, forcing him to stumble back.

For the first time, Serrano looks uneasy. Those flickers, that guarded chin and coiled stance, it’s as if Junpei himself is standing across from him again.

He remembers the glove Junpei almost threw, the counter that never came, a bout cut short that left only a bitter taste behind.

Serrano might not fully understand the science of counterpunching, but the instinct remains, carved into him from that night.

Now he grows more cautious, like someone stepping deeper into a jungle that doesn’t belong to him.

***

In the last ten seconds, the balance begins to shift. Ryoma’s legs grow lighter beneath him, though he holds them steady, choosing not to move just yet.

>

Ryoma stays rooted, controlling the space with a steady stream of jabs, each one keeping Serrano from pressing too close.

Forced onto the defensive, Serrano twists and bends, slipping and rolling under the flickers, his gloves snapping up to catch what he cannot avoid.

Every so often he drops back into that rooster-like crouch, leaning forward with his head low, eyes sharp and searching for the gap he’s certain must be there.

But he never dares to step all the way in. Ryoma’s jab keeps him tethered at the edge until…

Ding!

The bell rings, and the red corner exhales with so much relieve.

“He survived the round,” a commentator says, relief in his tone.

“Look at his corner,” another adds. “I can’t tell if that’s relief or guilt. That ambush was a disaster, and they know it.”

Most of the crowd still thinks it was a tactic, a planned attack. Which means Nakahara takes the blame. But Nakahara doesn’t hold it for long. He fires it back at Ryoma.

“What the hell were you thinking out there?” he growls, leaning in close. “Didn’t I tell you to use the first round to study him? This is the final! And you think some stupid ambush will work?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just sits on the stool, glaring down at his own fists, his expression more bitter at himself than at Nakahara’s scolding.

“You didn’t just lose the round,” Nakahara presses on. “You gave him a knockdown. Early. Easy. Do you even realize how bad that is?”

Hiroshi, kneading Ryoma’s thigh, cuts in sharply. “Coach! Don’t waste the time yelling. Just focus on what we’re doing next.”

But Kenta interrupts, voice steady, eyes never leaving Ryoma. “No point. He won’t listen. Not right now.”

That freezes Nakahara. Now he studies Ryoma more intently, and realizes the boy’s gaze hasn’t left the opposite corner once.

Following it, Nakahara looks at Serrano lounging on his stool, then back at Ryoma.

“What is this?” Nakahara demands. “What’s eating at you? You know that’s Serrano’s game. He gets under people’s skin. That’s his nature. You’re not stupid enough to let his mind games control you. Forget the weigh-in, forget the trash talk. Focus on the fight.”

Ryoma finally shifts. For the first time, he tears his eyes from Serrano and locks them on Nakahara. His fists tighten over his thighs, gloves squeaking against the leather.

“This isn’t about mind game.” His says, voice low and hard.

Nakahara blinks.

Ryoma’s eyes burn, cold and sharp. “He swung his fist at my mom. And you’re telling me to just let that slide? To forget it?”

The words hit like a body blow. Nakahara’s breath hitches, caught in his chest. Hiroshi freezes too, hands stilling on Ryoma’s leg. Even Kenta, who had suspected something deeper, goes silent, his jaw tightening as he turns toward the blue corner.

Now all three of them glare across the ring. Their hatred sharpens like knives aimed at Serrano.

There’s a reason pro boxers are forbidden to use their fists outside the ring. But to raise one against a woman? That’s beyond disgrace. That’s unforgivable.