VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Instead of calming Ryoma, Nakahara now finds himself trapped in the same storm of emotion. Contempt coils inside him, sharp and bitter.

He has always prided himself on professionalism, on the rules, the ethics, the discipline that separate boxing from street brawls.

To hear that their opponent once swung a fist at Ryoma’s own mother makes his blood boil.

“That bastard…” Nakahara’s voice drops low, but the venom in it is unmistakable. “Raising his hands against a woman? He doesn’t deserve the ring. He deserves a cage. He needs punishment before you teach him anything”

Before the fury can run further, Kenta steps in. His tone isn’t argumentative, but steady, cutting through the heat.

“It’s good you want to teach him something,” Kenta says, his eyes flicking between Nakahara and Ryoma. “But if we lose your mind to anger, we’ll be fighting his fight, not ours.”

Kenta’s words linger in the air. They don’t extinguish the fire, but they sink deep, rooting themselves beneath the anger.

Nakahara exhales, caught between contempt and restraint, ready at last to offer Ryoma some plan. But the chance never comes.

“Seconds out!” the ref calls.

Nakahara’s head snaps up, frustration spilling into his voice. “No… damn it, that’s too soon.”

Hiroshi lets out a long disappointed sigh. “What did I tell you?” he mutters, slipping out through the ropes.

Ryoma rises from the stool, steadying himself. He puts a gloved hand on Nakahara’s shoulder, his voice firm but almost gentle.

“It’s okay, Coach. I know what to do.”

Nakahara stares at him, searching. The anger is still there, coiled tight in Ryoma’s jaw. But the bell waits for no one.

With no more time, Nakahara drops from the apron, the fight now completely in Ryoma’s hands.

***

Meanwhile, in the blue corner, Serrano’s stool is a stage for a different kind of coaching. Shigemori doesn’t waste breath on tactics or adjustments. He knows his fighter too well.

“You hear, Serrano!” Shigemori shouts, voice sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Even if he throws that counter, just go for the exchange. Believe in yourself. You’re stronger than him. Stronger than anyone!”

The words sink fast. Serrano straightens, rolling his shoulders, swagger sliding back over him like a second skin. His smirk stretches, ugly and confident again.

But one of Shigemori’s assistants leans close, unable to hold back. “Why not warn him about Ryoma’s counter from the Philly Shell? We all know how dangerous that is.”

Shigemori shakes his head. “We can’t teach him that science now. If we fill him with caution, he’ll lose the unpredictability that keeps him alive. What matters is confidence. Let him brace for the counter, trade punches, and prove he’s the stronger man. That’s how he wins.”

The assistant hesitates, then falls silent. Shigemori’s conviction leaves no room for argument.

At least, the approach works. Serrano walks with his swagger restored, and the smirk back on his face, uglier than ever.

The crowd stirs again, restless for the next clash. And the commentators seize the moment.

“Now we move into the second round. Ryoma’s been dropped once already, but he clawed control back before the bell.”

“And look at Serrano,” the other adds, as the cameras catch Serrano’s loose-armed sway. “He’s itching for a brawl. With this guy, it’s always the same. Expect nothing but raw strength and wild power.”

And then…

Ding!

The bell rings. The fight resumes.

Ryoma squares into his Philly Shell, stance shifted in a thin one line, left glove low against his ribs, right hand tight beneath his chin. His stance is narrow, compact, eyes locked forward.

Across from him, Serrano strolls out like a gangster, as if the ring were his block. He moves loose, casual, hands slouched in front of his trunk, smirk spread across his face.

Then he stops midway, jerks his head forward once, then back again, a taunting bob. Twice he does it, baiting, daring Ryoma to swing.

The third time he dips, Ryoma lashes out.

Wsht!

A flicker cuts the air, sharp and sudden.

Serrano snaps his head away, weaving wildly, ducking under the jab, then bursts up with a sudden leap, right fist flying.

Ryoma pulls his left back just in time, guard tight on his ribs, and lifts up his shoulder.

Dsh!

The glove slams against his upper arm. The shot is blocked, but the sting seeps deep, numbing his shoulder.

Ryoma has to give ground, pivoting away, buying space. And Serrano jogs lazily after him, head tilted left and right, shoulders loose, feet pattering as if he’s dancing to music only he can hear.

He stretches his right arm wide, chest thrust forward, swagger exaggerated like he’s putting on a show. The pose hangs just long enough to look like a taunt.

He rolls that same arm once, and without warning, springs forward, whipping a left from a crooked unnatural angle.

This time Ryoma reads it. He snaps his torso back, letting the strike carve through nothing but air. His lead foot pivots, grounding him as he flicks out two sharp jabs in answer.

Serrano twists his torso mid-dance, weaving with drunken rhythm, but…

Dsh! Dsh!

…he can’t fully evade. One jab grazes his cheek, the other scrapes across his outstretched arm.

But he treats them like nothing, grinning through it, dismissing the blows as if Ryoma had only brushed him with open hands.

“Is that it? The so called flicker jabs?” he jeers, shaking his shoulders with mocking gesture. “You might be able kill a fly with them. But they won’t work on me.”

He sways again, almost drunken, pumping his gloves lazily in front of his chest, shoulders shaking again as if the fight itself were a joke.

Then he claps his gloves together, sound sharp and hollow, before lunging again, launching another awkward punch.

Dsh!

It’s blocked.

But this time, Serrano doesn’t stop with just that one leaping punch. As he’s planted his ground in, he begins mixing more punches, sometimes shuffling and switching stance to southpaw, and back to orthodox.

Ryoma braces, shell tightening, torso weaving, shoulder rolled, his eyes burning through the gaps in Serrano’s dance.

***

The barrage has gone on for a while now. Serrano keeps pressing, relentless, almost without pause. And he has the physic and stamina to do so.

His fists pound into Ryoma’s arms, shoulders, and side. They are shots that glance off the Philly Shell, never quite clean enough to earn the judges’ scores. But the force still seeps through, leaving Ryoma rattled each time he braces the impact.

It’s not easy for Ryoma to find the perfect timing for a counter. Behind those heavy punches, Serrano’s movements are too random, unrefined but confusing.

And this is exactly what Shigemori has been after.

“As long as he keeps that confidence,” Shigemori murmurs with satisfaction, “and stays in that chaotic rhythm… Ryoma won’t be able to read him. If you can’t read the timing, counterpunching becomes too risky on its own. You won’t do it, unless you’re willing to gamble with the consequences.”

In the ring, Ryoma’s patience finally snaps. He lets his coiled right hand fly, but too soon. The punch misses its beat.

Serrano jerks back, and now sees Ryoma’s guard wide open. He doesn’t waste the chance, and whips a right hook from below.

Dsh!

The glove crashes against Ryoma’s cheek, snapping his head sideways. A thin ribbon of blood spills from the corner of his mouth.

One of the commentators nearly leaps from his seat. “What a shot! And it came out of nowhere!”

His partner cuts in. “That was a wild instinct. Perfect timing on that hook. Clean, explosive, right on the button!”

There’s no follow-up, though. Serrano threw the hook while leaning away, his own momentum dragging him backward, forcing a few steps of retreat.

But the grin stretching across his face says everything. He’s not rushing for the finish. He’s savoring it, enjoying the bully.

And Ryoma seethes even hotter. His fists tremble with the urge to smash Serrano’s mouth, to shatter those teeth so the grin can never appear again.

Yet beneath the fury, he can’t deny what’s becoming clear, Serrano’s instincts as a fighter are real.