VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

His Vision Grid lights up, tiny markers tracing Serrano’s flaws, flashes of opening in his guard. And for the first time, Ryoma moves to strike.

He slips under a punch and whips a left hook across Serrano’s ribs.

Dug.

Serrano winces but doesn’t slow down. He twists his torso, loading up a right.

Ryoma sees the irritation in his face. He straightens from his lowered stance, lifting his head just a little, enough to look open, enough to invite the next punch.

The right hook comes fast, sharp and violent. But to Ryoma, it looks slow. He ducks under it cleanly, slides right, and fires a short left into Serrano’s body.

Dug!

Serrano bites down, holding his breath, and answers with a chopping right.

Ryoma leans in, catches the forearm with his glove, and snaps a compact uppercut from below.

Dsh!

Serrano’s head jerks up.

And Ryoma follows through instantly, two more hooks, one sinking into the ribs, the next cracking against the side of his skull.

Dug! Dsh!

Serrano reels back, stunned.

Ryoma glides away, resetting to his smooth rhythm, light and fluid, dancing like a butterfly on the surface of calm water.

The arena erupts. The commentators can barely keep up.

“Did you see that?!”

“How many shots was that?”

“I counted four… no, wait, five! All in just a few seconds before he slipped away!”

“Well, whatever it was… that, right there, that’s the real Ryoma! Not the cautious one we saw earlier. This is him, flowing, precise, beautiful. Dancing like a butterfly, stinging like a bee… just like the great Muhammad Ali!”

In an instant, the image of Ryoma hitting the canvas in the first round vanishes from everyone’s memory. The crowd surges back to life, chants of support rising and merging into a single, thunderous pulse.

In the red corner, Nakahara and Hiroshi are grinning, their voices purring with relief and excitement. Kenta feels the goosebumps crawling up his arms, though he struggles to keep his composure.

But not everyone shares the joy.

Daigo Kirizume watches in silence, his rage simmering beneath the surface, rage, and the bitter ache of regret.

That’s the talent he once had within reach. The gem that slipped through his fingers.

Even with a new raw jewel in Serrano, Daigo can only watch as that gem gets ground down, toyed with by Ryoma’s finesse, each slip, each punch, carving the gap between them deeper.

Dsh!

Dug, dum, dsh!

Serrano’s wild unorthodox style, once raw but dangerous, now looks crude, almost amateurish before Ryoma’s precision.

His heavy punches no longer land clean; even the blocked ones lose their sting as Ryoma catches the forearms before the power can travel through, refusing to let the gloves bite into him again.

To Ryoma, Serrano’s speed and aggression seem dulled now. He reads him half a heartbeat ahead, slipping past each punch by the width of a breath.

Serrano’s pace falters, his rhythm starting to fray. From his corner, Shigemori suddenly slams his palm against the canvas, the sound cutting through the arena like a gunshot.

“Last ten seconds!” he shouts, his voice sharp and commanding. “Drive him! Corner him now!”

Serrano’s eyes flare with renewed fury. He drives Ryoma toward the corner, launching a flurry; straight lefts, snapping crosses.

But Ryoma just leans back, shoulders rolling, head weaving side to side. The gloves graze him, brushing his skin, but never truly connecting.

He even sneaks in two compact hooks, short and snappy, almost like slaps.

Dsh! Dsh!

They clip Serrano’s head from both sides, snapping it left and right.

Serrano staggers but holds his ground, coiling up his right hand, winding it like a spring. But before he can release it, Ryoma slips to the side, holding Serrano’s right glove with his left.

And in one smooth motion, he fires something heavy.

BAM!!!

A straight right, full weight behind it, cracks against Serrano’s face.

The sound echoes through the arena, sharp and final. Serrano’s head whips back, his legs buckle.

Ryoma spins with the motion, already turning to press forward, ready to switch roles, to trap Serrano this time.

But he stops.

Serrano’s already falling, dropping to one knee, glove catching the rope, head low.

“Down! Serrano’s down!”

The arena detonates. The roar hits like a wave, pure chaos and disbelief. And over the fading roar, the commentators lose themselves in the moment.

“Unbelievable! Ryoma drops Serrano! He drops him!”

“That right hand, perfect timing! Slipped in and fired like lightning!”

“He’s back from the canvas and now puts Serrano down! What a reversal!”

“This crowd is losing its mind! We’re witnessing something special tonight!”

The referee steps in, waving Ryoma away.

“Neutral corner!”

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He lingers behind Serrano, staring down at him, the same way Serrano once stared at him.

“Hey! Neutral corner!” the ref shouts again.

Ryoma still doesn’t flinch.

Finally, Serrano turns his head, glancing back over his shoulder. Their eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, the noise fades, the world narrows to just the two of them. Predator and prey, now trade places.

After relishing the moment, Ryoma steps back, finally turning toward the neutral corner. The ref pivots back to Serrano, but Serrano’s already pushing himself up, legs trembling but defiant.

“You okay? Can you continue?”

“I’m fine,” Serrano growls, stepping forward.

The ref nods, ready to resume. Serrano raises his right hand, strolling with mounting anger.

But the bell cuts in, sharp and sudden. The sound freezes the moment, the roar, the motion, even Serrano’s fury.

Tch! Serrano clicks his tongue, marching back to his corner.

There’s no swagger this time, no grin. He just scowls, heavy with contempt, anger, and the sting of humiliation.

From the commentary table, one voice breaks through the noise:

“If you think that round was wild…” a beat of breathless silence. “…just wait for the next one.”

***

Across the ring, Ryoma walks back to his corner, slow and calm. His breathing is steady, his expression blank, no hint of triumph, no trace of emotion.

Even now, his gaze never leaves Serrano. The crowd’s roar fades into a low hum as if the entire arena holds its breath.

Hiroshi steps forward, stool in hand. Kenta follows, already one foot on the steps. But Nakahara’s voice cuts through, low and firm.

“No. Stay where you are.”

Both freeze, puzzled. Hiroshi looks back, confused, but Nakahara doesn’t explain. His eyes are locked on Ryoma, searching, studying.

There’s something in the boy’s face, stillness, not fatigue. His movements are too smooth, too measured. Nakahara knows that Ryoma has slipped into the zone, and hasn’t fully returned yet.

He’s still half inside that place, in the borderline, that razor’s edge where thought fades, and instinct takes over.

Nakahara knows how fragile that state is, how easily it can vanish. Once broken, it might never come again. So he stays silent, watching, guarding the distance between them.

And soon, others begin to notice. The journalists pause mid-note, pens hovering above paper. The cameras drift uncertainly, lingering but never zooming in.

Even the commentators fall quiet, their voices lowering as if afraid to break something sacred.

“…What’s going on here?” one finally whispers. “Why aren’t his cornermen getting in?”

“I… I don’t know,” the other replies, voice hushed. “And look at Ryoma. He’s not even blinking. It’s like he’s still fighting in his head.”