VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It’s not about winning the tournament anymore. It’s about the promise Kirizume made to Renji, the promise that if Serrano lost, he’d give Renji a chance to fight Ryoma.

But that’s a promise Kirizume never intends to keep. Arranging a match between his champion and a class-C rookie is an insult to his name, and every ranked fighter in the Lightweight Division.

And now, as the bell rings, the fourth round begins, the blue corner taking the gamble to play dirty, to claw back pride through deceit.

“Here we go, round four! Serrano’s still in this somehow!” one commentator calls out, his tone laced with disbelief. “He’s taken a beating, but look at that face. That’s not determination, that’s desperation.”

“You can feel it in the air,” the co-commentator adds. “Something’s changed in that corner. Serrano’s not fighting to win anymore. He’s fighting to survive.”

Across the ring, Ryoma leaves his corner. His body feels heavier now, legs a little slower, the burn in his muscles no longer subtle. But he hides it well, masking fatigue behind calm precision.

He steps out of his corner unhurried, each movement deliberate, as if he walks this pace by choice, not by circumstance.

Serrano steps out from his corner like a man with nothing left to lose. His stance is wide, gloves raised high, eyes locked on Ryoma’s face.

Shigemori’s words echo inside him, aim for the eyes. So he does.

The first lunge comes fast. Serrano throws a hook that swipes a little too close to Ryoma’s face, missing by inches. The crowd gasps, thinking it’s just wild aggression.

But then he does it again, and again. Each time, the punch angles higher, narrower, brushing past Ryoma’s cheek, reaching not for the jaw or body, but the eyes.

Ryoma blocks, slips, counters lightly, still studying him. Serrano keeps pressing forward, sweat flying, breathing hard, more reckless with each exchange. He gets counter after counter, but keeps trying to send his gloves to Ryoma’s eyes desperately.

Then Ryoma’s Vision Grid flickers, a voice alarms him in his head.

>

>

>

>

Ryoma’s gaze narrows, breath steadying.

“The eyes, huh?” Ryoma thinks. “What kind of dirty trick are they trying this time?”

He doesn’t know the exact method yet. But knowing it’s Kirizume’s camp across the ring, his mind runs through every possible foul; powders, oils, irritants, anything that could blind him for even a second.

Whatever it is, he’s certain of one thing: they’re done playing fair.

Serrano throws another flurry, wild but deliberate, one glove grazing dangerously close to Ryoma’s right eye. The faint sting follows, the scent of chemical residue.

>

>

And that’s when Ryoma understands.

He exhales through his nose, calm, almost detached, as Serrano winds up for another swing. This isn’t desperation anymore. It’s sabotage.

But the irony is clear even now, the more Serrano reaches for Ryoma’s eyes, the clearer Ryoma sees him.

Ryoma’s face twitches. Before, this guy had gone so far throwing a punch to his mother. And now, he’s trying to blind him in the middle of the fight.

He could just voice this out, tells the official of his suspicions, revealing their dirty tricks. But no, he made his mind even before entering this ring.

This fight is his, and he’ll settle it himself.

“You want my eyes so badly, huh? Then go ahead.”

He dips forward, feigning hesitation, his movements stuttering just enough to look vulnerable. Serrano, reckless and desperate after so many fail attempts, actually takes the bait.

Ryoma reads it a heartbeat before it happens, tilts his head, steps in, and lets Serrano’s glove graze his cheek.

And then…

DHUAK!!!

He slams his right, as hard as he could.

A right hand explodes across Serrano’s face. The sound cracks through the air, blood bursting in a fine red spray beneath the lights. Ryoma can even feel Serrano’s cartilage breaking beneath his knuckles.

The crowd doesn’t roar right away. It gasps first, hundreds of voices sucked into silence, the sound of collective shock, before the noise erupts like thunder rolling through the hall.

Some cheer wildly, others just stare in stunned disbelief.

“OH—MY—GOD!” the commentator shouts, half-standing from his seat. “That’s a monster right hand from Ryoma Takeda!”

“He broke him! He broke him!” the co-commentator’s voice trembles, disbelief mixing with awe. “He walked Serrano right into that shot!”

In the blue corner, Shigemori clutches his head, eyes wide with disbelief, watching Serrano’s arm hanged limp, knees trembling, the strength in him leaking away with every breath.

“No… Leo! Hands up! Lift your guard!”

But Serrano doesn’t respond. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. He’s still standing, but barely, teetering on the edge of blackout, jaw dropping forward.

And Ryoma doesn’t let him fall.

“This is what you get for ever raising your hand against my mother.”

He snaps Serrano’s chin upward with a brutal uppercut, and then follows through.

Dum! Dum! Bam! Brack!

Four clean shots, no mercy. Blood and sweat spatters across the canvas in bright arcs.

The referee dives in just as Ryoma stops, lowering his fists. Serrano sways once, eyes unfocused, and then collapses straight into the ref’s arms.

And then…

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell tolls like a verdict as the ref raises his hand.

Ryoma wins by TKO. But the arena doesn’t roar. It falls silent, thousands of people holding their breath, the air thick with disbelief. Only a few scattered murmurs ripple through the stillness.

It’s the most brutal finish anyone has ever seen from a rookie. Even in the long history of the Rookie King tournament, nothing has ever looked this merciless.

As much as they’ve resented Serrano’s arrogance, he’s still a youngster. Watching him crumple like that, motionless, the crowd begins to worry, not about pride or records, but about his life.

The referee is still waving frantically, calling for a stretcher. Shigemori and his team rush in, kneeling beside their fallen fighter.

Then Shigemori looks up, eyes burning with fury. Ryoma meets the glare without a flicker of remorse. There’s no concern, no hesitation, only cold finality for what they’ve been trying to do to him.

He even steps closer, dropping a line, his voice cuts through the noise like a blade.

“That’s what happens when you send amateurs to fight me.”

Then, as he turns to leave, he throws one last line over his shoulder.

“Tell your boss to send his champion.”

At ringside, Daigo Kirizume sits perfectly still.

The crowd’s murmurs wash over him, fading into static. His jaw is locked, one hand gripping the armrest so tightly the leather creaks.

Behind the calm exterior, his rage simmers, quiet, but heavy enough to crush air. The humiliation festers deeper with every replay on the big screen.

Two seats away, Renji watches him in silence. His expression is mild, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t need to say anything; the look says it all.

Kirizume has no excuses left. No ways to stall.

Renji leans back, eyes fixed on the ring, the faint gleam of anticipation lighting them.

At last, the path is open.