VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Liam exhales once, slow and even. His tempo lifts by a fraction. The soles of his feet grow lighter as he begins to bounce, not recklessly, just enough to loosen the ground beneath him.

His shoulders twitch with small economical feints, testing reactions without offering commitment.

The studying is over. Now comes the answer.

Liam shifts his weight and finally commits. The bounce appears, not exaggerated, just enough to loosen his base.

And he steps in with intent. A jab snaps out first, straight and economical, testing the line he’s been measuring.

Kenta reads it late but not wrong. He brings his guard together and absorbs it clean on the gloves.

Dug!

A left hook follows, fast and tight, whipped in with proper rotation. But Kenta’s body is already moving. The pendulum carries him backward, head slipping just off the arc, and the hook cuts through empty space.

In the same breath, Kenta coils.

His rear foot loads instinctively. The lead foot slides forward, smooth and sudden, and a textbook jab snaps out of him like it’s been waiting to be released.

Dug!

Liam catches it, forearms tight, but the moment of contact is already behind him.

Because Kenta is already stepping in again.

Half a step in, shoulders loose, and the rhythm spills forward into a flurry, not wild, not panicked, but flowing.

Jab. Right hook. Jab. Cross.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Dug.

Liam’s defense holds; he blocks, shifts, absorbs, but the pressure stacks all the same. The punches drum into gloves, forearms, shoulders, each one landing with intent even when they aren’t scoring blows.

And just as he braces for the sequence to end, Kenta caps it with a short lead hook, tight and sharp, digging into the ribs beneath the arm.

Thud!

Then Kenta is gone again, sliding back out on the same pendulum he rode in on, sway never stopping, breath steady.

A low roar ripples through the arena.

“That was sharp,” one commentator says quickly. “Very sharp.”

Liam steps forward, trying to answer immediately, to reclaim ground, but he’s a half-beat late.

Every time he sets to throw, Kenta’s already moving, angling, slipping just enough to blur the picture.

Liam throws again, measured but firmer now. A jab that snaps at the guard. A straight right aimed to follow.

Kenta reads them all on feel. The jab brushes his gloves; the right thuds into forearms.

Dug. Dug.

He doesn’t counter immediately this time. He lets the pendulum carry him, lets the moment pass, before breaking the rhythm again with a short burst, just enough to touch glove, shoulder… and ribs.

Thud!

Not enough to overwhelm, but a scoring blow nonetheless.

Both men are throwing. Both men are standing their ground, exchanging fast, tight punches at mid-range, neither backing down.

“Liam’s shots are slamming into arms and shoulders,” the commentator says. “They’re not landing clean, but every impact sounds heavy.”

“Kenta’s coming back with his own,” the other notes. “Short, snapping punches. Relentless pressure, even when they’re blocked.”

To the untrained eye, the fight looks ferocious. It looks even, violent, balanced. But to experienced eyes, something else is happening.

Liam is defending brilliantly; slipping inside flurries, catching shots on forearms, rolling shoulders just enough to take sting off, but he isn’t landing clean. Not even once.

Every punch he throws is answered by movement, by absence, by a guard already in place.

Kenta, meanwhile, keeps finding one. A jab sneaks through at the end of a sequence. A hook digs under an elbow. A cross thumps into shoulder hard enough to turn posture.

Not damaging, not dramatic, but consistent.

“He’s always stealing something at the end,” the color commentator notes. “That pendulum never stops, and every time he breaks it, he makes it count.”

Liam feels it too. Part of his mind is still studying; tracking the sway, the timing, the way Kenta’s shoulders and gloves never fully settle. But another part is forced to work harder now, just to keep from being overwhelmed.

His objectives split. Read the rhythm. Don’t let it run over you.

It’s not panic. Liam doesn’t panic. But the margin is thinner than he expected.

He adjusts his footwork, pivots sharper, tries to change angles, but Kenta follows without chasing, hips loose, stance compact, always just close enough to threaten.

The Soviet cadence keeps pulling him in and out, forward and back, like a tide that never fully recedes.

The exchanges continue, short sharp bursts at mid-range, gloves cracking, breath hissing between clenched teeth.

Sweat flicks into the lights. The crowd is on its feet now.

“This is intense!” one commentator exclaims. “Neither man giving an inch!”

“High-level stuff,” the other adds. “But watch the scoring… Moriyama’s the one landing the cleaner touches.”

Masahiro slams the canvas with his palm. The final seconds tick away with one last exchange.

Liam steps in, tries to press, but Kenta meets him with a jab to the guard, a lead hook to the body, then ducks and slides out once more, rhythm intact.

Ding!

The bell rings.

Both fighters separate without drama, chests rising and falling, eyes still locked.

To most of the arena, it felt dead even. A war already brewing.

But on the scorecards, and in the quiet assessments of trainers and fighters watching closely, the difference is clear.

Kenta takes the round.

Not by force, but by rhythm, timing, and the quiet cruelty of always being just one step ahead.

***

Outside the ropes, Hiroshi can’t hide it. He turns toward Nakahara with a grin breaking across his face, voice lifted despite himself.

“He’s right there with him,” he says, quick and bright. “Coach… Kenta’s fighting Liam Kuroda on equal ground.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer right away. He’s already stepping through the ropes, eyes never leaving the ring. “Bucket, Hiroshi,” he says, flat. “It’s too soon to get excited.”

Hiroshi blinks, and then moves. The routine snaps into place; stool set, towel ready, water uncapped.

Kenta sits as told, shoulders rising and falling steadily, sweat already darkening the canvas beneath him.

They work without hurry. Sera wipes the sweat from his face. Hiroshi presses the towel to the back of his neck.

Nakahara leans in just enough. “How are you?”

But there’s no answer. Kenta’s eyes are still fixed across the ring, locked onto Kuroda’s corner.

There’s no hostility in those eyes, only focus, so complete it feels like he hasn’t fully stepped out of the fight.

Nakahara studies him for a moment, then shifts closer and crouches until he’s directly in Kenta’s line of sight.

That’s when Kenta reacts; a faint blink, a small inhale, like he’s surfacing from deep water.

For an instant, Nakahara’s gaze sharpens, studying his mental state.

Then he smiles. “What do you think of him?” he asks.

Kenta lifts his eyes slightly, as if searching for the answer. His mouth opens, but closes again.

“He’s good,” he says at last. “Just like people said. But…”

The thought trails off, slipping away as he reaches for it. Then Nakahara pats his thigh once, firm but gentle, cutting the search short.

“That’s fine,” he says. “Don’t chase words. Focus on your own boxing. Your rhythm tonight is the best I’ve seen from you. Keep it. Don’t lose that feeling.”

Kenta listens, breathing steady.

“And remember,” Nakahara adds, voice low. “He hasn’t shown anything yet. He’s still studying you.”

Kenta nods, but no reply.

His gaze drifts inward again, posture settling, mind pulling back into that strange, instinctive place he doesn’t want to leave.

The first round has ended. But for him, the fight never really stopped.

***

Meanwhile, in the red corner, Masahiro Nishiyama doesn’t look too impressed.

He kneels in front of Liam with the same rigid posture he always carries between rounds, towel draped over one shoulder, eyes hard.

“Take this fight seriously,” he says. His tone is restrained, but the edge is there. “Don’t repeat Hanazawa’s mistake.”

Liam listens, elbows resting lightly on his thighs.

“You give him time, you let him breathe, and you’ll regret it,” Masahiro continues.

“I am always serious,” Liam finally speaks. Then, after a pause, “But he’s not what his reputation suggests. And the way he fights… it’s not what I saw on tape. Not even close.”

Masahiro tightens his jaw. “We know what they do in that gym,” he says. “Eastern boxing foundations. You don’t see much of it here anymore.”

Liam shakes his head. “No, he’s not just borrowing the foundation. That’s the real thing. Genuine Soviet-style rhythm.”

“Soviet, Ukrainian, whatever you want to call it,” Masahiro snaps, waving it off. “He’s still a washed-up boxer with a thin record. Stop playing around. The moment you get back in there, you break him.”

That’s when Liam looks at him, his gaze sharpened.

“No wonder Hanazawa made that mistake,” he says flatly. “With a corner that thinks like this.”

Masahiro stiffens. “What did you just say?”

Liam’s gaze shifts toward the blue corner, where Kenta sits quietly, still and composed.

“He’s not washed up,” Liam says. “And whoever trained him understands boxing well… maybe better than you do.”

Masahiro’s face darkens. “Watch your mouth.”

Liam turns back to him, eyes level, voice unchanged. “Stop underestimating them,” he says. “If you can’t do that much…”

He pauses, just long enough for the words to land.

“…then maybe I should start looking for a different gym.”