VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The referee’s command to clear the corners doesn’t bring relief. It sharpens everything. The ring empties, leaving the space exposed and unforgiving.

Instead of settling, the crowd tightens around it; voices rising, chants breaking out, anticipation spilling over in uneven waves.

Some shout Kenta’s name, raw and insistent. Others, foreign accents near the front rows, call out for Liam to take control, to strike back, to end it.

“Well, the break is over,” one commentator says, leaning forward. “And Moriyama’s corner gave him absolutely nothing. No instructions. No adjustments.”

“So whatever we’re about to see,” the other adds, “it’s coming straight from the fighter himself. If last round was intense… this could be even worse.”

The referee glances between them, steps back.

And then…

Ding!

Round Four.

Liam claims the center first, feet light, bouncing once as his shoulders loosen. His hands come up clean, eyes locked forward, intent clear.

Kenta moves to meet him, and something is different with him this time.

His stance settles with discipline. Guard comes up properly. Shoulders and gloves sway in a familiar rhythm, controlled rather than feral.

The pendulum is back. The madness from moments ago seems… shelved.

Liam sees it instantly. Not just in the movement, but in Kenta’s face, looking more composed, eyes focused but no longer burning wild.

For the first time since the chaos broke loose, it looks like Kenta Moriyama has returned to form. And that, somehow, makes the moment even more complicated for his opponent.

“He’s fully back to his Soviet style?”

“Now… how am I supposed to deal with him?”

Liam had left the corner with a plan built for Kenta’s aggression. But this version is different; disciplined, contained. Now he has to reconsider his options again.

“Round four,” one commentator finds his voice again. “And it looks like both fighters have settled back into a steady rhythm.”

“Let’s see who controls it this time,” the other replies.

Liam sends out a few probing jabs. The first falls short. Two thud into Kenta’s guard.

Dug. Dug.

The last cuts short as Kenta slides back, pendulum rhythm already settling under him.

Liam keeps his distance, circling, watching.

But Kenta doesn’t give him long to study. He advances with measured steps, shoulders swaying, gloves floating in that familiar cadence.

He’s still chasing something, still searching for that sharpened sensation. But now it’s threaded through form and habit rather than chaos.

And that tension shows.

The rhythm is there, but constricted. The tempo repeats too neatly, cycling without variation. The pendulum swings, yet it doesn’t breathe the way it should.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Every punch is readable, meeting Liam’s guard or air. He could slip and counter at will. But he holds back, wary of what might be hiding.

In the blue corner, the mood tightens. Hiroshi leans forward, brow furrowed.

“He seems…” he trails, “like he’s back to his old self. He looks lost to me.””

Sera nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s how he looked the first time he tried the Soviet rhythm. Before the Park Yeon-seuk fight.”

For a moment, Nakahara says nothing. Then, quietly, he does.

“That’s the price of entering the zone once,” he says. “And getting kicked out of it before you learn how to return.”

He watches in silence a moment longer before adding. “He’s trying to enter the zone again. But he’s doing it wrong.”

Hiroshi frowns. “Wrong?”

“He’s forcing it,” Nakahara continues. “That state he fell into before came from instinct, not intention. You can’t chase it. And because he’s trying too hard to feel it again…”

“He’s lost his Soviet rhythm in the way,” Sera finishes for him. “That style needs flow. It needs looseness. You can’t attain its flowing form while stressing about something else.”

On the canvas, Kenta’s shoulders keep swaying, but the timing repeats too cleanly, too stiff.

“This is why I prevented you from breaking his focus earlier,” Nakahara says quietly. “Now that he’s already like this… I can just hope he isn’t too hurt once the bell rings.”

***

Back in the ring, Kenta’s pendulum still swings. But just like Sera said, it looks too rigid now, caught between instinct and control, belonging to neither.

The flow isn’t alive anymore, the tempo no longer shifting or pulling Liam in.

It looks almost… ordinary. Like any modern orthodox boxer wearing the shape of something more dangerous.

Even Liam seems unsettled by the change, not because Kenta has become harder to manage, but because the shift itself is strange.

“What’s with him?”

“He looks like a completely different person.”

Now that Kenta has grown more predictable than his earlier Soviet form, Liam no longer feels the need to force exchanges just to disrupt the pendulum rhythm.

He just deals with it using his natural way of boxing.

A jab snaps out.

Dug.

Another follows a half-beat later, catching Kenta on the cheek before the guard can settle.

Dsh!

Kenta shifts, trying to roll back into flow, but the rhythm stutters. He steps in, throws a jab of his own, then a cross.

Dug. Dug.

Both are blocked. Solid, disciplined defense from Liam.

And Liam answers him with a sharp hook…

Dug.

…blocked, but the impact still jars Kenta’s shoulders, interrupts the sway.

A quick jab–cross snaps out next, both absorbed by Kenta’s guard, followed by a hook buried in his midsection.

Thud!

Then Liam is already out of range.

He circles right, light on his feet, then pivots back in just long enough to touch Kenta again with the jab and a lead hook. The first land on guard, the second hit the side…

Thud!

…not too hard, but clean, breaking Kenta’s pendulum rhythm once more.

“Why…?”

“How did it suddenly become this easy?”

“Is this a trap?”

Liam studies him with every scoring punch, each one timed just early enough to disrupt the pendulum before it can reset.

Still, he never commits to the heavy shots, wary of an answer he can’t yet see.

Kenta presses forward, trying to impose his rhythm through repetition; jab, step, sway, jab. But the lack of variation betrays him. The cadence has become rigid, predictable.

He tries a hook to the body. Liam reads it early, tightens his elbow, absorbs it on the arm. The impact lands, but it costs Kenta position.

Liam answers with a jab-cross-jab combination. The jabs score, only the cross blocked.

Dsh! Dug. Dsh!

Kenta exhales sharply, a flicker of irritation breaking through. He wants that other state, the one where thought vanishes and everything flows without resistance.

But the harder he reaches for it, the farther it slips away.

“This isn’t what we were expecting,” one commentator admits, a note of disappointment creeping in. “After that last round, you thought Moriyama would come out breathing fire again.”

“Instead he looks… restrained,” the other says. “And that raises a question: did he burn too much energy earlier?”

“It’s possible,” comes the reply. “We’ve seen it before. He’s faded in the later rounds.”

There’s a brief pause as Liam steps in again, snapping jabs and forcing Kenta backward, pressure building with every exchange. Kenta moves, guards, reacts, but it looks like effort now, not flow.

“But this is only round four,” the first commentator continues. “Isn’t that a little early?”

“Maybe,” the other concedes. “He’s still moving; footwork’s alive, punches are sharp. But against someone like Liam Kuroda, that alone won’t be enough. He needs another gear to stay in this fight.”

***

Luckily for Kenta, his opponent is still wary of that earlier version of him, the savage presence from before. And that caution costs Liam some initiative.

Kenta loses control of the fight, but the damage stays limited. Liam doesn’t press for punishment, content to collect points, clean and methodical, stealing the round back piece by piece.

By the end of it, the balance is clear. The round belongs to Liam Kuroda.

Ding!

The bell rings. Kenta walks back to his corner still looking lost.

Liam returns to his own, points secured, but his gaze lingers on his opponent, confusion and curiosity tightening his focus.

This time, Nakahara and the team step into the ring. It’s obvious now that Kenta is fully out of the zone, not even hovering at its edge.

“Sit,” Nakahara says calmly. “Breathe.”

Sera and Hiroshi go to work, treating him in a way they hadn’t during the previous break. There’s no serious damage; just light swelling along the face, easily pressed down with a cold enswell.

Sera hands him water. Kenta gargles and spits it into the bucket. No blood. Even the cut from the second round has dried.

Nakahara watches him closely. The body is fine, but the eyes aren’t. That unfocused tension, the look of someone searching for something he’s lost.

“Stop chasing it,” Nakahara says. “You can’t force your way back into the zone when you haven’t even found your natural rhythm again.”

Kenta blinks. “The… zone?”

Kenta hesitates. His brows knit, eyes unfocused, as if he’s searching backward through fog.

Nakahara exhales through his nose and speaks again, steady and patient.

“Remember that spar with Ryoma at camp,” he says. “Those ten seconds when you couldn’t even touch him? He’s been there at least four times. And even someone like him still doesn’t know how to enter that state at will.”

He leans closer. “So don’t chase it. The moment you try to force it, you lose it.”

Then he gestures toward the opposite corner, toward Liam, whose face is still visibly swollen even from this distance.

“Look at him. You hurt him more than he hurt you.”

Nakahara taps Kenta’s chest lightly.

“Stop chasing fantasy. Focus on your own boxing. The Soviet style you worked so hard to learn. Believe in the struggle you endured to make it yours.”