VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena swells with a new pitch; Liam’s fans roaring with the certainty of ownership now, while the neutrals who’d fallen for Kenta’s wild second round shift uneasily, anxiety creeping in as the upset they imagined starts slipping away.

In the red corner, there’s no scramble this time, no urgency. Towels swipe sweat from Liam’s brow. Fresh Vaseline glistens along his cheekbones.

Meanwhile, in the front row, Liam’s mother exhales at last, nodding twice to herself. She had a fear that the son’s face would turn ugly after this fight. But he looks fine now, no need to worry.

Masahiro smooths Liam’s hair back into place, neat and slick, like he’s preparing him for a camera, not a war.

“That round was yours. Completely…” he says, grinning. “See? No need to stress about that Soviet style nonsense. He’s slowing. That outburst in the third round was just desperation. He can’t keep it for longer round. He never does. Round five is where he drops.”

Liam nods once, then again, listening. He replays the exchanges in his head; a few of Kenta’s jabs landed clean, but the rhythm behind them was monotonous, too easy to read.

It hadn’t been nearly as difficult to break as he’d feared. His confidence settles back in, quiet and steady.

The image of Kenta in the third round; the ferocity, the pressure, the dread it stirred, still clings under his skin. But looking at it now, it feels clearer. That wasn’t control. It was someone burning his own life just to stay in the fight.

“Next round,” Masahiro continues. “Stick to your natural boxing. Up the tempo when you need to. And when the opening’s there, take it. Just remember… fighters with nothing left sometimes bet everything on one round.”

His eyes hardened. “He might’ve been conserving energy last round, saving whatever he has left to spring it on you here. Still a desperate strategy, but don’t let it fool you.”

Liam nods again. He knows better than to underestimate an opponent. Knows the cost of losing focus, of repeating Hanazawa’s mistake.

His eyes drift to the opposite corner. Kenta is already surrounded by his team. They look tense this time, purposeful in a way they hadn’t before. That alone tells Liam enough.

“He’s a good fighter,” Liam says. “But if you can’t last ten rounds, that’s your ceiling.”

Masahiro nods. “The record backs it up. He’s never won a ten-round fight, except that last one against the Korean. Close decision. Luck. So don’t give him that chance. Don’t let him rebuild his rhythm. Don’t let him back into this fight.”

He squeezes Liam’s shoulder once, not too much, and then pats it a few time with so much confidence in his face.

Then he straightens, turns around to look at the blue corner, to Nakahara. His lips twitch slightly, not with contempt this time, but pride, smelling victory already.

***

Finally, the referee waves both seconds out.

The ring clears. Stools slide away. The corners empty, leaving both fighters alone where they stand, waiting for the bell.

Liam is already in motion. His shoulders roll, arms twisting in a smooth corkscrew, loosening, priming, like he’s preparing to drive his punches deeper this time, not just touch and go.

Across the ring, Kenta focuses on his breathing, slow and deliberate, trying to let his body return to the Soviet style he learned. But the tension stays. So does the doubt.

For years, he told himself he lost because he was already tired from working mornings at his father’s shop.

Now that excuse is gone. He’s left home, no longer burden by exhaustion in the fight day. By logics, his body should be able to last.

But that actually scares him. Because if he still fades here, then the problem was never his stamina. This round could be the real test. He will get the answer here.

The bell rings at last.

Ding!

Round Five

Liam moves first, quick and decisive. He takes the center and bounces lightly in place, gloves hanging low, waiting for Kenta to come.

Kenta leaves his corner more slowly, his stride loose, almost lazy. He tries to rebuild the sway as he walks, easing tension from his shoulders and arms.

A few steps in, he stops and raises a disciplined orthodox guard.

Liam sidesteps left, then right, studying him; the stiffness is still there, whatever flowed in that earlier round hasn’t returned.

“It’s round five,” a commentator cuts in. “And this could be the pivot point of the fight.”

“Don’t blink folks…” the other adds. “This is where everything can change.”

Liam steps in, sharp and controlled. A quick one-two snaps into Kenta’s guard.

Dug. Dug.

He resets immediately before Kenta could even answer.

After shifting angle slightly, Liam steps in deeper this time; a jab, then a lead hook.

Dug. Dsh!

The jab is blocked. Kenta reacts, guard shifting, but the rhythm is tight enough that the hook still sneaks under his armpit, landing clean. Not heavy, but real.

Kenta doesn’t react. He ignores it, commits instead to rebuilding the pendulum. He slides back, bounces once, and then lets the sway return, piece by piece.

From there, he answers with a jab-jab–lead hook.

Liam reads it all. He lets them land where they will—the first two thudding into his guard, the hook smacking his upper arm.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Contact, but no scoring blows.

Kenta slides back again after the lead hook.

Liam sees the cadence forming. But he chooses not to chase. He’s decided to use the first thirty seconds to see what Kenta really has left.

“Both fighters look like they’re feeling things out again,” a commentator notes. “Recalibrating after that last round.”

“But it won’t stay like this for long,” the other adds. “Not at this level. Soon enough…”

His words trail off as the tempo begins to rise.

Kenta’s pendulum shifts. The Soviet style stirs again, not all at once, but in pieces. The first cadence comes out slow, almost lazy.

Three lefts, jab-jab-lead hook.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Then he slides back.

The dance flows as he steps in again; this time the beat is faster, his rear foot coiling harder.

A flurry bursts out; jab, jab, cross, lead hook, cross.

Dug. Dug. Dug. Thud! Dug.

Most of it is blocked, but the lead hook sneaks through, and the final right crashes into Liam’s guard with real weight.

They are heavy. Each punch carries more force than the last, enough to make Liam give ground, stepping back to reset.

“So he really was saving his stamina last round.”

Liam bounces lightly in place, eyes locked on Kenta, and then shifts sideways.

“So you’re betting everything on this round.”

“Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Liam switches to hit-and-run. His tempo rises, sharp and efficient, stepping in with short flurries and stepping right back out, each entry timed to cut across Kenta’s sway.

The rhythm is too tight. Kenta is forced to react again and again, hands busy with defense instead of rebuilding his pendulum. Forget the lulling punching beat. He can’t even set his feet long enough to throw.

Dug. Dug.

Thud! Dsh!

Dug.

Two shots get through; a body blow, then a quick light hook snapping against the cheek, snapping his head slightly to the side.

Kenta answers after blocking the last punch, but it comes out rushed, more reflex than intent.

Liam stays just long enough. He blocks it, slips in a compact hook to the ribs…

Thud!

…and he’s gone again.

“That’s complete control,” a commentator says, voice rising. “He’s breaking Moriyama’s rhythm every time he starts to find it.”

“And look at how clean it is,” the other adds. “No wasted motion. In, score, and out. This is elegant boxing at its best.”

***

Kenta does everything he can to stay in the fight. When Liam gives him a hint of space, he takes it, stepping forward before the pressure can trap him into reacting again.

The lulling beat returns with the swaying pendulum step. He even changes the pattern, cycling through three tempos. First slow and lazy. Then steady. Then a sudden burst of flurries.

But the transitions aren’t smooth. They feel separate, like three different ideas instead of one flowing rhythm.

Liam reads all of it.

He slips the lazy beat. Blocks the steady tempo. When the outburst comes, he tightens his guard and times it for a direct exchange.

Blarr!

Both hooks land, but Liam’s is faster, sharper. It knocks the weight out of Kenta’s punch on impact.

“With all that output,” a commentator says, “Moriyama still can’t take control of the fight.”

“And that’s the problem,” the other adds. “He’s throwing, but he’s not leading.”

Kenta’s rhythm breaks.

Liam holds his ground, digs a heavy shot into the midsection, steps in deep, and shoves Kenta back to reset the space.

He follows it up with a lead hook.

Kenta reads the entry this time. He tightens his defense, raises his right guard, and fires a compact left at the same moment.

Dsh!

At last, a clean connection. He follows it with a smooth right cross down the middle.

But Liam recognizes the sequence. He’s been caught by it once before.

He pulls his head back. The punch still lands, but lighter this time. Enough space remains for him to answer with a sharp right of his own.

Kenta ducks and dips left, lowering his stance, lining up the ribs.

But Liam has seen this pattern too.

“What a stubborn man…”

He twists his hips and snaps a left hook before Kenta can launch the triple-hook follow-up.

BAM!!!