VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Like master, like disciple, the moment Ryoma takes over the mitts and begins breaking down Serrano’s habits, Nakahara finds himself listening, watching with the quiet curiosity of a student.

The session itself looks similar to the rehearsal drills they occasionally run inside the ring, except this time Ryoma is holding the mitts.

And rather than simply presenting targets for Aramaki to hit, he constantly interrupts the combinations with sudden attacks of his own, swinging the pads from unusual angles and forcing Aramaki to react as though an opponent is striking back.

More than once, the attacks arrive from below, awkward and difficult to read, clearly intended to imitate the strange trajectories Serrano often uses whenever he abandons conventional form.

After several rounds, Ryoma finally lowers the mitts and steps back.

“Now see this,” he says.

Standing casually with both pads hanging near his waist, he deliberately adopts the same relaxed posture Serrano often shows during his more unorthodox moments.

“From here, he suddenly leaps forward. Kind of like a gazelle punch. Not really a gazelle punch, but close enough.”

He demonstrates it by launching forward in a single burst, his lead hand whipping out in a long hook as his weight crashes onto the lead foot.

Instead of completing the motion, however, he freezes at the moment of landing.

“Now look carefully.”

Aramaki’s eyes immediately shift downward. Ryoma only lands on his lead foot, while his rear foot is still slightly suspended above the floor.

“Now you see how awkward this position is?”

Aramaki nods slowly. In the middle of the exchange, the punch looks explosive and difficult to read. But with Ryoma holding the position for inspection, the compromised balance suddenly stands out.

“That’s what I want you to target,” Ryoma says. “Not the punch itself.”

Aramaki raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want the counter?”

Ryoma shakes his head. “Too risky. The angle is weird, the timing is weird, and if you’re late, you’re the one eating the shot. I don’t want you thinking about hitting him there.”

He taps his lead foot against the canvas. “I want you thinking about this. Whether Serrano realizes it or not, his instincts are working through a sequence. Leap forward. Land on the lead foot. Rear foot comes forward. Weight redistributes. Posture stabilizes. Then he continues attacking.”

Ryoma demonstrates the movement again, this time completing it naturally, chaining the leaping punch with a right hook after landing his rear foot.

“When nobody interferes, the whole thing feels smooth. The punch lands, his feet settle, and before you know it, he’s already throwing the next attack.”

Then Ryoma returns to the frozen awkward position with just lead foot on the floor. “So you better stop the flow and disrupt his balance. Step in, put your lead foot much deeper, right underneath his own center of gravity. Then give him a small push with the lead shoulder.”

Aramaki steps forward, and brings his lead foot deeper between Ryoma’s legs, and then slightly bumps his lead shoulder to Ryoma’s chest.

Ryoma then deliberately makes an exaggerate movement to get away from Aramaki, leaning his torso, and taking his head away, mimicking Serrano’s habit.

“And because you’re right under his chest, his instincts will start working against him. Most fighters create space when they feel crowded. They step away. They lean away. They try to get comfortable again.”

A faint smile appears on his face. “The problem is that there’s nothing comfortable if you keep disrupting his balance. From here, you keep the pressure. Walk him backward if he gives ground. Lead him toward the ropes. Lead him toward the corner.”

Aramaki nods slowly. “And if he doesn’t back up?”

“Even better,” Ryoma shrugs. “If he holds his ground, you’re already where you want to be. If he tries to run, stay under his chest. That’s your territory. Make him fight the entire round there.”

They spend the next several minutes repeating the sequence over and over. Ryoma mimics the leaping punch, Aramaki blocks it, steps inside, plants his lead foot deep between Ryoma’s legs, and uses his shoulder to disrupt the recovery.

The repetition continues until Nakahara finally raises a hand. “Hold on. I understand the idea, but don’t you think you’re skipping something?”

Ryoma looks over. “What is it?”

“What if Aramaki can’t deal with the punch itself?” Nakahara asks. “If it’s really that easy, he could just counter the man and end the fight.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. “Of course I’ve thought about that too. In fact, this whole thing starts from the assumption that Aramaki isn’t a counter puncher.”

He turns toward Aramaki. “The problem with that punch is that it creates too many possibilities at once. The angle is awkward, the timing is awkward, and the target can change. It might go to the body. It might go upstairs. It might land in the middle. It might come from a strange angle. If you try reading all of it, you’re already too late.”

Aramaki nods slowly. “So what’s the answer?”

“Simplify the choices,” Ryoma says. “Instead of trying to identify the exact target, you only need to lower your level, tighten your guard, and accept the impact. With a lower crouching posture, body shots are more likely to hit shoulders, arms, or the glove covering your head. If the punch is aimed upstairs, you’d have already dodged it.”

Nakahara considers it for a moment before nodding. “That sounds a lot more realistic… only if he knows when to do it.”

Ryoma nods once. “That’s the important part. See, Serrano only goes into that kind of attack when he drops his gloves and switches into his unorthodox rhythm. He’ll start moving loose, shaking his shoulders, doing that shuffle, or widening his stance without actually committing to anything.”

Ryoma shifts his weight slightly as he speaks. “Sometimes he’ll even just stand there for a second, completely still. That’s not him resting. That’s him loading up.”

He looks back at Aramaki. “Those are your cues. Once you see that, you stop trying to read the punch. You just prepare for the jump.”

Aramaki shrugs, not entirely convinced, a faint lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “That sounds easier said than done. He doesn’t really follow rules like that. He just does whatever he wants in there.”

Ryoma doesn’t hesitate. “Then don’t let him do whatever he wants. Take away his rhythm. Make him less unpredictable.”

Aramaki looks at him. “And I’m asking, how am I supposed to do that?”

“Leave that part to me,” Ryoma says. His tone is calm, almost matter-of-fact. “I’ll simplify it for you. Once you’re in the ring, you just focus on one task at a time. You don’t overthink it. You don’t complicate anything. You just execute.”

They continue the drill, but it is no longer a simple repetition of the same sequence. Ryoma adjusts the rhythm each time Aramaki resets, sometimes stepping in earlier, sometimes delaying the entry, sometimes changing the angle of his attack to mimic different versions of Serrano’s unorthodox style.

Aramaki reacts as instructed, blocking, stepping in, crowding, but every variation draws the same response from him, a low complaint that it will not feel this simple in a real fight.

Ryoma does not argue. He only keeps refining the instruction, breaking each situation into smaller, clearer decisions and reminding Aramaki to avoid overthinking.

Each time Aramaki insists that real opponents will not behave so predictably, Ryoma answers by narrowing the problem even further, insisting that prediction is not the point and that execution must stay simple even when the situation is not.

Nakahara remains silent throughout, watching the exchange with a faint solemn smile. The more he observes, the clearer it becomes that Ryoma is not preparing Aramaki for Serrano alone, but for his own system of thinking.

Because on fight night, a trainer cannot afford to overwhelm a fighter with complicated instructions or add more confusion than the opponent already creates.