VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

While Ryoma is on the other side of the city breaking down Serrano’s habits, Kirizume is doing the opposite, forcing Serrano back into the strict fundamentals of orthodox boxing.

In Kirizume’s mind, Serrano’s natural brilliance is not something to erase; it is the very foundation that brought him this far. But that same freedom, if left unchecked, carries a risk he can no longer ignore.

Pragmatically, he wants Serrano to tighten his game, to control exchanges, and to stop exposing himself with unnecessary freedom in every sequence.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Kirizume shouts from outside the ring. “Use your left properly. You have the reach advantage. Use it to dictate the fight.”

Serrano adjusts, resetting into a cleaner orthodox stance with a longer guard. When his sparring partner steps in, he keeps him at range with a steady stream of jabs, controlling distance in a way that looks disciplined at first glance.

Physically, Serrano is built for this kind of output, his explosive musculature allowing him to throw fast, repeated jabs that still carry enough weight to keep opponents honest.

But as the rounds progress, the discipline starts to erode. The more he commits to the jab, the more his posture begins to break down.

His upper body leans forward, his rear foot occasionally lifts off the canvas as he overreaches for control, and his right hand drifts away from his chin, flaring outward as a counterbalance rather than a guard.

From outside the ring, the deterioration is subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. And it only sharpens the irritation building in Kirizume’s chest.

Eventually, he steps through the ropes without hesitation and throws the white towel straight at Serrano’s face.

“Stop fighting like that!” he snaps.

The sparring comes to an abrupt halt for the fourth time in a single session. Serrano straightens up, visibly frustrated, breathing hard but still defiant.

“What’s wrong?” he complains. “I’m controlling the fight. He can’t even touch me.”

“He can’t touch you because he’s just an amateur,” Kirizume replies sharply.

Serrano’s face tightens with disappointment. “Then get me someone better. Or maybe finding a worthy sparring partner has already become too expensive for you nowadays.”

Kirizume’s irritation tightens immediately at the response. Not just at the complaint itself, but at the audacity, as if his authority has become something Serrano can now negotiate with rather than accept.

Since Serrano’s first title defense, that shift has become impossible to ignore. The fighter who once corrected himself the moment Kirizume spoke now pushes back, questions, and argues as if the hierarchy between them has started to blur.

Years ago, when Renji was still present, Serrano was completely different. He carried himself like a tiger inside the ring, but the moment Kirizume stepped in, that same presence would collapse into obedience.

Now there is none of that; no instinctive submission, no fear of consequence. There’s only confidence in his own interpretation of things, even when it contradicts instruction.

And Kirizume, despite his irritation, cannot afford to escalate it the way he used to. The gym is already under pressure, and Serrano is too valuable to break through confrontation alone.

“I’m not talking about finding sparring partners for your entertainment,” Kirizume says. “I placed you with him on purpose, to fix your fundamentals. It’s been more than two years, and you still fight like no one ever taught you how to box the proper way.”

Serrano clicks his tongue in irritation. “Two years without losing a fight. So what exactly is the problem?”

Kirizume steps forward. The temperature in the ring seems to drop as he closes the distance, his presence tightening around Serrano’s space like a constraint.

“Then maybe I should show you that fight again…” he says quietly, “the one where Ryoma Takeda taught you a fundamental lesson in the middle of the ring.”

That line lands harder than the scolding itself. Serrano’s expression tightens almost instantly, the memory flashing back with uncomfortable clarity.

It is not just a loss he remembers, but the feeling of being exposed in real time, corrected inside the fight itself, and forced to recognize a gap in his boxing that he could not argue his way out of.

For all his talent and confidence, it remains one of the few moments that still humbles him without effort.

Serrano’s resistance finally drops. “I’m trying,” he says, taking the towel from the canvas and tossing it back toward Kirizume. “Now get out. Let me continue.”

Kirizume’s jaw tightens at the disrespect, but he does not escalate it. He simply turns and steps out of the ring. He is still far from satisfied, but for now, he accepts the outcome.

A few paces away, Liam Kuroda watches the exchange in silence. There is clear surprise in his eyes, though he keeps it restrained.

From what he has heard, Kirizume is a man whose authority in the boxing world is absolute, someone whose words alone could end a career, and whose influence could make sure that even if a fighter escaped his gym, they would not easily find stability elsewhere.

But what he sees in front of him no longer matches that image. Liam can only speculate whether Kirizume has changed after losing Renji Kuroiwa, or whether the authority people once associated with him is simply no longer as absolute as it used to be.

That impression is not limited to Liam alone. Several long-time fighters still remaining in the gym have begun to notice the same shift, though their reactions are far less restrained, carried openly in their expressions and quiet exchanges between rounds. Even Coach Shigemori has not missed it.

Shigemori eventually steps away from the edge of the gym and approaches Kirizume, lowering his voice so it does not carry across the room.

“Boss… this is starting to feel like a loss of honor for you,” he says carefully. “Stepping in personally like this against Serrano… it doesn’t look good. The others are watching. If this keeps going, it might set a precedent inside the gym.”

Before this, Shigemori was the one responsible for Serrano’s supervision, acting as his direct coach and maintaining his discipline day to day.

But once Kirizume made Serrano’s fight with Aramaki a personal, he decides to take over that role himself.

“I know,” Kirizume says. “And this will be my last bet on him. If he loses against Aramaki, that’s the end. I won’t let him drag this gym further than this. If he can’t set an example to be the leader of this gym, then I’ll make sure he stops being one.”

The suddenly, a new voice cuts in.

“Hold on, Kirizume-san.”

It’s Yoshie Noritada, a new trainer Kirizume hired last year to support Serrano’s development through a Cuban-system framework.

“You’re serious about that?” Noritada asks. “Ending him after this fight?”

Kirizume turns to him, but does not respond immediately.

“You’re treating him like a problem to be solved,” Noritada continues. “But you’re ignoring what he already has.”

He exhales through his nose, as if choosing his words carefully. “You can teach fundamentals to anyone. That part is replaceable. But the sugar…”

Kirizume responds flatly without turning away from the ring. “Too much sugar is never good in anything.”

“Well, isn’t that why you hired me?” Noritada replies calmly. “To make sure the sugar blends properly. To turn it into something balanced. Something better.”

Kirizume exhales through his nose, then finally looks at him. His gaze is cold, measured, carrying a quiet pressure that cuts the air between them.

“Yes, that’s exactly why I brought you in,” he says. “But understand this. If Serrano cannot keep that belt… you can take that sugar and leave this gym with it.”