VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

If there’s one thing slowing Serrano down, it’s his own cockiness. He halts the assault just to taunt, chin tilted high, smirk spread wide.

“Come on! You’re a boxer, aren’t you? Send me a…”

Dsh!

A jab slices in, cutting his words mid-sentence. Serrano blinks, stunned for half a beat.

Junpei seizes the chance to slide out of range, reclaiming the center of the ring. He plants his lead foot, his flicker jabs spilling out, sharp and unrelenting.

One snaps against Serrano’s temple. Another stings his cheekbone. The third is blocked, but Serrano’s grin wavers, even just for an instant.

“What’s with these love taps? You mocking me?” Serrano snarls.

But…

Dsh! Dsh!

Two more jabs pierce his right cheek, quick and precise, forcing his hands up. But even his guard is crude, no tight shell, no polished cover.

He looks more like a brawler throwing up his arms in impatience, catching some shots, but letting others slip clean through to his face.

“That’s it!” Junji calls out. “Don’t let him cut the distance. Keep the pressure!”

Thirty seconds left in the round, and the pace sharpens. Junpei begins pressing forward, his flicker jab flowing into a straight right, then rolling off his own shoulder to slide Serrano’s wide swing.

Sometimes Serrano answers with a wild hook from nowhere, and Junpei punishes him with a jab to the cheek, fast as lightning.

Serrano reels, but still laughs it off, stumbling to the ropes and springing off them like a street fighter. He rebounds hard, like a showman in the wrong sport, and hurls himself forward with a looping punch.

The glove thuds into Junpei’s shoulder.

Dam!!!

Junpei staggers for a second. But he then twists on instinct, coiling tight, firing back with a snapping counter.

Swsh!

Serrano ducks and veers away. Once he resets, his grin only widens.

“That’s more like it! I like that!”

***

In the last ten seconds, the final exchange comes quick as Serrano dives in with another looping hook. Junpei rolls under, pivots, and digs a jab into Serrano’s mouth.

But before he manages to follow it up, the bell clatters.

Ding!

The first round ends. The crowd bursts alive. Applause mixes with jeers, some cheering Serrano’s chaos and wild moves, others nodding at Junpei’s precision.

And the commentators’ voice cuts through the air.

“What a first round! Serrano’s unorthodox power showed flashes, but Junpei’s discipline, his flicker jab, that’s what carried the round.”

“You’re right! Serrano’s so wild, it almost feels like a puroresu match instead of boxing. But Teshima stayed composed, kept scoring clean, and he’s the one edging ahead on points.”

But the gap isn’t wide. Serrano drops onto his stool, grinning like a man fresh out of a street fight. He gulps water, slaps his chest, and then leans toward the phone camera his content partner is holding up from the stands.

“Did you see that? I cornered the so-called flicker specialist!”

A few fans sneer at the display. Boos ripple through the hall; some out of contempt, others just to drown out his recording. But Serrano only spreads his arms wider, soaking in the hate like fuel.

In the red corner, Junpei sits with his chest rising and falling, breath just a little ragged. Trainer Suzuki Junji wipes his face with the towel, speaking in a calm, steady rhythm.

“Slow it down. Inhale… now exhale. Good. That’s it. You did well, Junpei. You took back the center, you shut him down with those flickers. That’s how you fight.”

Junpei shakes his head, voice low but sharp with unease. “No, it’s not that simple. His punches… they’re heavy. Both hands feel like hammers. I still can’t tell… is he orthodox, or southpaw. I don’t even know what stance he’s fighting from.”

Junji takes a moment, brows knitting as he digests Junpei’s words. Then he exhales through his nose, waving it off with a flick of the towel.

“That just shows his ignorance. He’s still green. One pro fight before this, that’s all. You can see it in the way he throws, no structure, no discipline. His gym didn’t even have time to drill the basics into him.”

Junpei shakes his head again, still catching his breath, his voice rough. “But still… he’s harder to fight than anyone I’ve faced before.”

Junji leans closer, tapping Junpei’s chest gently with his fist, steady but firm.

“Listen to me. You’ve got the edge in skill, in discipline, in all the hours you’ve put in. Trust in that.”

The look in Junpei’s face shifts. His eyes are more determined than before.

“Serrano’s raw,” Junji continues. “And he won’t be able to change a plan mid-fight. He’ll come at you the same way he did in the first. So keep your distance, rake the points, and if he dives in, punish him with the counter. You’ve got this.”

In the blue corner, it’s a different scene altogether. Just as Junji predicted, there are no tactical instructions, no breakdown of the round. Giichi Shigemori merely kneels beside his fighter, running a quick check.

Despite eating jab after jab, Serrano’s face looks surprisingly clean. Only the faintest swelling shows. And even that swelling fades under the cold press of the enswell.

“How’re you feeling?” Junji asks. “Impressions of our opponent?”

Serrano shrugs, grinning wide. “At least he’s not as bad as the last guy I flattened.”

Shigemori lets out a short laugh and nods. “That so? Then tell me, are you having fun?”

“Hell yeah!” Serrano beams. “Way more fun than pounding those fake martial artists!”

“Good,” Shigemori says, smiling faintly, almost like a teacher humoring a cocky student. “Then keep it that way. Go out there, have fun.”

***

Finally, the referee’s command cuts through the air.

“Seconds out!”

Junji squeezes Junpei’s shoulder before slipping out through the ropes. “Have faith in yourself. You’ve trained for this. Trust your discipline.” His words linger like an anchor, calm but firm.

Across the ring, Giichi Shigemori says nothing. He pats Serrano’s leg once and steps out in silence.

Serrano doesn’t even glance at him. Instead, he leans toward the ropes, grinning into his partner’s camera.

“Round two, baby. Time to shift gears.”

Moments later…

Ding!

The bell clangs. Both fighters step forward.

Junpei is still in his measured Philly Shell, right shoulder raised, chin tucked, rhythm calm and deliberate. Serrano stalks with loose arms and wide steps, his chin exposed, his movements daring.

The first exchange comes sharp. Junpei’s jab peppers Serrano’s face, snapping his head back twice.

Serrano just laughs, shoulders rolling as if nothing happened. Then he suddenly lunges, hurling a looping right that slams into Junpei’s guard.

Just as Junji predicted, the rhythm mirrors the first round—but something has shifted. Every thud from Serrano reverberates like it shakes the canvas itself, each blocked punch driving Junpei’s frame backward, his body swaying with the impact.

“Junpei’s defense is holding,” one commentator notes, “but Serrano’s power… look at the way it shakes through him!”

Junpei holds his composure, edging sideways, trying to reclaim the center with sharp flickers. But each time he catches Serrano’s fists on his guard, the snap drains from his punches.

The flickers become dull. His left arm drags now, shoulder thick with ache. Jabs that once cracked like a whip now land as sluggish taps.

Junji notices the change, his expression shifting. Serrano notices it too, and his grin stretches wider, hungry.

“Is that it?” he taunts, lunging with another wide swing.

Junpei blocks, but his body rocks back, almost pendulum-like.

And then…

“Bughh!”

…a heavy shot buries into Junpei’s midsection.

Air bursts from his lungs as his body folds, stomach caving under the blow. Still, instinct fires, and his right hand whips out, desperate, searching for Serrano’s chin.

Swoosh…

Serrano jerks his head back catlike, the punch cutting through nothing but air.

Junpei’s legs give after that miss swing, and he drops to one knee.

Down!

The crowd erupts in one collective gasp, the sound swelling like a single body shocked at once.