VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Shigemori says nothing, though the faint curl of his lips betrays a knowing smile. He understands perfectly well that Tōjō isn’t equipped to handle Serrano’s slippery, unorthodox style. But that, in truth, is the point.

The pairing isn’t meant to test Serrano. It’s designed to feed him confidence, to give him rounds he can dictate, rounds where he sharpens rhythm and timing without ever being in danger. Even if it means coddling him, and grinding what little pride Tōjō has left into the canvas.

“That’s enough for today, Leo!” Shigemori calls, stepping toward the stairs that lead to the mezzanine above. “Cool down before showering. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

On the balcony overlooking the gym, Daigo Kirizume stands quietly, arms folded. He’s been there for a while, saying nothing, simply watching Serrano toy with Tōjō like a cat batting at prey.

From above, he observes everything, the rhythm of gloves striking, the labored grunts, the ebb and flow of sparring. His expression barely moves, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharp and measuring.

Serrano notices him just as he’s about to peel the tape from his fists. His hands freeze mid-motion. Then, in a voice loud enough to cut across the gym, he calls out:

“Boss! When will you let me spar with Renji?”

The effect is instant. Every head turns, conversations stop. Even the steady beat of leather on bags falters.

Tōjō, staggering toward the ropes with his pride already in pieces, jerks his head around and glares at Serrano as though the words were spit in his face.

“I heard Ryoma sparred with Renji not long ago,” Serrano continues, chest swelling. “So wouldn’t it make more sense if I got the same chance?”

A murmur ripples through the gym, sharp and angry.

“Oi, gaijin!” someone barks from the sideline. “Watch your mouth when you talk to Kirizume-san!”

“And to Renji too,” another adds hotly. “You don’t even realize what you just said. It insults him, and everyone here.”

Serrano flings his arms wide, grinning with defiance. “What’s so wrong with asking to spar with him?”

“Know your place, you arrogant brat!” someone spits.

“You just started boxing only recently! You can’t even throw a proper jab, and now you want Renji?”

The noise swells, voices crashing into each other, anger thickening the air like smoke.

And then, right on cue, the door swings open.

Renji himself walks in, relaxed smile tugging his lips. But the moment he hears the heated voices, his brow furrows.

“Whoa, what’s all this?” he asks, glancing around. “Who’s been saying they want to spar me?”

“I did,” Serrano answers instantly. “I want…”

“Forget it, Renji!” someone cuts him off sharply. “He’s too green to spar with you.”

But Renji just strides toward Serrano, the easygoing air he carried a moment ago fading into something sharper. His eyes narrow.

“You want to spar me?” he asks flatly. “You sure about that?”

The air in the gym tightens, silence settling heavier than sweat. Even the shuffle of feet and the rustle of gloves still in motion seem to pause.

Then a voice slices through the tension, deep and steady.

“Renji.”

Heads tilt upward. At the balcony above, Daigo Kirizume rests one hand on the railing. His expression is still composed, but his tone leaves no room for debate.

“Come here. There’s something I need to talk with you.”

Renji doesn’t rush. He rolls his shoulders, calm as ever, and makes his way toward the stairs.

But Serrano isn’t done. His voice cracks against the quiet like a whip.

“Boss! Come on! Let me spar him!”

Kirizume stops mid-step and pivots, eyes narrowing just enough to reveal the edge of his patience. His face remains composed, flat, but his words carry a warning weight.

“It’s too early for you to fight him,” he says. Then, after a beat: “But… if you win your rookie king final, I’ll grant it. You’ll spar with Renji whenever you want.”

That earns a reaction. Renji, pausing at the foot of the stairs, glances back over his shoulder. A faint grin tugs at his lips, more amused than friendly.

“Sounds interesting. Though I doubt you’ll get that far. Still… if you do, I’ll be glad to play with you all day.”

A low ripple moves through the gym, half intrigue, half mockery. Serrano, however, wears only a crooked smirk. To him, this isn’t dismissal. It’s recognition, an invitation into the spotlight.

He sits back down, tugging at the tape on his wrists, muttering under his breath with a giddy edge.

“A fight with the Japanese Champion… Heh? I’ll make sure the whole world sees when I put him down.”

Takayuki Hashimoto, his partner as content creator, moves quick and close, cutting between pairs of gloves like he knows exactly where to stand.

“Hey, hey… are you okay?” Hashimoto hisses, low enough that only Serrano can hear.

He looks part hype-man, part minder, his eyes darting to the balcony, to Kirizume, then back to Serrano.

“You sure you want to do this? Think, man. Think!”

Serrano waves him off with a lazy flick of his wrist, rubbing at the tape on his knuckles. “What? Boss hears me. He knows I want it. If I tell him I want Renji, that’s good promotion.”

He smirks, the kind of grin that smells of confidence and an Instagram-worthy clip waiting to happen.

Hashimoto presses, quieter but firmer. “You saw the way they reacted. This is different from the usual post. Are you trying to rile the whole gym? Boss doesn’t like that.”

Serrano snorts. “Let them talk. They’re jealous.”

Hashimoto leans closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper with a thread of real concern. “Listen. Renji Kuroiwa is a real deal. He’s the Japanese champion. That belt isn’t something you ’steal’ because you film a viral knockout. It took years, countless fights, discipline. You don’t just walk in and swipe it.”

Serrano’s smirk hardens into arrogance. “So what? I’ve beaten a lot of so-called masters already. They were overrated. He’ll be the same, my next victim. Imagine the views, man. Champion down. Viral. Money.”

Hashimoto swallows. He’s the only one in Serrano’s orbit capable of clinging to pragmatism, the content creator who also keeps the schedule and negotiates small perks.

He tries one last time, softer now: “He isn’t like the others, man. People have tried and failed. It’ll cost you more than clout if you get flattened. Think about your career, man. Think about us, the channel. Don’t throw that away for talk.”

Serrano shoulders his bag, already moving away. “Don’t be such a coward. Let me try. If I lose, so what? We get footage. If I win…” He shrugs, dangerous and sure. “We both win.”

Hashimoto watches him go, worry tucked behind his mask of professionalism. He calls after him, restrained but sincere: “Don’t underestimate this sport. That’s all I’m saying.”

Serrano doesn’t answer. He steps through the cluster of onlookers, back straight, walking to the locker room and the echoing possibility of a fight that’s more than just clicks and bravado.

In his head, the fight with Ryoma is already over, skipped past like a forgotten page. His eyes now are fixed only on Renji, blind to the danger in between.