VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The thud echoes like a gunshot. Gasps ripple through Korakuen Hall. Thousands of voices rise at once.

On the red-corner apron, Nakahara reels back, eyes wide. His shock mixes with fury, baffled by the sheer recklessness.

Hiroshi stares beside him, frozen in equal confusion, mouth half open but no words coming.

“What’s going on here?” Nakahara mutters under his breath, voice sharp with disbelief. “Why would he charge in like that?”

Only Kenta watches without surprise, his expression dark, as if he’d seen this moment coming all along.

“He’s lost it. I knew there was something off with him lately.”

Right now, Ryoma still lies sprawled on the canvas, vision blurred, staring up into the blinding lights above the ring. The world spins, sound rushing in waves, then narrowing to a dull roar.

“He’s down already?!”

“It’s over!”

“No way… It’s too early.”

The commentators leap in, voices cutting through the storm:

“Unbelievable! Serrano drops Takeda with the very first punch of the fight!”

“Just four seconds in… Ryoma’s never been in this much trouble before!”

Ryoma’s head turns, slowly, painfully. There he sees Serrano loom above him, grinning like a predator savoring the kill.

Serrano doesn’t step back, even as the referee waves him away. He stays there, looking down on Ryoma with contempt, relishing the sight.

It feels the same as that day on the street. No, it’s worse, because now Ryoma is flat on his back, under the lights, before the eyes of thousands.

Fury ignites in his chest. Ryoma’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding so hard it hurts. He tries to push himself up, not to survive, not to fight smart, but for one reason only: revenge.

From the corner, Nakahara barks in alarm. “Stay down, Ryoma! Don’t force it! The referee hasn’t even started the count!”

But Ryoma doesn’t listen. His body trembles with the effort, legs refusing him. His arms strain, but strength leaks away like water through cupped hands. The humiliation burns hotter than the pain.

Serrano crouches slightly, taunting. “What’s this? You still want more? Then get up and face me! Too quick for you, eh?”

From the blue corner, Shigemori shouts: “Hey, Leo! Back to your corner! Ref won’t start the count otherwise!”

“Oh, sure, sure!” Serrano shrugs, swaggering back across the ring with a mocking flourish.

Only then does the referee finally kneel beside Ryoma, eyes fixed, and raise his hand.

“One!”

“Two!”

“Three!”

Ryoma rolls to his side, propping up on one elbow. His vision clears by degrees. The roar of the crowd filters back into focus, every shout pounding against his skull.

“Four!”

He plants one knee on the canvas, a hand still supporting him. His chest heaves.

“Take your time, kid!” Nakahara calls. His voice is steady, but inside he’s twisting in knots.

“Five!”

Ryoma inhales through his nose, long and deliberate. Not because his hatred has faded, but because he refuses to waste his chance at vengeance by falling short of the count.

“Six!”

Sweat drips from his chin. His body steadies.

“Seven!”

At last, strength returns to his legs. He plants his foot firmly, then the other.

“Eight!”

He rises, swaying but upright, fists curled tight at his chest. The referee steps close, waving a hand in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked past the referee, cold and unblinking, aimed straight at Serrano, who leans back in his corner ropes, arms spread wide, smirking with arrogant ease.

“Hey! Answer me!” the referee snaps, voice cutting through. “Are you okay? Can you fight?”

Ryoma’s focus flickers, his breath drags in. For the first time since the knockdown, clarity edges out the blind rage.

Now he hears the question. He feels the crowd’s weight pressing down. He forces his voice steady.

“Yes, I’m fine!”

“Are you sure?” the ref demands.

“Of course.” Ryoma lifts his gloves sharply, annoyance flickering across his face. “It was just a lucky punch. I’m not that weak.”

The referee studies him, then nods once and steps away. His hand chops through the air.

“Box!”

The fight is back on.

The crowd roars, the hall shaking with their voices.

Serrano steps forward with his grin still plastered wide, as if he’s already written the ending. But across from him, Ryoma steadies his stance, fists raised, jaw tight.

This time, it isn’t just fury holding him up. It’s something colder, something that refuses to break.

***

The hall is still thick with confusion. The roar hasn’t settled, voices buzzing with disbelief at how quickly Ryoma fell.

At the press row, heads lean close, voices sharp against the background noise.

“He tried the same strategy with Noguchi here, but failed,” Sato says.

“That’s not the case,” Tanaka replies, eyes narrowed at the ring. “I’m not sure that was a failed strategy at all.”

Sato frowns. “Don’t you see that down?”

“I told you earlier,” Tanaka murmurs. “Something’s off with him. And I know that wasn’t a strategy.”

For the first time, Aki leans in. Her voice is calm, but it cuts.

“It’s rage.”

Sato blinks. “Rage?”

“I saw it in him during the weigh-in. But I didn’t think Serrano’s psywar would actually work, certainly not to this extent.”

Back in the ring, Ryoma is still burning, still ruled by vengeance. His breath hisses between clenched teeth. But his legs feel heavy, stiff from the knockdown, and he knows his smooth footwork won’t return right away.

Any professional fighter would recognize it instantly: these first shaky seconds are the best chance to punish Ryoma, maybe even finish him.

But Serrano isn’t moving like a professional. For him, this is just a game, a show to pull in more fans and viewers.

He stalks forward casually, both hands dropped, then stops a few steps from Ryoma. His torso leans forward, bowing low, chin tucked in a strange angle.

His posture more like a rooster sizing up its rival than a boxer. The stance is awkward, yet mocking. His shoulders dip, eyes darting for an opening.

And then…

Swsh!

His right hand whips out from a bizarre angle, not quite a hook, not quite an uppercut. It’s hard to call it a punch at all.

Dsh!

…but it lands on Ryoma’s guard, jolting through his gloves.

Serrano grins wide. “What? Aren’t you supposed to be a prodigy? Come on!”

He sways again, leaning to his right, then swings his left across…

Dsh!

…another impact, smacking against Ryoma’s glove.

But this time Ryoma fires back, snapping a jab downward toward Serrano’s ducked head. His opponent is bowing so low their eye lines almost meet at chest level.

But Serrano slips away at the last instant, tilting his head aside and staggering back. His retreat looks sloppy, almost comical, like a drunkard dancing at a party.

From the blue corner, Shigemori barks: “Leo! He’s still hurt from the down earlier. Use this chance!”

Serrano smirks, raising an eyebrow. “So you are hurt, huh? Now you know how hard these knuckles are?”

Then he explodes forward. His fists fly in wild arcs, left and right, no rhythm, no pattern.

Hooks slash at Ryoma’s ribs, uppercuts scrape at his arms, heavy blows thundering against whatever they meet.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

He doesn’t aim clean. He doesn’t have to.

His gloves still crash into Ryoma’s forearms, shoulders, elbows, most landing on the outer sides. But each one still bruises, each one swings Ryoma’s torso around.

The pattern is irregular, frantic, like a storm with no direction, fast, heavy, unrefined.