VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Still hasn’t cracked Serrano’s rhythm, Ryoma tries to seize control with his flickers, snapping them out to keep the distance. But the same scenario unfolds.

Serrano eats the flickers, lunges forward behind a leaping punch, and once again crashes into close range, smothering Ryoma with pressure.

Ryoma sinks deeper into the Philly Shell, baiting him in. He coils his right and gambles on another counter.

Serrano jerks back from it. And then, just like before, whips that awkward hook from below. It sneaks through, smacking Ryoma across the cheek.

Dsh!

“This fucker…” Ryoma grits under the sting, firing back with his left.

Serrano welcomes it, trading in kind, planting a thudding right into Ryoma’s ribs.

Dum!!!

Serrano’s head twists to the side. And Ryoma folds at the body shot.

The hall gasps. The two fighters freeze for a breath after the collision. But Serrano recovers first, bouncing forward again, forcing Ryoma to tighten his guard even more.

The crowds murmurs, worrying about their hero’s situation as the commentators voice cuts in.

“Can Ryoma wrestle this fight back under his control? Maybe Serrano’s reckless exchanges will open the door for a counter…”

“He’s tried that twice already. And Serrano’s beaten him to the punch both times. I don’t see it working.”

In the blue corner, Shigemori’s voice slithers smooth and steady, brimming with confidence. “Good, Leo, just keep breaking him down. He’s folding little by little. Keep the pressure, and the body will give.”

Across the ring, Nakahara looks restless, his hands twitching as though he wants to climb into the fight himself.

Impatience burns in his eyes, and guilt churns in his chest, guilt for wasting the last break, for leaving Ryoma without the tools to turn the tide.

His words now are stuck in his throat, heavy and late, but they finally break free at last in a sharp whisper.

“Don’t just endure, kid… fight him back.”

To Nakahara’s surprise, Ryoma responds in a way that only fuels his impatience. Ryoma abandons the Philly Shell altogether and starts moving on his legs. His guard drops low, barely covering anything.

“Are you crazy…?” Nakahara mutters, and then snaps, his voice cracking. “Hands up, kid! Don’t you dare take him lightly!”

But something shifts. Ryoma no longer has to absorb Serrano’s barrage directly. He’s slipping away, circling, using the full canvas to regain his rhythm.

The flickers and the Philly Shell may have carried him this far in the tournament. But this one, this smooth and fluid footwork, is his real fighting style.

“Isn’t that good?” Kenta says. “He can avoid those heavy shots now.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara growls, irritation cutting through his voice. “But it eats up his stamina fast. He can dance all night, but his legs won’t last until the final bell. And he’s already behind on points. He needs to fight Serrano head-on. Not running away.”

***

But Ryoma isn’t actually running away. He’s doing what he should have done from the very first round. It might be late, but he believes the solution will show itself from here.

He stops throwing punches altogether, channeling everything into observation. Serrano’s style may be raw and erratic. But Ryoma knows every fighter has a rhythm, a pattern hidden beneath the chaos.

This isn’t new to him. He’s done it countless times against Ryohei, moving inside a smaller ring than this. He bounces, hops, halts, slides away again, never letting Serrano catch him clean.

He even tells the system to stay silent, an order delivered through a single thought.

>

>

[Speech Assistant Mode: Deactivated]

The system falls quiet but continues its background work, tracking Serrano’s movements, projecting trajectory lines, marking openings and balance shifts, mapping momentum, directional flow, and probability vectors.

There’s nothing more, only data, stripped of noise, enough to support Ryoma’s eyes, but not stealing his focus.

Gradually, Ryoma’s movement changes. The hops shorten, the steps tighten. Each time he slips out, the distance narrows by inches.

He’s no longer running far, but only far enough. Bit by bit, he’s drawing the line where he wants it, tuning his range until every slip and sidestep lands him exactly where he needs to be.

“…Wait a second,” a commentator stirs. “Something’s changing here.”

“Yeah…” his partner pipes out. “I can’t tell what it is yet, but it doesn’t feel good.”

Serrano begins to lose his composure. The game no longer amuses him.

“Stop running, you coward!”

Irritation twists his face as he lunges in wilder, throwing a heavy left swing.

Ryoma stops his dance. This time, he reads it with complete calm. Instead of stepping back, he ducks under.

Zrss!

Again, Serrano cuts through nothing but air. Ryoma slips inside, stepping past him, sliding toward Serrano’s back.

Sensing danger, Serrano whirls around, his left arm shooting up to guard, expecting a counter from behind.

But no, Ryoma is already back in the center of the ring, bouncing lightly from left foot to right, moving with a smooth, steady rhythm.

Serrano scowls, and then masks it with a crooked grin and a mocking nod. “You really do know how to run, huh? Yes, running suits you.”

He strolls again, then breaks into a lazy jog, rocking his head left and right like he owns the ring.

But suddenly, Ryoma stops, no more bouncing, no more circling. Only his torso moves now, swaying in a slow rhythm.

Serrano halts too, frowning, trying to read him. What’s he up to now?

As if answering the question directly, Ryoma lifts a glove and waves him forward.

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“Oooh, he’s provoking him now,” one commentator says, his tone lighting up. “Is Ryoma finally done running?”

“This is getting interesting, folks!” another chimes in. “Whatever’s coming next, you might miss it if you blink.”

Serrano grows cautious. Instead of leaping forward, he cuts the distance inch by inch. Ryoma doesn’t back away. He waits, still and focused.

Even when Serrano steps into range, Ryoma doesn’t throw a punch, not even a probe or a feint. He just stands there, arms slightly raised, not covering anything, his posture loose but ready.

Serrano begins the test, a swinging left to the body. Ryoma glances, reads the glove’s path, and leans forward, catching Serrano’s forearm with his glove.

Thud!

Serrano follows with a right hook from below. Ryoma tilts his eyes, reads it, then straightens, just enough for the punch to whip past his chin.

Swss!

More punches follow, heavy, erratic, coming from strange angles. But Ryoma still doesn’t fire back. He only reads, sways, slips, and twists his torso, dodging each blow without leaving his spot.

His left foot stays rooted, his right shifting just enough to keep his balance. When he can’t evade, he catches the forearm instead of the glove, absorbing the impact without losing form.

The commentators stir, looking intrigued. But no words are coming out for now. Even the crowd grows restless, their tension rising with each narrow slip.

But soon, the anxiety turns into a strange electric thrill. For every missed punch, a gasp. For every perfect block, a cheer.

“Hit him back, Ryoma!”

“Don’t just dodge! Finish it!”

They call for Ryoma to strike, but he never does.

Ryoma’s too fixated, too deep in his observation. His adrenaline surges, blood pounding, the thrill blurring into focus.

And finally, he slips into the zone.

The noise dulls. The lights dim around the edges. Serrano’s punches look slow, dragging through the air as if the whole ring has thickened into liquid.