VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

There’s something in Ryoma’s silence. It’s not arrogance, not fear either. His composure is just so firm it feels like defiance. It makes the air tighten around him.

For a rookie, that kind of presence is unsettling. Some people start studying his face, searching for cracks that aren’t there, to guess what he’s thinking.

Somewhere in the stands, a lone man holding a pole banner starts shouting, just one voice against the quiet.

“Ryoma! Ryoma!”

Another voice joins, and then a few more.

Soon it becomes a rhythm, loud, raw, and imperfect. But gradually, miraculously, it begins to pulse with order.

“Ryoma! Ryoma! Ryoma! Ryoma!”

The sound rolls through the arena like thunder that learned to keep time. People who’ve never met him before tonight are suddenly lifelong supporters.

In the blue corner, anger and frustration cling to Serrano like sweat. His face is puffed in two places, his nostrils still ringed with dried blood. And the chants make him even more furious.

Right now, a cutman’s treating his swollen nostrils, dabs at the bleeding, and then slicks vaseline along his brow and nose. There’s also an assistant works his calves with brisk efficient pressure.

Shigemori stands close, trying to shore him up, to convince him the fight is still theirs. “You two are actually scoring about the same. Let him keep running on that footwork. He’ll burn out after the third. Fourth round, this fight will be yours.”

But Serrano barely listens. His eyes never leave Ryoma in the opposite corner. The look of Ryoma’s cool and downward glance at him when he went down keeps replaying in his mind, a hot brand on his pride.

This is no longer about content for his channel, or popularity, or a shot at Renji. It’s about ego. It’s the rage of a man who’s spent his life humiliating others and never being humiliated back.

“Hey, Leo!” Shigemori snaps to get his attention. “You hear me?”

Serrano finally glances at him. “I hear you, Shigemori-san. But I can’t wait for the fourth. I can’t enjoy this fight anymore. I’m breaking him now. I’ll end it as soon as possible.”

Shigemori studies his face, reading more than confidence now. There’s a new hardness, an ambition that wasn’t there before. The fight has stopped being a game for Serrano. Tonight, it’s become personal.

Shigemori adjusts his approach. There’s no time for long pep talks, and he doesn’t think Serrano would understand complex strategy. So he gives him one simple, brutal plan that a hungry rookie can swallow.

“Fine, break him if you want,” Shigemori says, blunt. “But aim at the body, in case he survives the round, make sure he can’t move in the next one.”

But then Serrano’s eyes shift. For the first time tonight there’s a flicker of doubt in them.

“What is it?” Shigemori asks, leaning in.

“That man…” Serrano starts, and then hesitates, as if the words might make him weaker. “He’s good at slipping. His movements… He’s not a fake martial artist. He’s the real deal.”

The confession knocks the breath out of Shigemori. He knows Serrano’s history, how he’s sneered at so-called martial art “masters,” humiliated stylists and branded them frauds. To hear him admit respect for an opponent isn’t in Shigemori’s playbook.

If Serrano is admitting this now, maybe his confidence is cracking. And confidence is everything for a fighter who thrives on chaos.

“Of course he looked good back then,” Shigemori says. “He’s burning out all of his stamina just to keep up with you, desperate to stay relevant. And that will cost him.”

Serrano stares. “Then tell me, Shigemori-san. If he keeps moving like that, how do I hit him?”

“Close the distance,” Shigemori snaps, no fluff. “Keep it tight. Compact punches, more volume, faster, relentless. Don’t hunt for a clean headshot. Go to the body. It’s easier to hit on an agile boxer, and it drains him. Block or not, hit as hard as you can. Make him pay.”

Shigemori finishes the plan but can’t quite force belief into his own voice. It’s a practical order; whether it’ll steady Serrano is another matter.

And it’s not like he has all the time to make this young rookie understand all the boxing science.

“Seconds out!” the referee calls.

At least, Serrano gives him a nod, like he’s got the message, and then pushes himself up from the stool.

Shigemori slips through the ropes but stops on the apron, watching Serrano’s back. Then he turns to the spectator stand, looking for the anchor he needs, the man who bankrolls this fight.

Daigo Kirizume meets his eyes from the front row. But no words are needed, only a solemn nod.

The message is clear: if Serrano doesn’t close this out in the next round the “proper” way, they will move to the other way.

Shigemori swallows. “Fine… Plan B it is.”

***

The bell rings. The third round begins.

Ryoma leaves his corner with the same watchful eyes. He moves along the ropes with calm precision, patient, still carrying that quiet hunger for revenge.

Across from him, Serrano approaches with intensity. There’s no grin now, no swagger. His shoulders are tight, eyes cutting through the space between them. Every step he takes is small, like he’s stalking Ryoma on a leash of his own rage.

“Whoa, hang on,” One commentator breaks the tension. “Serrano looks completely different.”

“Yeah, no more clowning it seems,” His partner answers. “Look at his stance. Everything’s compact, tight. He’s serious now.”

The crowd feels it too. The chanting softens, replaced by a deeper murmur, the sound of people realizing the fight has changed shape.

But it’s the kind of change that actually works in Ryoma’s favor.

Following Shigemori’s orders, Serrano starts his assault, trying to look like a “real” boxer. He throws a few stiff jabs, textbook in shape but not in spirit.

His form is rough, wide elbows, bad mechanics, telegraphed from the shoulder. He’s imitating the form, but they are not coming from discipline.

Ryoma isn’t fully in his flow yet, still hovering at the edge of that quiet “zone.” But even half-tuned, he can read every punch before it’s fully thrown.

He slips each jabs with casual ease, weight rolling from heel to toe. And after a few circles along the ropes, he finally steps in.

Now Serrano fires a strong right, but Ryoma meets it with his palm, catches the glove mid-motion, and…

BAM!

….he drives a right straight into Serrano’s guts before gliding back out.

Serrano grits his teeth, hiding the pain, and keeps pressing forward. But it’s just a repeat of the same rhythm.

A few jabs, wide shoulder and elbow, and Ryoma’s already there again, his palm holding Serrano’s glove, and…

BAM! DSH!

….a body shot, and then a right hook snapping across the cheek.

Serrano buckles, head twisting sideways, his return punch cutting only air.

He follows with a flurry, straights and crosses mixed in chaos. But it actually helps Ryoma fully slip into the zone.

Noise fades, every Serrano’s punches look slower, and slower. Ryoma weaves between them, dodging and blocking in tight space.

And then…

DUG! DUG! DUM!

Two hooks to the ribs. One clean blow to the body.

DSH!

An uppercut that jerks Serrano’s head upright, and just in time for the finishing hook to the temple.

BAMM!!!

The sound cracks through the arena like a gunshot. Sweat bursts into the air, glittering under the lights.

For half a second the crowd forgets to breathe. Then the whole arena detonates in sound.

Down!

It hasn’t reached 30 seconds since the bell rang, but Serrano’s knee already hits the canvas.

Before him, Ryoma stands exactly as before, calm and composed, with that same cold downward gaze.

And his voice lands like a verdict.

“You’re ten years too early to even touch me.”