VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Serrano’s eyes lift toward him, and this time, there’s no rage left, no fire, no anger.

There’s only the pale hollow look of a man who’s run out of answers.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out, no words strong enough to break Ryoma’s gaze.

Then the referee’s voice slices through the quiet.

“Hey! Back to the neutral corner!”

Only then does Ryoma move. He turns without a word and walks toward one of the neutral corners.

He’s no longer in the zone, but something of it still lingers, the gravity in his stride, the cold weight in the air that seems to follow him.

When he reaches the corner and turns back, Serrano sees that same gaze again. It’s sharp as a blade, cutting straight through him, peeling away every shred of confidence he has left.

The silence between them says it all: the gulf in skill, in composure, in everything that makes one man a fighter and another just someone who fights.

And for the first time in his life, Leo Serrano feels so small before someone else.

The ref’s voice echoes through the arena.

“Two…”

“Three…”

But Serrano doesn’t move. He’s not broken in the body; his guard isn’t shattered, his limbs still obey him. But inside, everything’s gone quiet.

The noise, the arrogance, the fury, all drained out of him like color from a dying flame.

“Four…”

There’s a flicker of movement from the corner team. Shigemori shouts something, but the words don’t reach him. Serrano hears only the echo of Ryoma’s voice.

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

“Five…”

He lowers his head. The gloves, they are still trembling faintly, one holding himself up on the canvas, the other rest against his knee.

He could stand. He knows it. The body still works. But the will, the part that stood him up every time before, is gone.

Serrano exhales a long empty breath that sounds almost like surrender. He only wants this fight to end, so he can hide somewhere.

But then, Shigemori’s voice finally cuts through the haze, loud and thunderous, rolling over the crowd.

“Get up, Leo! I know that’s not enough to beat you! Get back to your feet and fight! Survive this round, then come back to me. We can still win this!”

The words strike something inside him. Serrano blinks, focus returning in fragments. Shigemori’s voice, rough and desperate, sounds like the last rope thrown to a drowning man.

His second has always known this sport better than anyone he’s met. Maybe there’s still a way. Maybe there’s still an answer.

And so, on the ninth count, Serrano pushes himself up. It doesn’t take much effort, his legs hold steady, and that alone tells him he’s not done yet.

Across the ring, Ryoma waits in his corner, still and silent. His Vision Grid flickers alive across his vision, pulsing faintly with readouts.

He doesn’t look at the panel yet, his eyes never leave Serrano.

Still, he speaks quietly:

“Activate speech assistant mode.”

>

The referee steps closer to Serrano. “Are you okay? Can you still fight?”

Serrano nods, forcing the word out.

“Yes.”

Ryoma’s Vision Grid responds immediately.

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The referee steps back and signals.

“Box!”

From the corner, Shigemori shouts again, voice raw.

“Gloves up, Leo! Buy some time! Don’t trade yet!”

Serrano obeys, lifting his gloves high, trying to rebuild the wall.

Then another pulse flickers across Ryoma’s Vision Grid, and the system speaks in his head.

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Ryoma tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. He starts to dance, slow, calm, closing the distance without hurry.

“They really never teach you anything, huh?”

Serrano blinks, teeth clenched.

“Then let me teach you the basics first,” Ryoma adds, voice calm, almost kind.

Serrano growls, gritting harder. But the instant his gloves dip, even just slightly…

Dsh!

A jab snaps into his face.

“That’s what we call a jab,” Ryoma says.

“Shut up,” Serrano spits. “I don’t need…”

Dsh!

Another jab cuts him off mid-sentence.

“Gloves up, Leo!” Shigemori yells from the corner. “Tight guard! Don’t rush it!”

Serrano’s irritation flares, but he swallows it, raising his gloves high and hiding his face behind them.

Still, Ryoma spots the gap immediately and threads another jab through it.

Dsh!

Then he shifts to the side, circling, his rhythm light and methodical as he keeps jabbing.

“This is how you throw jabs.”

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

“You don’t telegraph it.”

Dsh! Dsh!

“It doesn’t have to be heavy.”

Dsh!

“You control your opponent with your left hand alone.”

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

Serrano blocks most, but a few slip through, snapping his head back. He starts to move his head now, gloves still high, trying to read the rhythm and dodge.

There’s a faint improvement, enough that Ryoma even acknowledges it.

“Good. That’s better. Move your head too.”

He keeps jabbing, steady, unhurried, like an instructor in the ring.

“Don’t give your opponent an easy target.”

Then, after tracking Serrano’s new rhythm, Ryoma sets the trap.

He fires a left, but just a decoy.

Serrano slips outside, and…

BAM!

…a straight right slams into his face. Sweat arcs under the lights as his head snaps back.

“That’s a one-two,” Ryoma says, eyebrow raised. “See? You can also use your left for that purpose. Here, let me show you again.”

He resumes the rhythm. Serrano blocks, dodges, but each time he slips the left…

Dug, dug… Dsh!

…he eats the right.

Dug, dug… Dsh!

The rhythm repeats, merciless and precise. Ryoma keeps circling, controlling the pace, dropping commentary between punches as though he’s narrating a lecture.

“It looks simple, doesn’t it? But every boxer spends years mastering this one basic skill.”

Dug, dug… Dsh!

Dug, dug… Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

***

After barely a minute of this “lesson,” Serrano’s left eye is swollen half-shut. Blood streaks his mouth and nose, dripping onto the canvas.

His toughness as a mixed-blood keeps him upright, legs still steady. But his pride is gone, his confidence crushed.

Ryoma could have ended it anytime. But he doesn’t. He keeps teaching, calmly demonstrating fundamentals in the middle of a professional fight.

Even the commentators have caught a few of his words in the middle of the course.

“I’ve never seen anything like this… he’s giving a clinic right in the ring!”

“This isn’t a fight anymore. It’s a masterclass in humiliation.”

Moments later, the bell finally rings, ending Ryoma’s free lesson.

Ryoma lowers his gloves, calm and composed. Across from him, Serrano stays frozen, still hiding behind his own gloves, as if unsure whether he’s protecting his face from another punch or simply hiding from the shame.

“You’ve done great,” Ryoma says. “Next, I’ll teach you the ethics of being a professional boxer.”

Something in those words breaks whatever’s left inside Serrano. Slowly, he lowers his gloves, and that’s when everyone sees it: the bruised face, the swollen eye, the bloodied nose.

But more than that, they see the irony. Serrano, the man who strutted into the ring with swagger and arrogance, now trudges back to his corner with his head bowed.

***

In the blue corner, Shigemori tries everything to lift Serrano’s spirit, slaps on the shoulders, words about pride, about comebacks. But nothing changes. The cutman’s ice and gauze have also made Serrano look fresher, but the fire inside is gone.

Shigemori glances up at Daigo Kirizume, and then back to his fighter. His stomach knots. Losing is one thing, but humiliating Kirizume’s name is another.

He then grabs a vaseline bottle, but inside, it isn’t vaseline. He smears the substance over Serrano’s gloves, quick and precise, careful not to draw eyes.

“Listen,” he whispers. “Next round, aim for the eyes. Just one touch. Once it lands, he’s yours. We can’t let Kirizume’s name get dragged down. You get me?”

Serrano stares blankly for a moment, and then gives a slow resigned nod.