VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The first round has begun, and Ryoma eyes stay fixed on the ring. He’s studying Serrano, how much he’s changed since their fight.

And yes, the change is real. Not just in mannerism, but in the way he fights.

“His jabs…” Ryoma murmurs. “He finally learned some basics, huh?”

Aramaki chuckles. “Yeah? Guess he listened to your free lecture.”

Ryoma’s gaze stays on the ring. “If he keeps this rhythm, he’s not winning tonight.”

Down in the ring, Serrano looks more disciplined now. Sadly, he’s too focused on proving a point, trying to show the world he can box properly.

He bounces lightly on his toes, keeping range with the jabs he’s drilled for weeks. It’s neat, but predictable. The chaos that once made him dangerous is gone.

His punches still carry weight, but they come in straight lines now, easy to read. And talking about the fundamentals, he can’t compare to Hiroyuki, who’s lived and breathed the basics for years.

Hiroyuki keeps just outside reach, slipping and stepping in to tag him with tidy counter, a sharp left here, a jab-cross there, and then fading back to reset the distance.

The first three rounds fall into the same pattern. Hiroyuki dominates, and Serrano’s face is swelling by the third, the right side already bruised purple under the lights.

But midway through the fourth, the rhythm changes.

Hiroyuki stops running around. He hangs back, letting Serrano lead, testing distance.

Serrano throws jabs, and then winds up a left cross, the same one he’s relied on all night.

But Hiroyuki sees it coming the instant Serrano’s shoulder twitches. He leans back just enough, the glove missing by a hair, then springs forward before Serrano can reset.

The right hand whips from his hip, straight down the line.

BAM!!!

The sound is clean and wet, like a bat hitting soaked leather.

Serrano’s head snaps back, his knees lock. Then he drops, gloves scrape the canvas before his knees catch him.

Down!

The hall erupts, half gasp, half roar.

Hiroyuki steps back, calm as stone.

The referee moves in, counting.

Four!

Five!

Serrano blinks. Sweat streams from his brow, eyes unfocused. By eight, he gets to one knee, and then gets up, barely.

Aramaki exhales. “Damn… he’s still standing.”

Ryoma narrows his eyes. “That’s his curse. Too tough to stay down.”

The last seconds tick away. Hiroyuki keeps distance, cautious now, eyes sharp. And Serrano uses it to buy time until the bell saves him.

In the corner, Shigemori crouches, studying his fighter. The plan was to let Serrano blend his unpredictable style with some basics of modern boxing. But Serrano’s not there yet. He’s too fixated in the basics he only learned recently.

“You’re overthinking again,” Shigemori says flatly, wiping his chest. “Forget the textbook for now. Just be yourself. Trust your gut, not drills.”

Serrano says nothing, just nods once.

***

From the fifth on, something uncoils in him. Serrano stops pretending, stops imitating, and just starts fighting.

The rhythm turns ugly, violent and alive. His punches come from strange angles, wild and off-balance, the kind of chaos that once made him feared.

But it’s not quite the same. The precision he tried to learn still clashes with his instincts. Every time he hesitates, Hiroyuki capitalizes it.

A jab, a body shot, a small punishment for every doubt. Serrano manages to lands a few clean blows for the next two rounds. But everyone can see that Hiroyuki owns them

Still, Serrano makes it a fight again. And by the eighth round, he finally traps Hiroyuki on the ropes. The crowd wakes up as Serrano digs to the body, short and heavy blows that land like mallets, sucking the air out of Hiroyuki’s lungs.

“Serrano’s not done yet! He’s carving his way back into this fight!”

Finally, the commentators sound alive. Seven rounds of polite chess have apparently given way to actual violence.

“Those hooks… That’s vintage Serrano! He’s bringing the heat!”

“And another blow lands on the guts.”

“Wait, Hiroyuki’s not moving. He’s shelled up. He’s not throwing back!”

“He’s taking too many! He’s just absorbing punishment now!”

“Somebody’s gotta step in if this keeps up. This could turn ugly fast!”

The hall starts to rumble. The energy that’s been missing all night finally stirs. But Hiroyuki grits through it, rides the storm, holds until the bell of the final round.

***

The long exhausted fight finally ends, only waiting for the judges’ score.

But everyone already knows the result. Despite Serrano’s two rounds comeback, the single knockdown gave Hiroyuki the edge.

But still, the announcer takes his time, milking the silence as if he’s savoring the last spoonful of attention left in the building.

“Ladies and gentlemen, after ten rounds of professional boxing, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

“Judge Tanabe scores it 98–92. Judge Sakamoto, 97–93. And last, Judge Endo, 98–92.”

“All in favor of your winner, by unanimous decision… Yoshiya Hiroyuki!!!”

The crowd exhales as if they’d been holding their breath for the score. And then they give standing applause, scattered and polite.

Serrano doesn’t protest, doesn’t look angry, just staring at the canvas, as if trying to read where it all went wrong.

From the mezzanine, Ryoma watches in silence. Aramaki nudges him, pointing to the red corner where Hiroyuki stands; still breathing hard, still trying to look like he won on purpose.

“So? You think you could’ve taken him?”

Ryoma’s eyes stay on the ring. “Maybe. If I ended it before the fourth.”

“Still the weight issue, huh?”

“If I’d stayed at Super Feather, my legs would’ve died by round six. I’d be flat-footed, trading shots, hoping one lucky punch did the job.”

Then Ryoma falls quiet again, watching Serrano longer than he means to. The guy has changed, rough edges still there, but something’s forming underneath.

Ryoma can see there’s still plenty of room for Serrano to improve.

“You’d better brace yourself.” Ryoma turns to Aramaki. “That Serrano… he’s not the same guy anymore. Next time, he’ll be hell to deal with. He is more dangerous than the one who wins tonight.”

***

Finally, after Serrano leaves the hall, the main event begins, the Lightweight Final between Kobayashi Ayano and Takuji Ushijima from Fukushima. This, in truth, is the reason Ryoma came tonight.

During the Rookie Tournament, he’d shared a few locker rooms with Ayano. They never spoke, but Ryoma had noticed the quiet simmering resentment, like static you can’t quite tune out. His Vision Grid even gave it a verdict: jealousy.

Ryoma never sees him as a rival, more as an opportunity. When someone dislikes you that much, it usually means a fight can be arranged without much convincing.

Now that he’s moved up to Lightweight, he could ask Nakahara to set it up, and no one would question it. For a boxer from a small, nameless gym, that’s about as close to destiny as it gets.

And to his surprise, Ayano dominates from the opening bell, pure power, no wasted movement, turning the fight one-sided almost immediately.

This is the first time Ryoma’s seen him fight, and folks…

“He’s damn strong,” Aramaki whistles. “Makes you wonder if the guy’s really a rookie.”

Ayano doesn’t bother with feints or setups. He just wades in and breaks people down, savage and efficient, the kind of fighter who treats defense as a rumor.

He doesn’t flinch when gets hit. If anything, he looks pleased, like getting punched just proves his point. Every exchange feels like a dare.

By the third round, the crowd’s already leaning forward, another brutal trade in the center of the ring.

BAM!

Both land flush. And this is already the sixth dual exchange of the night.

But Ayano doesn’t blink. He follows through, one clean right hand that sends Ushijima collapsing to the canvas.

Down!

The referee hesitates, checks the motionless fighter, then waves it off.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The crowd erupts. Ayano wins by TKO, sudden, brutal, and beautiful in that way violence sometimes is.

Even from the mezzanine, Ryoma can feel it: the pulse, the thrill, the reminder that this is what everyone really came to see.

And now it’s Aramaki’s turn to warn him, tilting his chin to the ring.

“Welcome to Lightweight.”