VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, Liam is already on the stool, head lowered toward the canvas. His back bows forward, elbows braced on his thighs, posture folded in on itself as if the round hasn’t fully released him yet.

His chest rises and falls heavier, breaths drawn deep and let out slow. Sweat trails from his jaw and drips to the mat between his boots.

He isn’t shaken. But he looks worked, the kind of spent that comes from being pushed past his intended pace.

Masahiro is already in front of him, concern drawn tight across his face, while the rest of the corner moves with practiced efficiency.

Ice presses against the swelling along Liam’s cheekbone. A towel dabs at the cut near his mouth. Someone tilts the bottle and he gurgles, spits, and wipes.

Masahiro leans in. “How are you feeling?”

Before Liam can answer, Matsui’s voice slips in, low and distracted.

“…Coach.”

Masahiro glances up, annoyed. “What?”

Matsui doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay fixed past Masahiro’s shoulder, sharp, unsettled. Masahiro follows his gaze. Liam does too, lifting his head slightly despite the ice.

At the blue corner, Kenta is still standing there, eyes still locked at their direction.

Masahiro frowns. “What is it?”

Matsui swallows. “Nothing, but… something’s off with him.”

Masahiro squints. “He’s already up, huh? Can’t he wait for the bell?”

“No… He never sat down,” Matsui says quietly. “Not since the bell.”

For a second, Masahiro looks genuinely puzzled.

Then he scoffs and lets out a short chuckle, shaking his head as he turns back to Liam. “So that’s it,” he mutters. “He’s eager. Desperate, even. He knows his limit, and now he wants to end it fast.”

Liam shifts the ice pack himself, voice calm but firm. “He was strange in the second round,” he says. “Reckless, and… detached. Like he didn’t care about what I was landing.”

Masahiro’s eyes narrow, curiosity raised.

“I trust my knuckles,” Liam continues. “Those punches hurt. I know they did. But he didn’t react to them. It felt like he was willing to trade his life just to break me.”

That lands heavier than the punches. Masahiro nods slowly as the picture sharpens.

“Then that confirms it,” he says. “He’s betting everything early. He knows he can’t go long.”

His voice hardens as he speaks, not angry, but clinical. “All his losses, and even that one draw, came in longer fights. Ten-rounders. Once he moved up and had to manage distance and pace, that’s where he broke down.”

Matsui chimes in. “Park Hyun-seok,” he says. “Same pattern. Moriyama hurt him early, badly. Park slowed down too. By the later rounds, both were exhausted. But that actually helped him. His stamina looked worse, but the gap closed because Park was damaged too.”

Masahiro nods. “Exactly. We can’t let that happen here.”

He looks Liam over again, more carefully now. The swelling. The marks along the ribs. The way Liam’s breathing has deepened, even if his eyes are still clear.

“He’s not just trying to win the round,” Masahiro says. “He’s trying to damage you. Even if he burns out, if you’re hurt and tired too, the fight levels out.”

His gaze sharpens. “And looking at you… he’s already started that plan back at the second round.”

Liam swishes the water, gurgles once, then spits cleanly into the bucket. A cornerman is back running the cold enswell along his swollen cheekbone.

Masahiro examines him again, bringing his eyes level with Liam’s. “What about your legs?”

“No problem,” Liam answers immediately. “He landed some body blows. But I can manage them. My head’s still clear. I know I can go into the later rounds even if we trade again.”

He pauses, then adds evenly, “It’s the only way to break his rhythm. By force. By meeting him.”

Masahiro’s jaw tightens. “No. That’s too risky. You don’t need to break his rhythm now. It’s only the third round. It’s okay to lose one or two rounds for now. You can take it back later.”

He taps Liam’s knee lightly, grounding him. “If he wants to burn his tank, let him. Once he’s empty, that rhythm doesn’t matter. Soviet style, whatever it is… none of it works without air.”

Liam’s eyes narrow. “So what… just stand there and let him pound on me?”

Masahiro straightens, voice calm but precise. “No. Use your legs. Use the space. Keep your guard tight. Make him chase your shadow. If a shot presents itself, take it. But don’t sit in there trading. Don’t hunt exchanges. If he swings wild, counter him. If he presses…”

Suddenly, the referee’s voice cuts through the air.

“Seconds out.”

Liam pushes himself up from the stool, rolling his shoulders once as he finds his feet.

The corner team moves immediately, yanking the stool back, clearing towels and bottles with practiced speed.

But Masahiro lingers a heartbeat longer, eyes still on Liam, making sure the message has settled before he finally steps away.

“Play it safe,” he says quietly. “Fight the way you always do.”

He steps through the ropes, then stops on the apron, voice dropping one last time.

“You don’t need to prove a thing. Let him destroy himself.”

Liam listens without interrupting. He doesn’t argue because the logic is clean.

He’d been gambling in trading punches only to break Kenta’s rhythm, not because it suited him, but because he thought it was necessary.

But now, that burden is gone. He can fight his natural boxing again.

***

Nakahara and his team slip through the ropes and leave Kenta alone, without a word of instruction or adjustment.

Hiroshi and Sera exchange a quick glance, worry passing between them in silence. Even Nakahara still feels an unfamiliar coil of unease tightening in his chest.

His decision not to disturb Kenta wasn’t made from certainty, but instinct. A choice to protect Kenta’s focus rather than risk breaking it.

Whether it’s wisdom or misjudgment, he still doesn’t know for sure.

The bell rings.

Ding!

Round Three.

Unlike the first two rounds, Kenta drifts toward center with unhurried steps. His gloves hang just below chest level, loose. There’s no urgency, no visible pendulum, none of that Soviet sway that defined him earlier.

Liam meets him at center and tests the moment immediately; two sharp punches in quick succession, a probing one–two.

Kenta doesn’t lift his guard. He tilts his head just enough for the jab to graze his cheek…

Dsh!

…and pulls back, raising his left hand only to catch Liam’s cross with his palm.

Dp.

Then he bounces once in place.

Liam feels it; the rhythm is about to start. He shifts laterally, light on his feet, ready to deny space.

“Come catch me…”

But Kenta doesn’t chase.

He strolls again, following with measured steps, no cadence, no set form, almost like a brawler inviting chaos. His gloves stay low, open, tempting.

“Oh, there’s a shift in Kenta’s posture,” one commentator notes. “This isn’t what we saw in the last round.”

“Yeah,” the other adds. “After all that intensity, he suddenly looks… restrained. He didn’t even sit during the break. You’d think he’d come out firing.”

“Or,” the first muses, “maybe he burned too much fuel and now he’s paying for it.”

Liam hears them, but doesn’t buy it.

Two rounds of intensity don’t empty a fighter like this. Not someone with Kenta’s composure. And yet, despite the quiet body language, the pressure around Kenta feels sharper, denser.

Liam tests it again. Jab. Cross. Lead hook.

Dug. Dug… Thud!

Kenta raises his gloves just enough to catch the first two on his palms. The hook slips under his arm and lands shallow to the body.

Still, he throws nothing back.

For a moment, the question forms in everyone’s head: Is he actually fading?

In the blue corner, Hiroshi’s concern finally breaks through.

“He’s not using the pendulum anymore,” he mutters. “Coach… we should’ve made him sit. Even a short rest would’ve helped. He went all out in the second.”

But Nakahara says nothing.

He’s questioning the call, yes. But beneath that doubt, there’s anticipation. Something unfinished.

Back in the ring, Liam begins to take initiative. He keeps a safe distance while working in and out, touching Kenta with fast disciplined shots.

Kenta’s guard stays loose. He slips by inches, parries with open palms, movements guided more by reflex than structure.

Some punches still graze him. A shot thuds into his side. Another scrapes his cheek. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, his body starts to organize itself.

He rolls. Slips. Catches a punch on his palm.

Then finally, his lead foot slides in. And the answer comes.

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”

Jab. Cross. Lead hook to the gut.

Dug. Dug. Thud!

He pulls back and resets.

Liam resets with him, eyes narrowing, trying to read what just changed.

“What was that…?”

“Did he just say something just now?”

Kenta’s rhythm grows. Subtle now, only a faint sway in the shoulders, a small pendulum in the lead foot.

Liam moves to smother it before it fully forms, stepping in with two quick punches…

Dug. Dug.

…then sliding out, angling away.

But Kenta slides deeper, lead foot stepping so far in that his stance widens unnaturally.

And again…

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”

Another three punches, thrown from memory more than thought.

Liam blocks them clean and retreats on his legs, distance reclaimed.

But the curiosity lingers, sharper than before.

“Tight… did I hear that again?”

“What is he doing… running drills in the middle of a fight?”

The answer isn’t spoken.

It’s building as Kenta comes again, muttering the same thing.

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”