VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

This time it’s three punches on the same line; jab, cross, jab, all straight to the head. It’s fast, sharp, and compact. But Liam reads it easily.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

All three thud into his guard.

Then he answers with a short left hook in the gap.

Kenta draws his lead foot back half a step, lets the hook skim past, then drags his rear foot forward, angling it outward, stance still wide.

And…

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”

He mutters it again as he fires another sequence; two right hooks, low then high, followed by a sharp left upstairs.

Liam drops his left arm to block the first, but the rhythm is too tight. The second clips his cheek.

Dug. Dsh!

He recovers in time for the third, snapping his right glove up to catch it on the forearm. Then he’s gone, stepping back immediately, legs carrying him out of range.

“He’s fast…”

Up in the booth, the commentators perk up, recognizing the pattern.

“Moriyama’s starting to build something again,” one says.

“Feels like the second round all over,” says the other one. “Are we about to see chaos?”

But no, Kenta keeps stalking forward with that same lazy walk, no visible form, gloves hanging just below his chest, wide open, almost careless.

His stride suggests indifference, almost boredom. But his gaze is another matter, eyes wide, razor-sharp, unblinking, intense enough that Liam wonders if he’s blinked even once since the bell.

Kenta isn’t truly chasing his opponent. He’s chasing the sensation he felt during mitt work with Ryoma.

To find it again, he needs to be in range. But there’s no plan guiding him there, no strategy forming in his mind.

He isn’t thinking at all, still caught in that strange pull, moving forward endlessly, as if his legs are acting on their own.

The fight slows into something deceptive; footwork light, distance measured. Then, the instant Kenta slips into range, the pace snaps upward in a violent burst.

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Liam reacts immediately, steps out, then darts back in just as fast. Three compact shots fly toward Kenta’s head, exploiting the opening, followed by a short hook to the body.

Kenta reacts, just slightly. His gloves rise just enough to brush the first two punches aside, his head tilting to let the third skim past.

Dsh, dsh, dsh.

None of it is clean, but all three shots still graze his cheek, glancing at an angle. Even the body hook lands solid on his side, as he doesn’t seem to care to block it.

Thud!

Four punches in under two seconds, and Liam is already gone again, feet carrying him back to safety.

Kenta keeps coming, steady strides, guard still hanging low. He’s been hit more than once now, but there’s no visible response, no flinch, no adjustment.

“He’s being careless,” Hiroshi mutters, worry etched into his face. “Coach… you need to stop this. Tell him to reset. He’s charging like a mad bull.”

“Is that really what you’re seeing?” Nakahara replies, eyes never leaving the ring.

Hiroshi bristles. “This isn’t how he boxes. This isn’t him. I know something’s been wrong since the first round. He’s not fighting properly.”

Nakahara stays silent, watching.

Liam continues his hit-and-run, piling up points with sharp, disciplined punches while his legs keep him just outside danger.

Most of them land, scoring blows, but none clean enough to do real damage.

Then Nakahara speaks, and it isn’t what either of them expects.

“There was a time Ryoma came to me,” he says quietly. “He asked if he could help the younger kids with mitt work.”

Hiroshi and Sera glance at him, confused.

“He said it might sharpen his defense,” Nakahara continues. “So I allowed it. Just the unlicensed kids. Nothing serious.”

“Coach,” Sera says carefully, “why are you bringing this up now? It’s Kenta we are worrying about.”

“But you saw what happened when Kenta started working with him,” Nakahara cuts in.

Sera goes still. The pieces begin to shift.

“The first time I watched that mitt session, I wanted to stop it,” Nakahara admits. “But I didn’t. Every cue Ryoma gave… it felt deliberate, like there’s certain purpose behind it.”

Hiroshi blinks. “A purpose?”

Nakahara nods. “Like he was conditioning Kenta for one opponent. For Liam Kuroda. At the same time, the kid was trying to pull something out of him.”

After a beat, he turns to them, smiling unsurely. “Remember that sparring that forced us to take Ryoma to the hospital?”

Their brows lift, recalling that incident. There’s no way they would forget that incident.

“He said he was trying to scrape away Kenta’s softness,” Nakahara says, eyes returning to the ring. “At first, I disagreed. Then I wondered… what if I was soft too? What if, by being soft, I’ve been keeping them from growing?”

Sera and Hiroshi swallow hard. This time, they understand.

Kenta hasn’t looked off since the first round; he’s been pushed to the very edge of his focus. The gentler habits, the restraint that once defined him, have been stripped away, and something harder has begun to surface.

Ryoma was the one who started it. And right now, Nakahara is letting it happen.

Not because he’s certain of the outcome. But because he believes Kenta has to awaken that buried side of himself, fully, before it disappears again.

***

The round drifts into its later minutes, and Liam now appears firmly in control.

The idea that Kenta is desperate to end the fight early has faded. His steady stalking makes Liam to raise his own tempo. He still slips in and out, but now he lingers longer inside range, engaging more, throwing in clusters instead of single shots.

Kenta still doesn’t hold a full guard. His defense comes in fragments; instinctive slips, late parries, reflexive shoulder rolls.

Punches graze him, thud against ribs and arms. But with every exchange, his focus sharpens.

Gradually, the rhythm Ryoma drilled into his muscles clicks into place. Liam’s timing matches it almost perfectly. And that alignment pulls Kenta deeper into the flow.

Then, finally, his gloves rise properly. Just like during the mitt sessions.

His movements smooth out, no strain, no rush. He blocks, parries, slips, rolls; shoulders turning, stance angling, punches dying on forearms or skimming harmlessly across skin.

And the shift is unmistakable.

“Oh… there it is,” a commentator says, voice lifting. “Kenta Moriyama’s defense just snapped into focus.”

“Look at that,” the other adds. “Liam’s throwing clean, sharp combinations… but Moriyama’s reading them now. Slipping, rolling, taking everything on the arms.”

The crowd responds in waves, gasps for Liam’s speed, and then murmurs as Kenta makes it all look effortless.

More than ten seconds have passed since Liam entered his range. Dozens of punches have been thrown. Not one has landed clean.

Yet Kenta hasn’t answered at all.

His focus is narrowed entirely to reaction. His spine and hips don’t load to strike, only to shift; angling posture, adjusting balance in the middle of the storm.

His feet keep moving, pivoting, stepping back in small increments, each one a search for better footing as the pressure drives him deeper.

Until, without realizing it, he steps into it.

The zone.

He hears his heartbeat with grim clarity. The hiss of punches cutting air. The rhythm of Liam’s breath.

No, time doesn’t slow to him. The world doesn’t sharpen into detail. He’s never had that kind of vision.

Instead, his body takes over.

Muscles fire without instruction, reflex answering before thought can form. He isn’t deciding anymore. He’s letting his instinct riding on the flow.

His arms begin to ache, not from fatigue, but from restraint, like they’re screaming to be released. And Kenta lets them go.

Liam snaps a jab that finds only air, then pulls before throwing a long hook.

The pattern clicks; exactly as Ryoma drilled it. Kenta lifts his right glove as his left fires at the same instant. No thought. Just motion.

The hook crashes into his forearm. And his jab lands flush at the same time.

Dsh!

In the next heartbeat, his right hand snaps forward, short and compact.

Dhuack!

The cross lands clean, snapping Liam’s head back.

It all happens in a single beat. Too fast to read.

The crowd gasps, and before the sound can swell, Kenta’s hands are already moving again as Ryoma’s voice rises from memory.

Tight. Tight. Tight.

Dsh! Thud! Bug!

Three punches; head, ribs, gut. Sharp and compact, landing clean.

Both commentators raise to their feet.

“This isn’t in the notes anymore!”

“He just hit him three times before my brain caught up!”

Liam jerks his gloves high and steps back, guard tightening.

Kenta bounces once in place, then slides his lead foot deep inside, stance widening aggressively.

And the words spill out again, barely louder than breath.

“Tight. Tight. Tight. Tight.”

Dug! Thud!

Dug! Bug!

Liam fires back, a sharp hook aimed upstairs.

But even in this trance, Kenta’s discipline holds. The hook slams into his raised glove instead.

Dug.

The impact shoves Kenta to the left. But he doesn’t resist it; he lets his body bend with the force, rides it, and…

“Tight. Tight. Tight.”

Bug! Bug! Bug!

Triple hooks rip into Liam’s ribs, fast and compact, each one landing with cruel precision.

“Wooo… hoho!” a commentator explodes. “That was sick!”

Liam folds slightly, breath hissing as he staggers back a few steps.

The shots weren’t deep, not crushing. But the pain is unmistakable, written plainly across his face.

Kenta is already in motion again, riding the flow without thought. His body looks relaxed, almost effortless.

But his eyes are blown wide, unhinged.

For the first time in his career, dread settles into Liam’s chest. That weird feeling from the second round crawls back up his spine.

This isn’t a boxer in front of him.

It’s a beast baring its fangs.