VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Kenta comes forward without pretense now. No probing. No rhythm to disguise it.

He lunges in with both gloves clenched, shoulders flaring wider than any textbook would allow, openings yawning across his centerline like an invitation.

It’s wrong, ultimately reckless. And that’s what makes it terrifying.

“He’s not done!” a commentator shouts. “He’s throwing the book away!”

“This isn’t pressure anymore,” the other says. “This is a man chasing the finish!”

For a split second, Liam sees the opening, sees the counter waiting to be taken before anything even comes.

His left glove rises, seeming to fly.

But his breath catches. It’s not fear of getting hit, but fear of stepping in wrong. Just a heartbeat, barely even that. And that hesitation costs him.

Kenta’s left comes first, a hook rising from low, slanted upward toward the jaw from Liam’s right side.

Liam drops his right hand instinctively, trying to catch it on the glove and shield his chin. But he’s late, not by much, but not enough to fully stop the punch.

The glove slips past the edge of his guard, thumping into his chest instead, skimming skin and riding up into the left shoulder.

Dsh!

And before his frame can settle, the cross is already there, just a heartbeat from the previous one.

Liam brings his left glove toward center, palm brushing Kenta’s knuckles, trying to turn it away. He pulls his head at the same time, desperate to steal distance.

But it’s not enough.

The punch still finds him, its path bent just a bit, and still clips the corner of his mouth.

Dhuak!

His head snaps to the right, vision flashing white for an instant as the taste of blood blooms sharp and sudden.

“Ohhh!” a commentator bursts out. “That one got through… even with the block!”

“You could hear it,” the other adds, voice climbing. “That’s a nasty angle… that’s not supposed to land!”

In that same instant, Kenta is already inside.

His rear foot drags forward, stance shifting, weight pouring through his hips as he rips a right hook toward the body.

Ding, ding, ding!

The bell cuts through the motion, but not in time.

BUG!

The hook lands anyway.

“Oh my god!” a commentator yells, half out of his seat. “That one came after the bell!”

Liam folds with a sharp cry, face contorting in disbelief and pain, fury flashing at the cheap shot after the bell.

He lashes out on instinct, a wild swing thrown in anger.

“You fuckin’ arsehole…”

But the referee is already there, lunging between them, arms up, body turned, shielding his own head as he shouts.

“Stop! Stop!!!”

Liam strains against him, teeth clenched, eyes locked past the referee at Kenta.

“Move…” he snarls, voice raw. “Stay out of it. I’m not done yet.”

He shoves once, trying to step around, still looking to fight, still burning.

“Oh, he’s furious!” a commentator shouts. “Liam Kuroda wanted all of that back!”

The referee plants his feet, pushing him back hard now, body blocking the path, shouting over the noise.

“Corner! Go to your corner!”

The arena explodes around them. The bell rings more than it should.

“And listen to that bell!” another commentator says, almost laughing in disbelief. “It’s ringing like it’s trying to save someone!”

The bell sound finally dies, but the tension doesn’t. Liam is still straining, still glaring, breathing like he’d rather break free than breathe at all.

The arena erupts with him. Some scream for the referee to let it go, others howl that he stepped in too late.

“This is chaos!” the second commentator bellows. “Kenta Moriyama is completely lost in the moment!”

“And Liam Kuroda can’t just swallow that,” the first fires back. “He’s got every right to be furious!”

The noise doesn’t fade. It swells.

Some fans roar, electrified. Others gasp in relief, laughter breaking out in nervous bursts as they realize just how close that was to exploding into something worse.

Liam only turns away when Masahiro and Matsui step in and physically drag him back toward the corner.

***

Meanwhile, Kenta still stands where he is, chest heaving, face caught between two states. The ferocity hasn’t left his eyes, but awareness has crept back in, dulling the edge just enough to show he knows that he just crossed the line.

His jaw is clenched hard, lips pressed thin, as if he’s holding something down that’s still trying to break loose.

“Look at Moriyama just standing there,” one commentator notes. “You can see it… he knows he crossed a line.”

“Let’s just hope that doesn’t creep into his head and make him hesitate next round,” says the other one.

Noticing the round has ended, Kenta turns away at last, though his body resists it. He clings to that razor-thin focus, refusing to let it slip.

He doesn’t look at Liam now, not like he did at the end of the second. But the feral edge remains in his eyes, a quiet insistence on keeping the madness close to the surface.

In the blue corner, Hiroshi is already moving. The stool is set before Kenta even arrives, bucket in hand as he steps toward the apron.

Sera follows, first-aid kit ready. However…

“No,” Nakahara says calmly.

Both men freeze, and look back.

“Coach,” Hiroshi says, confused. “It’s the break.”

“I know,” Nakahara replies without raising his voice. “Just stay here. Don’t ruin his concentration. Leave him alone.”

They hesitate, then look back to the ring.

Kenta has reached the corner, but he ignores the stool entirely. His right glove rests against the corner post, left hand hanging loose at his side.

His head is angled slightly, eyes cutting sharp toward the red corner, attention already drifting back to his opponent.

The commentators catch it immediately, an echo of the same unease from the second round, only stranger now, because he’s standing alone there.

“And look at this,” one of them says. “Moriyama isn’t sitting.”

“And his corner isn’t coming up to him,” the other adds. “No instructions. No adjustments. Nothing. I don’t know if this is still part of the strategy?”

***

In the journalist row, Sato, Tanaka, and Aki watch Kenta in silence, each trying to understand the change taking shape in the ring.

It doesn’t take long before they realize they’ve seen something like this before.

“This reminds me of last year,” Tanaka says, breaking the quiet first. “East block rookie tournament.”

Sato blinks, then nods slowly. “Right… Ryoma’s fight against Serrano.” His brow furrows. “Back then, Nakahara didn’t enter the ring during the break either.”

Aki joins in, voice low. “Yeah… and Ryoma looked the same that night. Aggressive. Reckless. Pushed past restraint. And just like now, Nakahara stopped his team from stepping in. You saw earlier, Hiroshi and Sera were already moving… then they hesitated. He must’ve said something to them.”

Silence lingers as the memory settles in. The timing, the behavior, the cues, is too precise and familiar for any of them to dismiss as coincidence.

Tanaka exhales. “It could be adrenaline rush… and hyperfocus.”

Aki blinks. “Hyperfocus?”

“A state where a fighter turns completely inward,” Tanaka says, arms folded on the chest. “Instincts sharpened, thought falling behind the body. If that’s what Nakahara sees in Kenta, then even talking to him, maybe even a touch, could break it. And once it’s gone, it’s hard to bring back.”

“If that’s the case…” Sato murmurs. “They’d better leave him alone. No disrespect, but the Kenta we know shouldn’t be able to stand on equal ground with Liam Kuroda.”

***

Back in the red corner, the damage is impossible to hide. Liam’s body looks worse than it did at the end of the second; swelling blooming along his cheekbone, darker bruises surfacing under the skin.

When he gurgles, blood stains the bucket. It’s the kind of accumulated punishment he rarely carries into a break, especially this early.

“Get your anger under control,” Masahiro says evenly. “You won that round. You dictated the tempo. You didn’t trade… until you stayed too long in his range. And look what it did to you.”

Liam doesn’t answer; his irritation still burning over the shot after the bell. The earlier dread has dulled, pushed aside by heat and adrenaline, almost forgotten.

Then a cornerman presses against his ribs. Liam hisses, sharp and involuntary. And the dread crawls back.

Masahiro keeps talking, steady, grounding. “Stick to your rhythm. Mid-range when it’s there. Don’t sink in too deep, don’t linger. Control the space, let him burn himself out.”

Liam finally glances at him, just enough to say he’s listening. But no nod, no reply.

Then his eyes drift past Masahiro, locking back onto Kenta across the ring.

He knows the numbers favored him. He threw more. He landed more; clean scoring blows, round-winning work.

Yet none of it felt right. There was no satisfaction, no feedback; the punches skimming, glancing, striking at bad angles.

With the intensity Kenta has shown, it feels less like a fight now, more like a test of will, of his very existence itself.

His mind tells him to stay safe. But his instincts whisper the need to face his fear.