VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For the next three rounds, the shape of the fight barely changes at all. Miguel Cabello continues controlling the ring through movement that never truly stops. And strangely enough, none of it looks physically demanding so far. He seems to spend more energy thinking than moving.

The result becomes increasingly frustrating to watch from Liam’s perspective. Again and again, he steps forward with patient pressure only to find Miguel gone before the real exchange can begin.

A jab touches gloves. A hook clips forearms. A body shot lands partially against the elbow. But almost never clean.

“He doesn’t even give him a single clean punch,” Aramaki exhales tiredly.

His eyes then shift toward Nakahara. “Now that I think about it… is there really any way to beat this Cuban style? From how you guys explain it, it sounds almost perfect.”

Nakahara gives a small shrug. “The idea behind it is close to perfection. But that doesn’t mean it’s unbreakable. In fact, Mexican pressure fighting is usually considered its natural counter.”

Aramaki immediately frowns. “A natural counter?” His attention snaps back toward the television. “Then why does this look so one-sided?”

Onscreen, Miguel slips away from another approach before pivoting outside the line again. Liam follows him relentlessly, still cutting space little by little despite rarely finding anything clean.

Every time the distance compresses near the ropes, Liam’s offense immediately becomes uglier and far more dangerous. The hooks come heavier, the combinations sharper.

And unlike technical out-fighters who carefully pick scoring targets, Liam seems perfectly willing to smash punches against shoulders, elbows, forearms, ribs; anything he can touch.

As long as Miguel absorbs the impact, Liam continues working. Again the pressure crowds Miguel near the ropes. Again Cabello answers with the Philly Shell.

And again, before the exchange can become prolonged chaos, Miguel wraps the clinch and resets the fight entirely. Once the referee separates them, he immediately regains open space again.

“The Cuban style prefers clean boxing too much,” Sera says. “Playing smart. Minimizing unnecessary damage. Avoiding prolonged chaos. That mindset comes partly from American influence. If you get hit less, you last longer. So they become specialists at scoring, spacing, and controlling the ring.”

Another barrage crashes against Miguel’s guard near the ropes before he escapes again through a sharp angle change.

“So to stop that kind of fighter,” Sera continues, “you need someone with exceptional endurance, constant pressure, and combinations heavy enough to break their rhythm once you trap them.”

“And that,” Nakahara says quietly, “is exactly what Mexican pressure fighters are built for.”

Onscreen, Liam continues stalking forward with the same stubborn persistence despite the lack of success. Step by step, always cutting space, always guiding Miguel closer toward the ropes again.

“But calling it a natural counter doesn’t guarantee victory,” Nakahara adds. “Because Cuban footwork itself is also the answer against this kind of straightforward pressure.”

Aramaki’s face twists further. “So… which style is actually better?”

“It’s not about which style is better,” Sera replies calmly. “It’s about who the better fighter is.”

Nakahara nods once afterward. “Liam will never stop hunting him. And Miguel Cabello needs to keep moving constantly to avoid getting trapped. Eventually, it becomes a question of who gets tired first.”

And slowly, as the rounds continue passing, the answer becomes less comfortable for Miguel than before.

Liam starts trapping him near the ropes more often now. The close-range exchanges last longer, because escaping immediately is no longer as easy as it had been during the early rounds.

The scoring still favors Cabello. The cleaner punches still come from him. But the accumulation of impact begins telling its own story. Even blocked punches carry consequences over a long fight.

“The idea of learning every style sounds nice in theory,” Kurogane suddenly says from behind the desk. “But we all still live with the same twenty-four hours in a day. Seven days a week. And you can’t simply enter the Hyperbolic Time Chamber like Goku and Vegeta before fighting Perfect Cell.”

Aramaki glances sideways toward him, his face twists immediately. “What’s with the Dragon Ball reference all of a sudden?”

Kurogane barely reacts. “My point is simple. You can’t acquire every cheat in existence. Training still costs time. Your body still has limits.”

“And that,” Nakahara adds, “is where specialization comes from.”

His gaze then shifts briefly toward Aramaki. “As trainers, we choose priorities. We decide which strengths deserve the most development.”

Then he tilts his chin back toward Miguel Cabello. “The same thing applies to him. He looks capable of doing almost everything inside the ring. But his training still prioritizes specific aspects while sacrificing others.”

“It’s the same with you two,” Sera says. “First, Aramaki. You naturally have shorter arms and compact shoulders. That structure gives you better rotational mechanics at close range.”

Aramaki blinks once. “My hooks?”

“Exactly,” Sera nods. “Your short hooks come out tighter and heavier during infighting because your body naturally supports that motion.”

He then gestures lightly afterward. “Ryoma can learn the same punch mechanically, but he’ll never produce it in exactly the same way because his reach and frame are different.”

Ryoma rests his cheek against his fist quietly without arguing, because deep down, he already understands exactly what Sera means.

“You both can study outboxing, mid-range fighting, inside pressure, whatever style you want,” Sera continues. “But eventually your own body still decides where your ceiling becomes highest.”

“And where your weaknesses naturally appear,” Nakahara adds calmly.

“This is why no fighter becomes truly complete,” Nakahara says. “Even the ones who look capable of everything are still making compromises somewhere underneath.”

Onscreen, Liam crashes another heavy hook into Miguel’s guard near the ropes.

THUD!

Miguel tries standing his ground and answering Liam at close range. A few sharp punches slip through cleanly toward the cheek and ribs, precise enough to win the exchange visually.

Dsh!

Thud!

“Oh, beautiful short punches from Cabello!”

“Those are clean scoring shots!”

But Liam never stops punching. He keeps driving hooks and compact body shots forward without obsessing over perfect targets, perfectly willing to hammer shoulders, arms, elbows, ribs; anything within range as long as the pressure itself continues building.

Dug. Dugh. Bugh. Dug. Thud! Dug.

“He’s not even looking for perfect targets anymore!”

“O’Connell just keeps throwing!”

Liam’s rotational mechanics allow him to throw far more hooks in tight space, with heavier weight behind each collision until Miguel eventually shuts the sequence down through another clinch.

“Miguel can fight on the inside too,” Nakahara says calmly. “But that doesn’t mean he is built around surviving long close-range wars.”

And little by little, Liam O’Connell finally begins discovering the answer against Miguel Cabello’s intelligent footwork. It’s just that the answer simply comes with a price.

When Miguel flicks a sharp jab at Liam’s face…

Dsh!

Liam completely ignores the impact and forces his step forward immediately before Miguel can escape the line.

Miguel Cabello tries pivoting away again, but Liam crashes deeper into range first.

A second jab clips the forehead.

Dugh!

Another touches the cheek.

Dsh!

Liam eats both punches without hesitation just to keep compressing the space.

Then finally…

THUD!

A brutal hook buries itself cleanly into Miguel’s body. The impact visibly stalls Cabello for half a second.

“And THERE’S the body shot!”

“O’Connell finally catches him clean!”

***

Inside Nakahara’s office, nobody speaks for several seconds afterward. Because the difference slowly becomes visible once the fight reaches the seventh round, and then the eighth round.

Liam’s face now looks swollen and battered from constantly walking through Miguel’s cleaner punches. His cheekbones are reddened, one eye beginning to puff beneath the arena lights.

But Miguel no longer looks untouchable either. His shoulders sit lower now, almost as if the constant movement has begun weighing on them.

The smooth rhythm behind his footwork loses a bit of its earlier fluidity, and the exits no longer come quite as effortlessly as before.

For the first time tonight, Liam often reaches him before the angle fully disappears, and forces an exchange.

DUG! THUD! DUG! DUGH!

Dug. Dug. DSH! DUG! BUGH! DUGH!

The trade becomes longer, messier, more chaotic. And every chaotic exchange favors Liam O’Connel more than before.

Miguel still lands the cleaner punches overall, still controls portions of the ring through superior spacing and rhythm manipulation. But now he can no longer fully prevent the fight from turning into Liam’s kind of battle.

“There are still four more rounds after this,” Nakahara says quietly.

His eyes remain fixed on the screen for another second before he finally glances sideways toward Ryoma with a bitter smile.

“We started watching this fight to study Miguel Cabello,” he says. “But you can’t simply ignore this brave man either.”

Onscreen, Liam absorbs another jab just to hammer body blows against Miguel’s arms and ribs again. And Nakahara’s expression tightens slightly afterward.

“He’s the WBO’s number one contender for a reason,” he says calmly. “At this rate, he might beat Cabello tonight and become world champion himself.”