VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When Serrano enters the arena, the speakers switch to a laid-back West Coast hip-hop track, thick bass rolling through Korakuen Hall.

The champion strolls down the aisle with effortless swagger, carrying himself less like a man defending a title and more like the apartment owner returning to collect his rent.

”There he is, the champion,” the first commentator beams.

”And you can already feel the atmosphere changing,” the second follows.

”Love him or hate him, people pay attention when Serrano walks into a room.”

”That confidence has become part of the package. He doesn’t just fight for twelve rounds. He performs.”

A handful of supporters near the railing stretch out their hands as Serrano passes. He slaps a few palms, points toward someone in the crowd, and flashes a grin before continuing down the aisle.

Even so, Kirizume notices the same problem that has followed Serrano for years. There are plenty of eyes on him, plenty of people eager to watch him fight. But not many who welcome him with the affection usually reserved for a hometown hero.

People come to see Serrano because he is a champion, because he has a unique style, and because he knows how to entertain. But genuine attachment remains harder to find.

Despite being born and raised in Japan, Serrano’s dark skin and dreadlocks have always made many people see him as an outsider rather than one of their own.

And Serrano himself does little to help. The arrogance, the swagger, the constant need to provoke people, all of it makes the gap even harder to close.

As he makes his way down the aisle, Serrano notices a section of the crowd watching him with little enthusiasm. Some stare quietly, others simply follow him with their eyes.

Taking it the wrong way, Serrano points toward them with a grin. ”Yeah, keep looking. You all came to see your boy take my belt, right?”

He pats the championship wrapped around his waist. ”Bad news. It ain’t happening tonight. Don’t worry though, I’ll send him home in one piece.”

A few people laugh at the remark. Others roll their eyes with indifference.

The irony is that most of them aren’t Aramaki’s supporters at all. They are simply neutral spectators waiting for the main event.

But Serrano has never been the type to worry about details like that. To him, every silent face in the crowd is just another person waiting to be proven wrong.

Reaching the ring, Serrano grabs the top rope and bends dramatically at the waist before stepping through, exaggerating the motion as if simply entering the ring deserves its own spotlight.

Once inside, he immediately breaks into a smooth dance, elbows flared wide as he glides across the canvas on light tiptoe steps, shoulders rolling lazily to the beat still echoing through the arena.

”Every time I think I’ve seen all of Serrano’s entrances, he comes up with something new.”

”Forget the title for a second. The man treats every walkout like he’s headlining a concert.”

He makes a slow circuit around the ring, deliberately dragging out the entrance. By the time he reaches the opposite side, his eyes have already settled on Aramaki.

He points at the challenger, traces a line across his own waist where the championship belt rests, and then shakes his head.

”No chance.”

Without waiting for a response, he turns his attention toward Ryoma. Slowly, deliberately, Serrano raises his hand and gives him a thumbs-down.

”Enjoy the view while you can,” he says, ending his theatrical, face turning serious. ”Once I’m done with him, I’m moving up to Lightweight and coming for the WBO too.”

Ryoma’s eyebrow lifts slightly at the remark, the reaction lasting no more than a moment before his expression settles back into its usual calm indifference.

He could easily tell Serrano to worry about Aramaki first before talking about him. But if Serrano wants to spend part of his attention on someone other than the man he’s about to fight, Ryoma sees no reason to stop him.

Serrano doesn’t wait for a response. As if the statement itself is enough, he turns away and heads toward his corner, leaving the challenge hanging in the air between them.

Moments later, the ring announcer begins Aramaki’s introduction. As the announcement reaches its end, Aramaki raises a glove toward the crowd and turns slowly in place before leaning slightly toward Ryoma.

”Looks like he still hasn’t gotten over that Rookie Tournament loss,” he says.

The ring announcer then moves on to Serrano’s introduction. Strangely, despite being a natural showman, Serrano barely acknowledges it this time.

Ryoma notices that Serrano’s gaze remains locked on him rather than the challenger waiting across the ring.

”Hopefully that’s true,” Ryoma says, turning to Aramki. ”It’ll make this fight easier for you.”

Aramaki’s grin widens. ”You think so?”

”You saw it in Tojo earlier,” Ryoma replies. ”Fighters start making mistakes when proving a point becomes more important than winning the fight. Let him follow Tojo’s footsteps. Just don’t repeat Satoru’s mistake yourself.”

Aramaki tilts his head slightly. ”Which one?”

”Ignoring his corner,” Ryoma says, turning away, and then slips through the ropes.

Nakahara gives Aramaki a nod and follows after Ryoma. Sera and Hiroshi leave the apron as well, leaving Aramaki alone with his thoughts as the final moments before the opening bell tick away.

Outside the ring, Sera teases Ryoma a little. ”So you actually knew Satoru had been ignoring my instructions.”

Ryoma gives a small nod. ”I know. Both of you made mistakes. So I won’t blame you for being too soon in throwing that towel.”

***

Across the ring, Serrano finds himself in a similar position. The rest of his corner team has already stepped down, leaving only Kirizume on the apron.

The veteran coach watches his champion for a few seconds longer, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling that Serrano’s beginning to resemble Tojo more than he would like.

”Leo,” he calls.

Serrano doesn’t respond, his eyes still fixed across the ring.

”Hey, Leo,” Kirizume calls again, this time with enough authority to demand a response.

This time Serrano’s head shifts, only just slightly. ”What?”

”Don’t forget the plan,” Kirizume says. ”Use your reach. Control the fight with your left. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Just do that until you get back to me. ”

Serrano keeps his gaze forward and doesn’t even bother turning around.

”Yeah, yeah…” he says. ”You’ve said that like six times already.”

One of Kirizume’s brows twitches faintly at the response. But he says nothing more and eventually climbs down from the apron, keeping whatever irritation he feels hidden behind a composed expression.

Across the ring, however, Ryoma has been paying attention to more than just the champion himself. He catches the brief displeasure on Kirizume’s face despite the effort to conceal it.

And reading the movement of their lips is enough to understand the instructions being repeated. The strategy itself isn’t surprising. In fact, it is exactly what Ryoma expected.

What interests him more is Serrano’s reaction; Serrano looks genuinely bored, his expression flat and detached as if he has already stopped listening halfway through the instructions.

Ryoma recognizes the advantage that creates for Aramaki; a fighter who refuses to follow instructions is often easier to exploit.

But at the same time, it also introduces a different problem. Planned fighters can be studied. Rebellious fighters are harder to predict.