VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The moment the opening bell echoes through Yoyogi Gymnasium...

Ding!

Della Cruz steps immediately to the center. Without wasting any second, he sends a stiff jab, forcing Kenta onto the back foot before launching a vicious left hook that whistles past his guard.

Kenta’s eyes narrow almost immediately.

”He’s different…”

Della Cruz comes forward again with another one-two, throwing both hands with the same heavy, snapping commitment.

Dump! BUMP!

The combination crashes against Kenta’s guard with enough force to pin it in place, the impact driving through his arms and into his legs as he braces to keep his balance.

It feels as though Della Cruz is still forcing the momentum forward even after the punches land, the commitment leaving his hands a fraction slower to return to guard than most textbook combinations.

”Ooh!!! What an explosive start from El Martillo!”

”He’s throwing those hands like they’re a pair of Mjolnirs!”

Before his left has fully recovered, Della Cruz suddenly springs forward with another left hook, the punch surging upward from a low angle toward Kenta’s head.

Kenta catches it on his right glove, but still…

Dump!

The impact drives him a full step backward.

The aggression is unchanged. Only its rhythm has evolved. Instead of chaining together compact combinations as he did in Manila, Della Cruz now works in short bursts, sacrificing volume so each punch lands with frightening authority.

As a result, Kenta can clearly see the openings between each punch. Yet every block leaves enough force lingering in his arms that he can’t immediately fire back.

And when Della Cruz suddenly explodes behind another heavy left that almost resembles a Gazelle punch...

DUMP!

...Kenta’s guard and balance give way for the briefest moment.

Della Cruz instantly threads both forearms around Kenta’s guard. It isn’t a clinch. He leaves just enough space, shoves Kenta’s arms upward before unloading again.

Thud! DSH!

A short left rips up the middle, followed by a heavy right over the top, both punches crashing into Kenta’s chest through his guard.

”Goodness! Every shot from El Martillo sounds like it belongs in a heavyweight fight!”

”You can block them, but you’re still paying for every single one!”

Kenta tries to wrestle the fight back into his own rhythm, slowing the pace with his swaying pendulum steps and the measured cadence of his Soviet-style offense.

Against most opponents, the constant changes in timing would gradually pull them out of their comfort zone. But it has little effect on the current Della Cruz.

The champion isn’t applying pressure through pace or prolonged combinations anymore. He’s already fighting at a measured tempo, throwing fewer punches, yet loading every one of them with relentless intensity.

Another one-two crashes into Kenta’s guard.

DUMP! THUMP!

A brief reset, then another heavy left surges forward…

DUMP!

…driving Kenta a step backward.

Before Kenta can fully settle his feet, Della Cruz suddenly leaps in with a crushing overhand right.

DSH!

The blow slips through guard and slams into the left side of Kenta’s collarbone, jolting him backward until his back brushes against the ropes.

”This isn’t volume punching! We’re watching controlled destruction!”

”Short combinations, maximum damage. That’s the story so far!”

Della Cruz keeps marching forward behind those heavy punches, leaving Kenta with little choice but to tighten his guard.

Dump! Dump!

Thump! Dump! Thud! BUMP! Thud!

Most of the blows crash harmlessly into Kenta’s guard, but every few punches, one slips around the elbows and thuds into his ribs or the side of his body.

Kenta endures the barrage without breaking.

Then, at last...

Ding!

The bell rings to end the opening round.

The referee immediately steps between them, ushering both fighters toward their corners. But Della Cruz lingers for a moment, his eyes fixed on Kenta.

”Where’s the savage I fought in Manila?” he asks quietly. ”I’m still waiting for him.”

Unlike in Manila, Kenta simply meets his gaze with quiet composure. There is no trace of the anxiety, hesitation, or inferiority that once lingered behind his eyes.

Della Cruz studies him for another moment before finally turning away. Yet halfway back to his corner, he glances over his shoulder one last time.

”He’s different…”

***

The moment Kenta settles onto the stool, Hiroshi is already in front of him, wiping away the sweat while gently working his fingers over the left collarbone, chest, and ribs that had absorbed the brunt of Della Cruz’s power. Behind him, Okabe towels the sweat from Kenta’s back before pressing an ice bag against the back of his neck.

Nakahara offers him the water bottle. ”Rinse.”

Kenta takes a mouthful, swishes it around, then spits into the bucket Sera is already holding.

”How are you feeling after that round?” Nakahara asks.

”His punches are strangely heavier today,” Kenta says. ”His rhythm isn’t as tight or as fast as it was in Manila. I can see plenty of openings to counter. But every time I block the first punch, I can’t throw anything back.”

”They’re that heavy, huh?” Nakahara asks.

”It’s more than just power,” Kenta replies. ”It feels like he’s driving his whole body through every punch, even after it lands. The impact doesn’t end at the collision. It keeps pressing into my guard for another moment, and by the time the pressure is gone... he’s already throwing again.”

Nakahara nods slowly. Kenta’s explanation only reinforces what he has already suspected from watching the round.

”I noticed it too,” he says. ”Even after he lets his punches go, it feels like there’s still an extra drive coming from his legs, almost as though they’re trying to give each punch another spring. And some of those heavy lefts... they almost resemble Gazelle punches. He isn’t dipping at the knees before exploding, but the leap is still there. The explosiveness comes from that sudden forward spring.”

Sera speaks up. ”I think they’ve studied how Kenta fights when he’s in the zone.”

Nakahara glances toward him. ”What do you mean?”

”Unlike Ryoma or Shimamura,” Sera explains, ”Kenta doesn’t become untouchable in the zone. He keeps the same compact guard. The difference is what happens the instant a punch reaches him. He fires back almost immediately. That’s what broke Della Cruz’s offensive rhythm in Manila. Every exchange turned into a counter.”

Nakahara folds his arms. ”So instead of relying on volume, Della Cruz changed the structure entirely. He’s sacrificing punch count for impact, making sure every shot reduces Kenta’s ability to counter before the next one comes.”

After thinking for another moment, he turns back to Kenta.

”For the second round, don’t change your style. Keep controlling the tempo with your reach. And if he keeps imposing that pressure with those heavy punches, answer every clean impact with a compact counter.”

Kenta frowns. ”But Coach... do you realize how heavy those punches are?”

Nakahara walks over and rests a hand on his shoulder.

”It’s simple. Don’t let him tie up both of your arms at the same time. If he throws the right, block with your left and fire back with your right. If he throws the left, block with your right and answer with your left.”

Kenta blinks, finding the advice too simple for this level of boxing. And indeed, what Nakahara said is simply one of the oldest principles in boxing; block with one hand, punch with the other.

”You really think it’s that simple?” he asks.

Nakahara nods once. ”It is. And when you answer, don’t complicate it. Keep it compact. Aim for the center. Chest, collarbone, or the inside of the shoulder. Never go wide.”