VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The shouts ripple, scatter, and then, unexpectedly, begin to converge. Ryoma’s name rises in rhythm. Not the whole hall, not even half, but enough to turn his arrival into something grand.

It’s far louder than any rookie bout should deserve. Yet, where the crowd sees a hero, Ryoma only feels each chant weigh heavier, pressing down on his chest.

He lowers his gaze, the hood of his robe casting his face into shadow, hiding the truth. To them, he is promise. To himself, he is doubt.

As the chant rolls through Korakuen, he walks on, not like a conquering star, but like a soldier bound for execution.

“Beat him, Ryoma!”

“Show him who’s the boss!”

From the east entrance hallway, Kaede steps inside with three coworkers in tow, and is struck at once by the atmosphere. The crowd’s energy swells around her.

She’s late, of course. Shiba had dragged his feet at the office, throwing up little delays to keep her from leaving earlier. Even so, she’s made it halfway into the venue, just in time to catch what she came for.

One of her coworkers blurts, half in disbelief, “Wait… Ryoma? Isn’t that the name of Kaede’s boyfriend?”

Kaede doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed ahead, searching, until at last she finds Ryoma under the lights. And for a moment she just stands there, caught between pride and disbelief.

But hearing an entire hall chanting his name, this feels like she’s seeing someone else entirely.

“This is… new,” she whispers.

Aemi nudges her, voice dry. “Probably the aftershock of that one-punch knockout. Let’s go, before we lose seats.”

One of the guys brushes past Kaede with a grin. “Lucky you, huh? Finally get to see your boyfriend in the spotlight.”

Kaede blinks, still rooted in place, eyes fixed on the ring as if the crowd and the noise haven’t caught up to her yet.

Then a hand slips around hers, one of the women from work, tugging her along with a laugh.

“Come on, what are you waiting for? Your boyfriend’s about to climb through the ropes.”

Kaede’s cheeks warm, though she can’t tell if it’s from her coworkers’ teasing or from the figure under the lights.

She’s been with Ryoma for years, yet in this moment he feels distant, like someone from another world, someone she’s only just beginning to know.

***

Across the hall, Reika has abandoned her phone at last. She’s risen on her toes, craning for a glimpse of Ryoma’s face.

Aki notices and can’t resist. She tilts her head, a sly smile forming.

“Well, well… you finally care about this event, huh?”

Reika freezes for a fraction of a second. And then, with theatrical speed, her expression snaps back to disinterest.

“Naah,” she says flatly. “I’m just curious why everyone else is losing their minds.”

The denial fools no one. But Reika wears it with the confidence of someone convinced armor and truth are the same thing.

Of course, not every gaze on Ryoma is lined with admiration. From the back, Leo smirks, contempt simmering beneath his calm exterior.

He imagines how sweet it’ll feel when the crowd that cheers Ryoma tonight jeers him tomorrow.

“Enjoy it, prodigy boy. Enjoy the moment while you still have it.”

Meanwhile, Tōjō’s stare carries the same hunger, though dressed in less expression. Renji, beside him, plays it lighter, his posture relaxed, smile faint. But even he can’t hide the twitch of interest.

And then there’s Kirizume, face locked in a scowl, jaw tight, fist clenched. What he sees is not just a rival’s rise, but a gem that slipped through his own hands.

And with Ryoma already drawing this kind of attention in only his second professional fight, Kirizume can picture it clearly: that’s not just gem he lost, but also the market, the glory, and the future deal in sport business.

***

Tatsuki Aramaki waits in the ring, indifferent, shadowboxing in the corner as if tuning his body like an instrument.

Ryoma studies him as he climbs through the ropes, searching every flicker of expression, every detail. In his previous life, he’d known what kind of man Aramaki was. But this is a different life, time has rewound, and people can change.

Yet Aramaki offers nothing. He seems detached, composed. Ryoma’s Vision Grid only registers that the enemy is sharpening his focus, no glimpse of motive, no trace of emotion.

From the stands, voices rise again, sharp and impatient.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Ryoma!”

“Four boring fights just to get here…!”

“Give us a real show!”

Coach Nakahara leans in, sliding the gumshield between Ryoma’s teeth. Hiroshi follows, smearing vaseline across his cheekbones with brisk precision.

“Listen, kid,” Nakahara mutters, voice low but carrying weight. “I hear the crowd too. They want another quick knockout. But don’t let it mess with your head.”

Ryoma won’t deny the crowd stirs both excitement and pressure in him. But he forces it aside, fixing his gaze on his coach, shutting out the noise, even the announcer’s voice as Aramaki’s name is called.

“This is a four-rounder,” Nakahara continues. “Your opponent’s durable. Don’t go in hunting for the finish. Stay patient. Rack up points. You hear me?”

Ryoma nods once, sharp.

And then comes the call for Ryoma himself.

“Ladies and gentlemen, introducing first, fighting out of the red corner… at 58.6 kilograms… nineteen years old… undefeated with one win by knockout… the golden boy from Nakahara Boxing Gym… Ryoma Takeda!”

The crowd answers with a surge of noise. A chant begins to stir again as Ryoma turns, face set, toward the center of the ring.

The announcer’s final call fades under the swell of the crowd before he steps down from the ring.

In the blue corner, Tatsuki Aramaki moves without urgency, shoulders loose, eyes locked on his opponent. His second, Masato Kanda, bends closer, his tone low and sharp.

“Beat him, or break him. Doesn’t matter how. Kirizume doesn’t want him walking out unhurt.”

Aramaki doesn’t nod, just his eyes fix forward, flat and distant, as if the words have passed through him rather than into him. Agreement isn’t there, only the quiet knowledge that the deal tied to this fight leaves him no choice.

Across the ring, Ryoma flexes his shoulders, pumps hands like twin pistons, breath measured beneath the gumshield. The weight pressing on him is different, older, regrets clawing up from a life already lived once, and the vow not to repeat it.

An announcer calls both Seconds out. Then the referee summons the two fighters to the center.

“Listen to my commands, defend yourselves, fight fair. Now touch gloves!”

Words are spoken, gloves touch, and ritual completed. Then both fighter step back, each man retreating to his corner.

Moments later…

Ding!

The first bell rings, the crowd roars, and both fighters step forward, seizing the space.

Nineteen years old, Ryoma Takeda carries the regrets of another life.

Across from him, Tatsuki Aramaki fights for a future yet to be shaped.

Their stories converge here.

Four rounds.

One ring.