VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Gritting his teeth, Aramaki forces himself upright. The referee steps in, checking him over, but Aramaki shoves him aside. The gesture is weak, trembling, yet his eyes burn with stubborn fire.

“I’m fine!”

“But…”

From the stands, a wave of voices crashes down.

“Don’t stop it, ref!”

“Let him fight!”

“You call it now and you’re dead!”

Aramaki glares. “Didn’t you hear them? They want me to keep fighting. And I can still take more.”

And indeed, the crowd is with him now, his name carried in waves, their voices lifting his defiance.

“Hang in there, Aramaki!”

“Good luck getting up!”

Eventually, the referee chops his hand through the air.

“Box!”

Ryoma wastes no time. Dissatisfied, hungry, he storms forward, cutting off the ring before Aramaki can breathe.

His body feels like lead, legs heavy, and arms sluggish. But he knows he has no choice. This round must be the end.

“Need to put him to sleep.”

He unloads with his left, not just jabs but straights and hooks, each punch thudding with weight.

But then, once he tightens his right fist, preparing to launch, a sharp pain shoots through his knuckles. His face twists, and his instinct halts the punch before it’s thrown.

Aramaki sees the hesitation, seizing the chance between the small gap, and…

Swssh!

A hook rips toward Ryoma’s ribs.

Ryoma catches it on his guard, the block clean. But the impact still thuds through him, rattling down into his legs.

“Damn it… his punch is still alive.”

Ryoma hammers lefts at Aramaki’s swollen eye. But the glove never drops as Aramaki’s left keeps it sealed tight. And his right hand digs low, pounding Ryoma’s side twice, forcing Ryoma’s guard to stay home.

“Enough of this!” Ryoma shifts, sneaking an uppercut up the middle.

His left crashes under the guard, snapping Aramaki’s chin, lifting his head. And he follows instantly, a hook from the same hand, cracking flush against the temple.

Dazed, Aramaki reels, and instinctively yanks his right hand back up to shield his face, keeping his guard high with both arms.

The opening is clear, and Ryoma punishes the body, doubling his left into the ribs.

Dug! Dug!!!

Aramaki winces, knees quivering, but still refuses to drop.

“Hold on! He’s hurting too…”

Frustration boiling, Ryoma cocks his right hand, itching to uncork something big. But Aramaki reads him. And he knows that hand is damaged, knows the pain behind every squeeze.

“You won’t trick me with a feint that cheap.”

He drops his left guard, twists his shoulder, and hurls a heavy body shot. Except Ryoma’s right isn’t a bluff. It detonates for real.

BAM!

A right hook to temple. A left body blow to ribs. Both land in the same heartbeat.

Aramaki’s head snaps sideways. But Ryoma’s knees dip, ribs screaming, his right hand shrieking in agony.

And the commentators explode.

“What an exchange! They’re killing each other in there!”

“Ryoma landed clean, but look… he’s the one backing up!”

“Aramaki’s body shot’s finally done its job today!”

But the crowd doesn’t erupt this time. They murmur, unsettled, watching Ryoma stagger back two steps while Aramaki stays rooted.

“What just happened?”

“Ryoma landed the cleaner shot…”

“Then why does he look like the one breaking?”

Aramaki is the first to reset, fists clenched tight as he steps in. His face is swollen, blood streaks his gumshield, but now he’s the one pressing forward, taking the role of the punisher.

He plants his lead foot deep into Ryoma’s stance, hips twisting, and fires a short brutal right.

Ryoma flicks a jab. Aramaki eats it, barely flinching, and keeps his momentum. But the light punch buys Ryoma just enough space to slip, and Aramaki’s glove only grazes his abs by a whisper.

Still, Aramaki barrels in, burying a left deep into the body.

Bug!

The pain makes Ryoma folding at the waist, and Aramaki rips a right hook upstairs. Ryoma raises a hand to block, and…

Wham!

The impact still jolts him sideways, his guard rattling against his own face.

Aramaki cocks back for the next blow, but…

Ding!

The bell slices the air, and the referee rushes between them. Both fighters stand frozen, face to face, chests heaving, eyes still burning.

The spectators finally get a moment of relief. Then the noise swells again, a mix of claps and shouts.

“Don’t stop now!”

“Give us the finish in the next round!”

Ryoma turns his back first, shoulders squared as if nothing’s wrong. But the act cracks almost instantly. His gait looks heavy, his right arm twitching with every step.

Aramaki narrows his eyes. He doesn’t just see anger there. He sees weakness, a proof that even Ryoma bleeds.

In that moment, Aramaki feels something shifts in him. The pain in his own ribs feels lighter, his legs steadier. The distance between them, between predator and prey, suddenly doesn’t look so wide anymore.

“It’s working… My boxing can stand against him.”

As Aramaki makes his way to his corner, the crowd ripples with unease. Murmurs spread, speculation rising.

Ryoma floored him twice in the second, nearly ended it in the third. On points alone, the gap should be unshakable. But now it suddenly looks like he could lose everything in the blink of an eye.

Confusion stirs in the seats. They admire Ryoma’s sharp boxing, yet Aramaki’s defiance tugs at something deeper. Their cheers split, no longer sure who deserves them more.

***

Aramaki trudges back to his corner. Masato Kanda is waiting for him, grinning, arms wide as if he’d just seen a miracle. The cutman’s already there too, stool set and tools in hand.

But Aramaki’s face is flat. His lips pressed thin, eyes cold as stone.

“Beautiful, Aramaki!” Masato beams. “You’ve pushed him to the edge. One more round and this fight is yours!”

The cutman chimes in, “His legs are shot, he’s fading. This is your chance, all of it’s right there for you!”

Aramaki doesn’t even glance at them. When he responds, his voice drops like a hammer:

“Don’t act like you’re with me now. Weren’t you the one who said I was finished? That we were done?”

Masato freezes, the grin melting from his face. For a beat he looks foolish, stunned. Then his jaw locks tight, eyes burning with irritation. Without a word he steps down, slips out through the ropes, and leaves the corner.

The cutman stays, shifting uncomfortably. He sets the the stool, but Aramaki doesn’t sit. He offers the icebag, and Aramaki just snatches it out of his hand. He holds it himself, silent.

The water bottle comes next, hovering in front of him. Aramaki doesn’t even glance at it. His mouth is thick with the taste of blood, and he knows he needs to rinse it out. But pride burns hotter than thirst. He refuses, jaw clamped tight, swallowing the copper sting instead.

He just stands there, one hand heavy at his side, the other holding the ice bag. He needs no coach, needs no corner, needs no cheer. It’s only him now, and his boxing, his pride, his principle.

And when the bell rings again, he’ll walk out knowing, win or lose, no gym may take him back.

But still, he’ll fight.

Alone.