VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma’s breathing is still ragged, heavy with anger. But as the noise of the bell settles in, he slowly forces himself to calm.

Nakahara slips through the ropes and catches him by the arm, guiding him toward the corner where Hiroshi has been waiting.

“Good job, kid,” he says, steady and low. “You’ve done a great job.”

Ryoma doesn’t say a word, too tired even just to speak.

Across the ring, Aramaki walks back by himself. His steps remain even, but his shoulders sag, his gaze fixed on the floor, believing he’s lost the fight.

Yet, applause rises around the arena, scattered at first, and then swelling into something fuller.

“You fought great, Aramaki!”

“Hold your head high!”

“Chin up, Aramaki! You’ve given us a hell of a fight!”

The voices follow him all the way to the corner, a chorus of respect that refuses to let him alone in silence. Aramaki just stands there at his corner, chest rising and falling, but this time his chin is lifted.

The cutman climbs into the ring and stands beside him, but he looks lost there, silent, unable to find a single word for his fighter.

Masato Kanda, on the other hand, is already walking away from the corner, keeping his eyes fixed anywhere but the ring.

But he doesn’t make it far. As he passes, Kirizume shoots out a hand, clamping his arm in a grip like iron.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Masato Kanda freezes, caught off guard. His mouth works before the words come.

“He… he’s already cut ties with us, so…”

Kirizume yanks him close, his voice a low growl, each word sharpened by restrained fury.

“You still wear my gym’s name. You think I’ll let you walk away and shame me like this? Get back in the ring and stand by your fighter. You wait for the decision, do you hear me?”

Kirizume’s glare burns into him, daring him to resist. Kanda drops his eyes, fear tightening his jaw. In the end he turns back, forcing himself to walk toward Aramaki.

***

The arena is a storm held in silence. The chants are gone now, replaced by a restless, uneven murmur. Everyone knows the fight was short, brutal, and messy, but no one dares to guess the decision.

“That was one hell of a fight,” one commentator cuts through the buzz of the crowd.

“After all those knockdowns,” the other chimes in, “and the chaos in that final round, who would’ve thought it’d go to a decision?”

The announcer finally climbs through the ropes, taking center stage with the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after four rounds of boxing, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

The crowd leans forward as the first slip is read.

“Judge A scores the contest… 38–36, for Takeda.”

Cheers erupt from the red corner, but they’re quickly met by boos and groans from Aramaki’s supporters.

The announcer raises his other hand.

“Judge B scores it… 37–37, even.”

Gasps ripple through the arena. It’s a draw card, and the tension spikes.

Finally, comes the last envelope. The announcer pauses, drawing out the moment.

“And Judge C scores the contest… 38–36… for the winner… by majority decision…”

The entire hall holds its breath.

“…Ryoma Takeda!”

Nakahara pumps his fist skyward, Hiroshi grips Ryoma by the shoulders, shaking him in relief. But Ryoma himself just slumps, breathing ragged, his face unreadable.

Across the ring, Aramaki doesn’t move. He simply lifts his chin, standing tall, eyes hard as the noise crashes around him, cheers and applause, all mixed together in chaos.

As the fighters leave their corners, the hall rises to its feet. A wave of applause crashes down, not for one side, but for both.

The commentators lean in over the broadcast.

“That was textbook drama. Too many knockdowns, momentum swinging like a pendulum.”

“Exactly. You almost never see that in a four-rounder. Most rookies can’t even recover from one knockdown, let alone trade them back and forth like that.”

“And let’s not forget, this is only Takeda’s second pro fight. Aramaki, too, had barely any spotlight coming in. After tonight, they’ve both stamped their names into this tournament.”

The same crowd that came chasing a knockout spectacle, most of them drawn by Ryoma’s one-punch debut, now roar just as loud for Aramaki. He had arrived with only a handful of supporters, yet tonight he leaves with the respect of an entire arena.

No one jeers, there’s no hate either. There’s only a standing ovation for two rookies who gave everything.

In the seats, Kaede finally exhales, her expression easing with relief as her friends crowd around, congratulating her with excited voices.

Across the hall, Aki is on her feet, clapping through brimming tears, unable to hide how deeply the fight has moved her.

She sniffles, half-laughing at herself. ’Whew… that fight’s packed with material for my next article.’

Sato chuckles. ’Only you could think about writing at a time like this.’

Tanaka nods, still clapping. ’Well, she’s not wrong. That was one for the books.’”

And just next to Aki, Reika forces indifference onto her expression, but her eyes betray her, flicking again and again toward Ryoma’s back as he disappears from the ring.

***

After both fighters disappear, Kirizume finally rises from his seat, his wife in tow. From another section, Renji and Tōjō also make their exit.

And somehow, their timing sparks a ripple across the hall. Spectators begin to stand, shuffling toward the aisles as though the night is finished.

Murmurs swell in every row.

“That was too special for a rookie tournament opener.”

“Felt more like a final, didn’t it?”

“Those two are way too good to still be called rookies.”

The air hums with satisfaction, as if the tournament itself had already reached its peak.

Only then do the commentators cut in, their voices cutting through the buzz:

“Aaah…! Wait… Ladies and gentlemen, don’t leave yet! There’s still one more fight tonight!”

A pause rolls through the crowd. Some spectators blink, laugh, and return sheepishly to their seats.

But many just shrug and keep filing out. They hadn’t come for the tournament as a whole. They’d come for one name, Ryoma Takeda. And now that his bout’s over, nothing else mattered.

***

Behind the curtain of the arena, in the cramped locker room, Hiroshi works silently over Ryoma’s injured hand.

Ryoma shuts his eyes for a moment, wincing as Hiroshi tugs at the tape, the ovation outside clashing with the sting in his knuckle.

“Feels worse now than when I was throwing it,” Ryoma forces a smile.

“Hope it isn’t too serious,” Hiroshi says.

The last strip comes free, and Hiroshi eases off the glove. Ryoma’s face twists hard, teeth clenching as a hiss breaks from his throat.

“Kh… damn it…”

The hand beneath is swollen, angry red shading toward purple, the knuckle bulging as if it’s trying to force its way out of the skin.

Hiroshi dunks a towel into the ice bucket and presses it down. Ryoma jerks upright, a raw gasp breaking loose, before he bites it back and forces himself to stay still.

At the door, Nakahara holds the line.

“Coach Nakahara, just a quick interview!”

“Was that first knockdown part of the plan to buy time?”

“I said later!” Nakahara snaps, shoving his arm across the frame. “My boxer needs space. Leave him alone!”

But another voice cuts through. “Do you believe Takeda can win the whole tournament?”

Nakahara’s temper finally bursts. “Out! All of you, OUT!”

His voice booms down the corridor, and the slam of the door rattles the walls. Then he turns immediately, crossing the room in heavy strides.

“Relax, Coach,” Ryoma says, his voice ragged with fatigue. “They’re just making a living.”

Nakahara ignores him. “Tell me, Hiroshi. How bad is it?”

Hiroshi doesn’t answer right away. His hand stays pressed firm on the ice pack, his eyes locked on the grotesque swelling.

When he does speak, his tone is grim.

“The knuckle’s a mess. Could be just a bad bruise… could be a fracture. Hard to say without a scan.”

Nakahara leans in, fists balling. “Can he fight again next month?”

Hiroshi exhales through his nose, gaze still fixed on the hand. “If the second round really is next month… I doubt it. Not enough time to heal.”

The ice water drips steadily onto the floor, the sound sharp in the silence. Ryoma sits stone still, jaw tight, refusing to speak.