VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It’s an offer Aramaki never expected, an opening at the very moment he thought every door had slammed shut. It’s maybe even his last chance. And yet, reluctance twists in his chest.

“Why?” he asks flatly.

Kirizume’s expression shifts, just slightly. “Need me to repeat myself? Or is it too much to hear someone like me acknowledge your potential?”

He closes it with a smug chuckle. But Aramaki cuts him off, voice cold and steady.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Why go so far just to break him? From the way you’ve schemed everything, you don’t even care about winning the tournament. You want to end his career.”

Kirizume exhales, shifts in his seat, then pulls something from his pocket, money of course, and starts counting it, as if brushing aside Aramaki’s concern.

He’s not ignoring him entirely, but using the one thing he knows works best. So far, money has always smoothed things in this business.

“We haven’t received the payday from the association yet,” he says, producing a small stack of folded bills. “For the first round of the rookie tournament, they usually give around ¥50,000. But I need to cut about forty percent for management, your Second, and the cutman. So, ¥30,000 for you.”

Aramaki just stares. That amount is enough to keep his wife and baby fed for nearly a month. The weight of it presses on him, but still, he doesn’t reach for the money.

Kirizume arches a brow, and then slips in a few more notes. “No need to pay Masato then. He didn’t even do his job. Here, forty thousand yen. Take it.”

“What about our deal?” Aramaki presses. “You promised ¥300,000 outside the payday.”

“That was if you beat him,” Kirizume replies flatly. “But you lost.”

Aramaki’s jaw tightens, anger flaring in his eyes. “That’s not the only condition. You said breaking him is enough, and I did. His right knuckle’s shot. He won’t be able to fight in the second round.”

Kirizume’s brows lift, the surprise flashing for only a second before his smile smooths it over. “We’ll see if that’s true. If he really can’t fight next month, you’ll get your money. For now…” He nudges the smaller stack forward. “Take this.”

Knowing it’s his right, Aramaki finally accepts. It isn’t selling his soul, just accepting the payday as a professional boxer.

“But you still haven’t answered my question,” he says, tucking the money away, dissatisfaction hasn’t left him. “Why go so far? What did he do to you? Was it beating Tōjō? Something with your Champion in sparring?”

Kirizume chuckles, looking amused. He’s finally willing to share, believing Aramaki’s already fallen to his grip after taking that money.

“Not exactly… but I’d be lying if those fights had nothing to do with it. Let’s just say I saw great potential in him. Too great. So great I fear no one in Japan’s super featherweight division could challenge him.”

“From the way you approached me…” Aramaki lifts a brow. “I assume you invited him to your gym as well, and he refused.”

Kirizume nods with a shrug. “He didn’t just refuse. He humiliated me. That’s when I decided… if I can’t have him, I’ll break him.”

Aramaki sighs, and then opens the door. But before he actually leaves, Kirizume stops him.

“Need me to send a doctor to your house?” Kirizume offers, his smile as smooth as ever.

“Don’t bother.” Aramaki steps out, but holds the door open. “I’m done with you. Keep that ¥300,000, call it payment for breaking our deal.”

Kirizume’s smile fades, his face shifting into something closer to a ruthless Yakuza boss. “So you’ve turned against me too, Aramaki? You think any gym will take you after this?”

Aramaki only shakes his head with a faint smile. “My apologies, Kirizume-san. But I’m quitting boxing.”

He nods to the driver, taping the car’s hood as a clear signal the talk is over. The driver closes the door himself, and then circles back to slide behind the wheel.

A moment later, the car pulls away, with Kirizume still holding his rage, fists clenched tight. Aramaki’s refusal stings, an insult just like what he got from Ryoma. Worse, there’s no way for Kirizume to punish him, as Aramaki’s walking away from the sport.

“Such a waste,” Kirizume mutters, forcing a sigh. “I could’ve made him a champion.”

“You really think he had that much talent?” the driver asks.

“No doubt,” Kirizume replies. “He was barely trained, no professional coaching. But he stood his ground against Ryoma Takeda, even almost stole the win. Almost.”

***

The next morning, in a small orthopedic clinic near Suidobashi, the air feels sharper than the chill outside. White walls, antiseptic smell, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Ryoma sits on the edge of the examination bed, his right hand resting in a tray, swollen and discolored, fingers barely able to curl.

Nakahara paces at the foot of the bed, arms folded tight, while Hiroshi sits nearby, elbows on his knees, watching with a grim intensity.

Dr. Hayashi, a lean man in his forties with glasses sliding down his nose, holds Ryoma’s X-ray film up to the light box. He taps at the faint lines across the metacarpal, speaking in a steady, clinical tone.

“Small fractures,” Dr. Hayashi says. “Not a full break, but they’re scattered along the knuckle and bone here. Forty to fifty days of rest, minimum, before it heals properly.”

“Forty days?” Nakahara’s voice spikes, almost a bark. “The next round could be in less than a month!”

Hiroshi leans forward. “If we wrap it right, keep it iced, can he fight again within a month?”

The doctor lowers the film and turns to them, his gaze level but stern. “Maybe 40 days, but within a month, I doubt it. And If he forces that hand before it’s ready, the bone won’t just re-fracture. It could collapse. He might never throw a punch again.”

Silence thickens in the room. Nakahara stops pacing, his jaw locking tight. Hiroshi exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

Ryoma, meanwhile, sits still, eyes locked on his swollen fist, the weight of the words sinking in. His chest rises once, sharply, but he doesn’t say a thing.

He once made a promise, though only to himself, that he wouldn’t throw this tournament, not after stealing Aramaki’s dream.

But now? Words fail him. Nothing comes to his mind no matter how hard he tries to force it.

Then, suddenly…

“Wait!” he blurts, as if struck by a reckless idea.

“What is it?” Nakahara asks.

Ryoma turns to Dr. Hayashi. “What if I use it for defense only?”

The doctor frowns, confused.

“I mean, not to punch,” Ryoma continues. “Just to hold it up, cover my face, block shots. I could keep it from taking direct impact.”

Nakahara and Hiroshi exchange grim looks. Ryoma hasn’t even explained the rest, but they already see where it’s going.

Dr. Hayashi, on the other hand, takes a long pause, weighing it carefully. “After a month… if you really avoid direct contact, maybe you could step back into the ring.”

Ryoma’s face lights up. “Great!”

“Great?!” Nakahara snaps. “You barely beat Aramaki with two fists, and now you’re talking about beating Toru Kanzaki with just your left?”

“I never said I’d beat him,” Ryoma answers calmly. “I’ll fight him with only my left. If he wins, so be it. At least I won’t throw the fight away.”

“But the danger’s still there,” Dr. Hayashi cuts in, voice firm. “You might try to avoid contact. But what if your opponent slams straight into that hand?”

“Fine,” Ryoma says at last. “Then I’ll fight him without using my right at all. Not to punch. Not even to block.”