VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Late afternoon drapes the city in soft gold. Noguchi jogs slow laps around a quiet park, a light work to shake off the last fight’s soreness. There’s nothing sharp, nothing heavy, just enough to keep the blood moving.

When he’s done, he slings his hoodie over one shoulder and crosses the street. A convenience store waits, the bell above the door jingles as he steps inside.

He grabs a sports drink, but his eyes catch on the magazine rack by the counter.

“TAKEDA HUMILIATES KANZAKI — A New Monster Rises in Korakuen.”

The cover shows Ryoma with his arm raised, sweat gleaming under the lights, face twisted in triumph. Below him, Kanzaki slumped on his stool, half-broken, half-absent.

Noguchi pauses, lips curling in a slow grin. “Front page, huh? Rookie king’s never been this flashy before.”

He buys the drink and the magazine, then heads out.

Back in his small apartment, Noguchi drops onto the couch. He cracks open the drink, leans back, and flips the magazine open.

The article doesn’t pull punches: Ryoma’s destruction of Kanzaki wasn’t just victory, it was humiliation.

Phrases like “pride stripped bare” and “crushed spirit” leap off the page. One column even speculates Kanzaki might never fight again.

Noguchi lingers on that part, eyes narrowing. Reporters claim Kanzaki hasn’t returned to his gym since the loss. He’s cut off calls from his management, even vanished from his tiny apartment.

“So he’s done already?”

He taps the page with a knuckle, the grin widening.

“Pathetic.”

Noguchi sets the magazine down but doesn’t bother to close it.

***

The city outside his window shifts into night. And the night for Noguchi isn’t always rest and comfort. Money’s been a constant calculus for him; prize purses, appearance fees, the small quiet math of survival.

From his duffel, he pulls out tonight’s disguise: black leather jacket studded along the shoulders, torn jeans, heavy boots. A chain clinks as he fastens it at his waist.

He paints his face with thick gothic make-up, then drags a hooded cap low over his brow. In the mirror, he looks like a faceless punk bleeding into the Shinjuku night.

For a moment, he thinks of Ryoma: headlines, the hungry crowd, the taste of humiliation. His smirk behind the mask widens, who knows what sinister thing crossing his mind.

But suddenly, a single text buzzes on his phone, the sender name saved under the Club Abyss code.

[You in?]

Noguchi smiles, and types back a line of reply.

“I’ll be there.”

He slings the duffel over his shoulder and steps into the night.

***

In a narrow alley buried in Tokyo’s neon sprawl, Noguchi weaves past glowing izakaya signs and the stumble of drunk salarymen drifting toward karaoke bars. Smoke curls from the lips of gothic rockers slouched against brick walls, their laughter sharp in the night.

The Club Abyss hides behind the tracks, marked only by a red light. Bass rattles the pavement as Noguchi approaches. The bouncer blocks the door, giving him a once-over.

“You here to watch, or bleed?” the man rumbles.

Noguchi smirks under his mask. “Depends on what they’re paying for.”

The bouncer chuckles, steps aside, and waves him in.

Inside, the air reeks of smoke and sweat. Chants shake the rails around a bareknuckle pit, where two men fighting with no rules, no weight, no mercy. And here, Noguchi isn’t a boxer with a license. He’s just another beast set loose.

He slips through the side door. At a folding table, a man in a cheap suit glances up.

“You’re late.”

Noguchi smirks. “What? Scared the crowd might leave without me?”

The man exhales smoke, unimpressed but scribbles his name on the clipboard.

“Get in line. You’re up next.”

Noguchi cracks his neck and strolls past, pulling off his jacket. The crowd catches sight of him and the chants swell.

His opponent is already waiting in the cage, a slab of muscle with scars down his chest, pacing barefoot on the sticky floor.

Just with the slam of the gate, the fight “officially” starts. And the crowd chants Noguchi’s nickname.

“Kageuma!”

“Kageuma!”

“Kageuma!”

It’s pure chaos from the start. Noguchi moves like a predator unchained, elbows, knees, headbutts, fists, every weapon legal in the dark.

His opponent swings wild, but Noguchi grins through the blood, taking hits, dishing harder. Every blow is savage, each thud echoing like meat on a butcher’s block.

Four days ago, he fought under bright lights with gloves. And within a month, he’s supposed to fight against Ryoma.

But instead of rest, instead of preparing for strategy, here he is; barehanded, brawling in the pit, tearing a stranger apart while the crowd howls for blood.

This isn’t just job to raise money. For Noguchi, this is also his preparation, his training ground.

***

The next day, by the time he’s back at the gym, Shunpei Noguchi walks in with two cuts on his face; one slashed across his temple, the other at the corner of his mouth.

The gym, which only moments ago echoed with the rhythm of fists hammering sandbags and mitt pads, gradually falls silent. Every head turns toward him, eyes widening. His face looks worse now than it did after his sanctioned bout with Rikuya Senda.

Noguchi just grins, ignoring the stares. He doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t break stride. He heads straight toward the managerial office as if the place is his home. But this gym isn’t his family. Noguchi has no bond here, only his license as a professional ties him to this roof.

Inside the office, Coach Maruyama and his staff huddle around a monitor, replaying footage of Ryoma’s latest fight against Kanzaki. Their voices are low, but sharp with tension.

“Look at this kid. Nineteen, and he’s already cycling through three styles like it’s nothing.”

“First he boxed from the outside, long range, clean footwork. When Kanzaki adjusted, he went to flicker jab, stinging from angles you can’t even see coming. He also applied the Philly shell well, even flipping into in-fighting when needed, roughing Kanzaki up inside.”

A trainer exhales through his nose, frowning. “That’s not normal for a rookie. Most guys his age barely master one style.”

“Exactly. And that’s our problem,” Maruyama mutters, rubbing his temple. “How the hell do we prepare Noguchi for that? Do we bring in out-boxers? Pressure in-fighters? Flicker stylists? We can’t just throw all types into the ring at once.”

One of the assistants shakes his head. “Even if we line up every sparring partner in Tokyo, it still won’t match the way that kid blends styles. He didn’t need to wait until a new round to switch. He could adjust in the middle of an exchange. And he knew which style fit the moment best.”

“This isn’t just technical mastery,” another trainer adds grimly. “It’s judgment. He makes those decisions on the fly, without waiting for his corner to tell him. That’s not normal. That’s dangerous.”

Their muttering cuts short when a voice slices through the room.

“Tch. Dangerous, huh?”

They turn, startled to find Noguchi leaning in the doorway. His temple bears a fresh gash, the corner of his mouth split raw.

Maruyama squints. He is surprised, yes, but not shocked. This isn’t the first time Noguchi has walked into the gym looking like he left his soul in a gutter.

“Street fight again?” Maruyama eyes him evenly, his tone flat.

Noguchi grins, unfazed, and steps inside. “Yeah. Had a fight last night, and it ain’t just fists. Knees, elbows, headbutts… chaos everywhere. Makes the ring feel like kindergarten.”