VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

He once said the rookie tournament wasn’t important, that his dream lay far beyond it. But now Ryoma understands that winning this tournament matters just as much as the road to his ambition.

With that weight burning in his chest, he slowly rises from the bench, determination blazing in his eyes. Nakahara and Hiroshi fall in beside him, Aramaki trailing as they move down the corridor.

But before they reach the aisle, Aramaki calls out.

“Ryoma, wait!”

Ryoma halts and glances back.

“Be careful out there,” Aramaki warns. “If Noguchi realizes he can’t beat you, he might abandon the match just to break you. Kirizume made that part of the conditions.”

For a heartbeat, Ryoma lets the weight of that threat settle inside him.

Then he nods. “I understand.”

The instant he steps into the isle, the hall erupts. Spectators cheer, voices chanting his name as if he’s already champion.

Yet none of it touches him. His eyes fix only on the man inside the ring. Even from here, his Vision Grid is still able to scan Noguchi’s poisonous grin.

Before he reaches the ring, Ryoma glances to the left. In the front row sits Daigo Kirizume, his wife beside him. No words pass between them, just a look, and their hatred laid bare and unflinching.

Behind him, Nakahara reads his fighter’s thoughts all too well. But he won’t let Ryoma make a spectacle of it.

“Kid!” Nakahara calls.

The voice snaps Ryoma back. He tears his gaze from Kirizume and strides to his corner. He wipes the soles of his shoes across the towel, in brisk strokes, stamping away the dust, then climbs up, ducking between the ropes, stepping into the ring.

***

Despite Nakahara’s effort, not everyone misses the cold exchange between Ryoma and Daigo Kirizume.

A few eyes in the crowd catch the tension. Among them are Aki, Tanaka, and Sato, the three journalists who have trailed Ryoma’s rise ever since that fateful spar with Renji Kuroiwa.

“Did you see that?” Tanaka leans forward, his brow furrowed. “The way he looked at Kirizume?”

Sato snorts softly. “Hard to miss. But what was that about? Doesn’t look like friendly recognition.”

“Far from it,” Tanaka mutters, eyes narrowing. “That was hatred. Pure and unmasked. The kind of stare you give someone you can’t forgive.”

Sato taps his pen against his notebook, lips quirking. “Hatred’s one thing. But in the middle of walking to the ring? Shouldn’t his focus be on Noguchi?”

Tanaka doesn’t answer right away. His gaze shifts back to Ryoma, now pacing inside the ropes, shoulders taut with intent.

“…Or maybe that look is the key. Something’s still unfinished between those two, and it’s bleeding into tonight. If we’re right, this fight isn’t just Ryoma versus Noguchi anymore.”

Sato exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Then tonight’s about to get messy.”

Aki says nothing, her pen frozen above the page, eyes fixed on the hard line of Ryoma’s jaw, as if she already sees the story forming before anyone else.

Reika, too, watches in silence. She doesn’t yet grasp the full weight of Ryoma’s conflict with Kirizume. But the spark of curiosity in her expression shows she’s learning more with every glance.

***

The roar of the crowd begins to thin as the arena lights dim, one by one. A single spotlight drops to the ring. In its beam stands the official announcer, microphone in hand, the glitter of his jacket catching the glow.

He lifts the mic, and his voice booms across the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen! Here comes the final bout of tonight’s card, the main event!”

“Introducing first, fighting out of Asakusa Boxing Gym, 21 years old, standing 170 centimeters tall. On the scale: 58.9 kilograms. His record: four fights, four wins all by knockout. Please welcome, Shunpei… ’Shuunnn’… Noguuuuchii!”

The spotlight swings to the blue corner. Noguchi steps forward and lifts one hand lazily, spinning halfway for the crowd, lips quirking into a crooked smile.

The response rains down heavy; boos, jeers, curses spat from every side. But Noguchi only chuckles, muttering under his breath with a half-joking shrug.

“Oh, they hate me already. And they’ve even picked a villain nickname for me.”

The spotlight cuts back to center.

“And now, his opponent…”

The announcer’s tone deepens, carrying weight, pulling the crowd forward in their seats.

“From Nakahara Boxing Gym… 19 years old, standing 173 centimeters tall! Officially weighing in at 59 kilograms! His professional record: three fights, three victories! One by knockout, one by technical knockout, one by decision!

The prodigy… the rising star of the Super Featherweight division… Ryomaaa… “the Chameleonnnn” Takeedaaaa!!!”

The light bursts across the red corner. Ryoma just stands in place, frozen, shoulders square, expression blank.

For a heartbeat, the words hang in the air, the first time the moniker has ever been spoken under the lights.

“Hah? What did he say?”

“The Chameleon? Why would they give him such nickname?”

“Chameleon, huh? What a weird nickname.”

At ringside, one commentator leans toward his mic. “Did you hear that? ’The Chameleon.’ This is the debut of a nickname that might just stick.”

His partner chuckles. “But why Chameleon?”

“Well, he has shown an uncanny ability to mimic his opponents’ styles mid-fight. It’s not mockery. It’s like mastery.”

“If the crowd’s reaction says anything, I think we’re witnessing the birth of a brand tonight.”

After hearing the commentators’ words, only then do the crowds begin to see the link between the nickname and Ryoma’s style which he’d shown in his previous fights.

They finally erupt, cheers rolling like thunder, some fans already chanting it back, as if the name had always belonged to him.

“Ryomaaaa, the Chameleooon!”

“You’re the real Rookie King!”

“Kill him, Ryoma!”

“Wait… don’t kill him. Just beat his ass!”

“And don’t copy his style. It’s not worth it.”

“We love you, Ryoma! Don’t be like that ugly thug!”

The sound crashes like a wave, thousands of voices chanting his name, drowning out every other noise.

Ryoma himself feels ridiculous, still not ready to embrace the nickname the crowd has saddled him with. The chants make his ears burn, his face flush with embarrassment.

He wants to complain. Yet when he catches Nakahara practically purring at the crowd’s reaction, he bites it back. Better to let the old man bask in the moment.

Up at the commentators’ table, voices rise again above the din, filling the moment as the announcer steps out of the ring.

“Look at the contrast here. Noguchi, the knockout artist, booed in his own semifinal. And Takeda? The people’s darling, the undefeated rookie with the crowd at his back.”

“It’s like watching light against shadow. One man fighting under hate, the other lifted by love.”

“But let’s not forget. Hate can fuel you just as much as admiration. Noguchi thrives on this kind of energy. If Takeda isn’t careful, this contrast could be dangerous.”

Ryoma’s gaze drifts back to the blue corner. There Noguchi waits, his lips curled into a slow sinister grin.

And just like that, the tension coils tight again in Ryoma’s gut. The reminder is clear: danger still lurks ahead, and this fight will be nothing ordinary.

Nakahara notices the shift in Ryoma’s eyes. Clearing his throat, he drops back into his serious tone.

“Kid, you know the situation. Don’t play around. The sooner you end it, the better.”

“I know,” Ryoma replies.

Finally, the referee’s voice slices through the air.

“Seconds out!”

Both corners step down, and the referee beckons the fighters forward.

“Alright, gentlemen. Protect yourselves at all times. Listen to my commands. Keep it clean. Touch gloves if you will, then back to your corners.”

Ryoma extends his glove. But Noguchi only arches an eyebrow and turns away.

“Good,” Ryoma exhales. “Now I don’t feel obliged to show respect either.”

***

The two fighters bounce lightly in their corners; arms loose, jaws tight, both looking eager to slug it out.

And then…

Ding!

Noguchi advances with measured steps, arms still hanging low. But Ryoma wastes no time, surging across the canvas, closing the distance in an instant.

Noguchi’s eyes widen, and he snaps his guard up. But Ryoma is already inside, forcing him back toward the corner.

Without hesitation, Ryoma snaps a jab.

Dum!

Noguchi blocks with his right glove, but his breath hitches, the weight behind that punch is shocking.

Before he can reset, Ryoma drills a right hand straight into the same guard.

Bam!

Noguchi’s arm flies off-line, leaving his face exposed. And Ryoma follows it up with the third one.

Dhuack!!!

Three punches blur in under two seconds; two smashing through the block, the last a sharp left hook cracking clean across his jaw.

Noguchi reels, unprepared for the impact, and…

Thud!

…he drops to one knee, fist planted on the canvas.

Down!

The spectators gasp as one, the sound swelling like a single breath sucked out of the hall.

No one’s ready for the ambush, not Noguchi, not the stands, not even the commentators.