VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

When Maruyama reaches his fighter, Noguchi slouches forward, but one arm tangled in the ropes, body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut.

His eyes are glassy, isn’t conscious anymore. One glance is enough for Maruyama to know his fighter is finished.

Maruyama glares at the referee, jaw clenched. “You should’ve stopped it earlier. He didn’t need to take that beating.”

The ref only shrugs, face flat. “You had a towel. You could’ve thrown it sooner.”

The words hit like ice. Maruyama’s hands curl into fists, but he swallows the retort, eyes drifting back to his broken fighter hanging in the ropes.

Meanwhile, the commentators’ voices still hang in the air. And the crowd seizes on them, turning their echoes into a chant, Ryoma’s name rolling louder and louder until it drowns the hall.

But Ryoma doesn’t care about the credit or the noise. He strides to the far side of the ring and points his glove into the crowd.

“Enough with this!” he roars. “Stop sending weak boxers to me!”

The chant slowly fades, unraveling into uneasy silence. One by one, voices fall away until only the hum of lights remains.

Then, as if drawn by gravity, every head in the hall turns toward a single figure, Daigo Kirizume.

Ryoma’s voice booms again. “If you really want to break me, send your best fighter!”

Kirizume stays silent, unmoving, his gaze locked forward, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch. His fists coil at his sides, knuckles whitening.

The commentators gasp, tripping over their own voices as they scramble to capture the moment.

“Wait… who’s he calling out? Is he…?”

“He’s pointing at Kirizume. No, he can’t mean…”

“Is he challenging Renji Kuroiwa? The Lightweight Champion?!”

The hall explodes in chaos, chatter crashing against cheers, disbelief tangled with awe. It’s not a single reaction but a storm of them.

Outrage crackles, and wild chants climbing like waves across the arena. Every corner brews its own spectacle, the sound slamming together into something deafening.

Coach Nakahara bolts through the ropes, panic etched in his face. He grabs Ryoma by the arm, voice cracking with urgency.

“That’s enough, kid! Get back!”

But Ryoma doesn’t even glance at him. He rips his arm free with a sharp jerk, eyes still locked on Kirizume.

“Send me your Renji!”

Ryoma points straight at him, his voice booming through the rafters.

“Enough with this little game, Kirizume! Send me your champion!”

The commentators scramble over each other, their voices a tangle of alarm.

“This is insane! Renji Kuroiwa is a world-class Lightweight, ranked among the very best!”

“And Ryoma? He’s still a rookie, a class-C, in a lower division! There’s no universe where this fight makes sense. No way, not now!”

But the crowd doesn’t want sense. They roar at the provocation, whipped between laughter, shock, and raw, hungry anticipation.

***

The ring still breezes with restless energy when medics cluster around Noguchi, and the referee keeps his distance.

In the center, Ryoma stands alone, chest rising steady, the spotlight already his. He watches as Noguchi is lifted onto a stretcher, his team trailing in heavy silence, their footsteps dragging like a funeral march as they carry him slowly toward the aisle.

From above, the sight twists something inside him. Part of him feels disappointed that he couldn’t torture Noguchi further, that mercy cut the moment short.

Yet another part of him exhales in quiet satisfaction. At last, one wish from his regression is fulfilled. The bitter loss of his previous life has been rewritten, and for the first time, the ghost of that humiliation finally feels lighter.

The ring announcer steps forward at last, raising the mic. “At two minutes, twenty-three seconds of Round Three… winner, by technical knockout… Ryoma Takedaaa!!!”

The hall erupts, and again, chants of Ryoma’ name rolling like thunder. But Nakahara doesn’t let him linger. He seizes Ryoma’s arm, Hiroshi grabbing the other side, dragging him toward the ropes in a rush.

As Ryoma is pulled from the center, his eyes sweep across the crowd, only to catch Kirizume. The man doesn’t shout, doesn’t clap, doesn’t move. He just stares, lips pressed thin, gaze heavy with venom.

That silence cuts deeper than any jeer. Hatred without words, the kind that promises this night isn’t the end.

Still, Ryoma’s name keeps echoing after him, rolling through the stands as he walks down the isle.

“Ryoma the Chamelion!”

“The Cruel King!”

“Seize the All-Japan Rookie King, and challenge the champion!”

Cries for a title fight rise from the crowd. Whether out of ignorance, or indifference, it’s impossible to tell.

***

A week has passed since the fight, but the storm refuses to fade. It begins online, clips of the referee stalling his count, even steadying Noguchi’s body, spread across forums and social feeds.

Fans cry foul, some even spinning conspiracy theories. Then someone digs deeper, before Ryoma’s bout, the same referee worked Junpei’s fight against Serrano.

Two fights, two extremes. In one, a fighter stopped too early. In the next, a fighter left hanging too long.

Sports media picks it up. Analysts replay the footage, retired boxers call the officiating “a disgrace.”

And Ryoma’s name climbs higher with every headline. He isn’t just the victor anymore. He’s the fighter who exposed a crooked bout and emerged triumphant, even against fouls and injustice stacked against him.

The pressure builds until the association breaks its silence. A statement is released: the referee is found negligent, his license revoked permanently.

For most, the matter ends there. Relief, justice, case closed. But in Daigo Kirizume’s office, the fallout is only beginning.

***

Floor-to-ceiling glass opens the room to the city outside. Kirizume stands with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the skyline, posture calm, face flat like a cold wall.

On the couch, Renji Kuroiwa slouches with his phone, thumbing through headlines while the flatscreen in front of him runs the news live.

The anchors repeat the same story: the referee’s license revoked, the scandal stirring debate across the boxing world.

But Renji mutters without looking up, eyes fixed on articles, barely glancing at the TV.

“It’s everywhere,” he says. “They’ve dragged Leo’s fight into it too. Two bad calls, one night. People are saying it’s no coincidence.”

Kirizume doesn’t move, his reflection faint in the glass, fragile as smoke. His gaze drifts past the skyline, landing somewhere deep in the horizon, as if searching for something unreachable.

Renji scrolls again, slower this time. “If they keep digging, they’ll look past the ref. They’ll start asking who really pulled the strings.”

Kirizume doesn’t turn. His reply is low, steady. “Let them talk. Storms always pass.”

He sounds calm, and he has every reason to be. The association has already closed the book, branding the fiasco nothing more than negligence, incompetence.

“It was only a rookie fight,” he adds. “Too small, too insignificant for anyone to imagine some grand conspiracy behind it.”

Renji chuckles, shaking his head, lips curling in reluctant admiration. Kirizume had seen this far ahead, calculated every angle.

And the result: no bribery, no whispers of deeper rot. For the public, the villain has already been named and punished. For Kirizume, that is enough.

But Renji knows that Ryoma is unfinished business. Kirizume’s pride won’t let it end here, not with a conclusion that leaves him in the boy’s shadow.

And when that time comes, Renji has no doubt whose piece he’ll be on the chessboard.