VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the red corner locker room is steeped in silence, broken only by the rhythm of Ryoma’s shadowboxing. His fists slice the air in steady arcs, breath measured, eyes sharp.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t glance at anyone. It’s as if the fight has already begun somewhere inside his head.

Nakahara leans against the wall, arms folded, watching closely. His jaw is tight, but he doesn’t say a word. Hiroshi paces the floor, glancing at his watch every other step, restless as if time itself is dragging.

“They said Korakuen’s packed,” Hiroshi mutters finally, almost to himself. “Every seat filled… and most of them here for Ryoma. It’s insane. This is just a block final, but the pressure feels like a world title.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose. “The more hope they pile on him, the heavier it gets.”

Across the room, Kobayashi Ayano, the lightweight headliner of tonight’s main event, sits with his gloves resting on his knees. His eyes keep drifting toward Ryoma.

It’s not curious, but hostile. His lip curls faintly, as if Ryoma’s presence alone offends him. Even though he is the headliner, the roar outside isn’t for him. And he hates it.

Hiroshi notices the glare. “Tch. Guy doesn’t like sharing the spotlight,” he says under his breath.

Ryoma doesn’t notice. Or maybe he refuses to. His fists keep moving, tighter now, sharper, every punch carrying the weight of something more than competition.

Kenta, joining as Nakahara’s assistant tonight, has been watching him the whole time. And he’s noticed his oddities for days. To him, this isn’t focus. It’s something darker, coiled like a spring.

He steps closer, lays a hand on Ryoma’s shoulder between combinations.

“I know he’s a rookie too,” Kenta says quietly. “But don’t let your emotions take over.”

The words hang in the air.

Ryoma stops for half a breath. His eyes flick sideways, cold, then he resumes punching the empty air, as if Kenta never spoke.

“Emotions?” Hiroshi whispers. “Heh! Don’t you see he’s the calmest one in here.”

Then a knock breaks the tension. An official steps in, clipboard in hand.

“Ryoma Takeda. It’s your time.”

Ryoma wipes his neck with a towel, and strides for the door. Nakahara and Hiroshi follow quickly, tension still written across their faces.

Kenta lingers for a moment, watching Ryoma’s back from behind. To the others, Ryoma looks calm, composed under pressure. But Kenta feels Ryoma’s silence isn’t peace. It’s fire, chained down, ready to explode.

***

The second Ryoma and his team step into the arena, the world changes. A tidal wave of sound crashes over them. Korakuen Hall is shaking, thousands of voices rising as one.

The chant drowns everything else. Flags whip through the air, banners ripple, fists pound the rails. The welcome is savage, so different from the venom Serrano received earlier.

The commentators seize their cue, voices cutting through the chaos on the broadcast:

“Listen to this! Korakuen Hall belongs to Ryoma Takeda tonight!”

“What a journey it’s been for the young prodigy. He survived a war with Aramaki, forced Toru Kanzaki into retirement with only his left hand, and just weeks ago he pulled through against Noguchi despite a referee’s bias and one of the most controversial fight we’ve seen in this tournament.”

“He’s not the main event, but look at this reaction. He is the name on everyone’s lips.”

The commentators’ voices roll through the arena, threading into the roar of the crowd. For Shimizu and his friends up in the stands, the words feel like anchors in the storm.

Shinzo exhales, shoulders dropping. “Hear that? They haven’t forgotten… everything he fought through.”

Another of the group leans forward, clutching the banner tighter. “Yeah… Ryoma’s not out here by luck. He earned this.”

Ennosuke nods slowly. “It’s what carried him here. That’s why people are screaming his name. Because he’s proved he deserves it.”

Shimizu swallows hard, chest tight, but for the first time since Serrano’s entrance, the doubt inside him eases. Maybe the boy they’d come to cheer isn’t walking alone after all.

Down on the isle, Ryoma walks under the lights, his face unreadable, eyes locked on the ring. To the crowd he’s a hero. To himself, tonight isn’t about trophies or titles. Tonight is about revenge.

Ryoma steps through the ropes, movements precise, almost mechanical. He doesn’t play to the crowd, doesn’t lift his gloves to acknowledge the thunder of voices. He simply walks to his corner and plants himself there.

The house lights dim. A spotlight falls on the center of the canvas as the ring announcer struts forward, microphone in hand. His voice booms, filling the air, the familiar cadence of spectacle.

But at the journalists’ row, Tanaka isn’t watching the announcer. His eyes narrow, fixed on Ryoma.

“Something’s off,” he mutters.

Sato leans in. “Off? What do you mean?”

Tanaka’s lips thin. “He’s not moving. Usually he’s bouncing, keeping the legs alive, shoulders loose. But look… flat feet, stiff arms. He looks like a statue.”

His words draw Aki and Reika’s attention, curiosity sparking with a thread of unease. They’d been watching Ryoma’s preparations closely in the weeks leading up to this fight, but hadn’t seen him since those last three days. Now, looking back at him, they can both tell, something is different tonight.

***

Back in the ring, Ryoma’s breath is steady, but everything else; his stance, his glare, his clenched jaw, all is locked rigid.

His eyes spear across the ring, icy and unwavering, never once shifting from Serrano. His Vision Grid shimmers, overlaying his vision, reading Serrano’s frame like a machine:

But Ryoma doesn’t read, doesn’t even blink. The data is ignored, as if the entire system is useless to him.

All he thinks of is the bell. All he wants is the face opposite him, and the moment his knuckles crush into it.

The announcer’s voice swells into its final crescendo, snapping back into the arena’s foreground:

“…The young prodigy, Korakuen’s rising star… Ryooomaaa ’The Chameleon’ Takeeeedaaa!”

The hall erupts. Flags whip, banners crash against the rails, the sound a tidal wave that shakes the roof.

But Ryoma does not move. His expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift, like he hasn’t heard a single cheer.

It’s as if he’s already somewhere else, sealed inside a different space, one that holds nothing but him, Serrano, and the violence waiting between them.

Finally, the referee’s command slices through the noise.

“Seconds out!”

But to Ryoma, it’s a voice carried away in the wind.

Nakahara lingers one last moment on the apron. “Feel him out first. Get used to that unorthodox style. Treat the ring as your study ground.”

The advice hangs in the air unanswered. Ryoma doesn’t nod, doesn’t lift his gloves. He just stands there, so rigid, silent, fists still locked like stone.

A chill creeps down Nakahara’s spine. Now he feels something wrong. He drops to the floor, heart tight with unease.

But it’s too late. There’s no more chance to reach him now.

Because the bell rings.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

And that sound, only that sound, jolts Ryoma to life.

Across the ring, Serrano struts from his corner with swaggering steps, shoulders loose, chin high.

Ryoma surges in answer, exploding forward like a bull loosed from its pen, fists cocked, eyes burning.

The crowd gasps in shock.

One commentator blurts. “Whoa! Just like with Noguchi.”

“He’s ambushing right from the start,” says another one.

But this isn’t strategy. This is fury.

And Serrano springs to meet him, whipping a left hand from below at a brutal angle, half uppercut, half smash.

DUACK!

The glove crashes against Ryoma’s jaw, and…

BLUGH!

Ryoma’s legs give out, body collapsing to the canvas.

Four seconds into round one, and Serrano has already put him down.