VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Even Hiroshi, who usually can’t contain himself after a win, stays quiet, towel hanging from his shoulder, mouth half-open in disbelief.

They all look across the ring, toward the red corner, where Junpei is still arguing with his team, his body trembling more from frustration than pain.

“Look at me… look at my feet!” he shouts, stomping one leg on the canvas. “I can still move! Just two more rounds, I…”

“Enough already,” Junji says, slipping through the ropes. “It’s just an A-license promotion fight. The license is what we came for.”

Junpei doesn’t answer. His face is tight with despair.

“Come on, Jun,” one of the assistants urges. “The result’s been announced. Let’s get you checked right away.”

Junpei glances toward the referee, then the announcer, realizing there’s no point arguing anymore.

Still, his legs refuse to move. If he steps out of the ring now, it’ll feel final, like he might never climb back in again.

When he finally does step through the ropes, the pain in his ribs flares up again, sharp and deep. He nearly collapses, and Junji catches him, accidentally pressing the injured side.

“Ahck…!”

Junpei grimaces, unable to hide it now. But he still waves Junji off, pushing his hand away and insisting on walking by himself.

Around the arena, the mood softens. Many in the crowd share his frustration. They wanted to see it continue, both men still seemed capable of fighting.

Some even remember his match with Serrano, another fight taken from Junpei before the finish.

This time, though, it wasn’t a referee. It was his own corner.

As Junpei walks back, clutching his ribs, the crowd can finally see the truth. The pain is real.

They can’t do anything but offer him their voices.

“Chin up, Junpei!”

“You showed real heart out there!”

“Don’t let it break you!”

“It’s just bad luck… come back stronger!”

“Don’t you dare quit now! We’ll be waiting!”

But Junpei doesn’t lift his head, whether from the pain or from something heavier inside, no one can tell.

***

In the locker room, Ryoma watches the screen without celebrating. Even after winning that million-yen bet, he doesn’t show the excitement.

He understands too well what Junpei’s feeling. He experienced it before; you wanted to prove a point, to find your rhythm back into winning, but got consecutive losses instead.

It’s a weight few can carry, and even fewer can recover from.

“…Well,” he mutters, forcing a wry smile. “It’s not like I’ve got time to worry about someone else’s pain.”

He has his own fight ahead. And if he’s not careful, he could end up suffering the same kind of “unlucky” injury himself.

Ryoma turns away from the monitor and starts shadowboxing, slow, practiced motions, just enough to wake his body, to keep his rhythm alive.

Moments later, Aramaki returns with his team. Okabe and Ryohei trail behind, both grinning and animated, still riding the rush of victory, a sharp contrast to the quiet figure walking between them.

Ryoma notices the gloom on Aramaki’s face, and then nudges him with an elbow. “What’s with that look? You don’t look like a guy who just won.”

Aramaki lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Feels less like I won it… more like it was handed to me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Ryoma says, his tone calm but direct. “I saw it. You already found your path to victory back there.”

Aramaki meets his eyes, then nods and sinks onto the bench. “I did. I could feel it. But it’s like they took the plate away just before I could eat. Now my throat feels empty.”

Ryoma smirks faintly. “A win’s still a win. Don’t forget why you fight.”

Aramaki falls quiet for a moment. His thoughts drift to his wife and baby waiting at home. Then he exhales, long and slow, and the heaviness in his shoulders starts to ease.

“Well,” he says, finally smiling, “winning earlier than planned just means I avoided taking more damage.”

“Exactly,” Nakahara adds, patting his back. “If you’d eaten one more counter, you’d be the one carried out on a stretcher.”

The other fighters nearby exchange glances but stay quiet, following the conversation.

What’s really on their minds isn’t just Aramaki’s win, it’s the massive bet Ryoma made earlier with that foreigner.

They glance at him, eyes saying what no one dares to speak aloud. But the amount of money Ryoma just earned from someone else’s fight is unreal.

The fighters who’ve been stealing glances at Ryoma finally stop pretending not to watch. Then one of them, a trainer with a sharp tongue and a reputation for gossip, lets his envy slip through.

“You guys didn’t hear?” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “While you were in the ring fighting your asses off, this guy…” he jerks his chin toward Ryoma “…was out here betting a million yen on someone else’s fight. With a foreigner, no less.”

He pauses for effect, letting the words sink in. “Real classy move, huh? Your gymmate’s risking his life in the ring, and you’re here playing bookie. Some team spirit.”

The air shifts. For a second, it feels like the start of tension. But instead of outrage, Nakahara’s camp just stares at Ryoma, and then bursts out laughing.

Okabe claps his hands once, grinning wide. “You did what? You actually put a million on the line?”

Ryohei shakes his head in disbelief. “Man, you’re insane.”

Even Nakahara cracks a rare grin, his usual composure slipping into amusement. “Kid… you really made a deal with Logan Rhodes of all people? You’ve lost your damn mind.”

Ryoma just shrugs, unbothered. “Guess I figured the odds were good.”

Aramaki lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You trusted me that much, huh?”

Ryoma meets his gaze with a smirk. “Didn’t need to trust. I just knew you wouldn’t fold.”

The room breaks into laughter again; light, loud, the kind that shakes off the tension left from the fight.

The jealous trainer watches from the corner, his attempt to stir things up dissolving in the noise. What was meant to sound poisonous now just makes Ryoma look fearless.

And Nakahara, still grinning, says it again, half to himself. “Crazy bastard… you really love taking risk that much, heh?”

Ryoma slips an arm over Nakahara’s shoulder, easy and casual, like he’s sharing a private joke.

“That’s not all,” he says, low enough that only the inner circle can hear. “With Aramaki taking that win, Logan’ll clean up the market on our next show. You better thank me later.”

The room shifts. A ripple of interest runs through the fighters; saliva-swallowing and wide eyes replace the earlier laughter.

Nakahara freezes for a beat, then lets out a long, slow chuckle. He pats Ryoma on the back, half mockery, half genuine admiration.

“All right, kid. You better be right. If you pull this off, I’ll buy the first round at the afterparty.”

The locker room door swings open. A staffer steps in, clipboard in hand, a headset crooked around his neck.

“Ryoma! You’re up next. Call time in five minutes. Get ready.”

The words hang there for a second before the realization hits everyone at once. The room goes still, and then bursts into a mix of surprise and disbelief.

“Oh, right… he’s still got his own fight,” Okabe mutters, smirking.

Nakahara exhales through his nose, clearing his throat with mock sternness. “Enough talking, kid. Get your head in the game. Would be a damn disaster if you lost your own fight after all that big talk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryoma says, waving him off with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’m not done writing headlines yet.”

And as he starts wrapping his hands, the air in the locker room shifts. The joking fades, replaced by that quiet focus before battle.