VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Renji blinks, but the canvas beneath him keeps tilting, rising and sinking like a slow tide. The ropes above blur into pale ribbons, and Elliot’s figure stands somewhere beyond them, distorted and doubled.

His ears ring. For a moment he can’t tell if it’s the bell or just the noise living inside his skull.

Somewhere at the edge of it all, a pounding echoes as Kirizume’s fist hits on the apron. He’s shouting something and Renji can see his coach’s mouth moving.

“Renji! Get up! You hear me? Renji, talk to me!”

The crowd has become one shapeless noise, an ocean of voices blending with the ringing in his ears.

Through the speakers, the commentators’ voices stretch and distort, bright and distant.

“…can he make it up…!”

“…the referee’s count has started!”

Renji exhales, sweat dripping down his cheek to the mat. He presses a glove against the floor, trying to find the ground beneath all that noise.

The moment he can hear clearly, the ref’s count already reaches four, and then five.

“Renji!” Kirizume calls.

Renji shakes his head once, and then raises, but stops in half crouching position, his stance trembling.

By the count seven, he already straightens, raising both gloves in front of his face.

The ref steps forward, searching. “Can you still fight?

“I’m fine,” Renji says.

The ref takes a few moments, before nodding, and then steps away.

“Box!”

After a deep breath, Renji steadies himself. His stance firms once more, guard raised, eyes still sharp, as if the knockdown hadn’t cut that deep.

“Damn it… it was a trap. He’d been setting it up all along.”

Now he understands the science behind Elliot’s pendulum rhythm, the deliberate lulls, the reason for that steady beat.

But instead of solving the puzzle, pride takes over. He won’t wait to recover. Step by step, he pushes forward, gloves clenched tight.

The rhythm repeats. Renji tries to prove a point, but Elliot stays detached, his movements smooth, the same measured tempo as before.

From the stands, Ryoma rises slowly, eyes fixed on the ring. His expression is flat, showing quiet disappointment. After watching a few exchanges, he turns and starts walking away.

Aramaki blinks. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Ryoma says simply, hands in his pockets.

Aramaki glances back toward the ring, where Renji is still forcing the fight, swinging harder, chasing pride.

Part of him wants to stay, but Aramaki doesn’t want to be left behind either.

“Ryoma, wait!” he calls, hurrying after him. “Man, isn’t it too early to call it? There are five rounds left. Anything can happen in boxing.”

“Of course,” Ryoma replies, voice distant. “He’s a former Japanese champion. It’s not easy to put him down. But I’m done watching.”

“Why?” Aramaki teases. “You’ll have to fight one of them eventually, won’t you?”

“Maybe. I’ll watch the replay when it matters.”

Ryoma knows anything can happen in boxing. One punch can rewrite everything.

But his interest has drained. A year since their sparring, and the champion hasn’t evolved, nothing new, nothing learned.

And he doesn’t think five rounds will change that.

As they leave, Aramaki’s earlier words linger in Ryoma’s mind, the words that show him an alternate future he could take, where he should be a champion already within a year.

It stirs a restlessness he can’t quite suppress, a hunger to move beyond all of this, to chase something far ahead of Japan’s lightweight stage.

***

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the arena, in the journalists’ row, Aki catches sight of Ryoma and Aramaki.

Even from afar, she notices them easily, two figures rising from their seats in the middle of the fight, the only ones walking away while the rest of the crowd roars around the ring.

Tanaka glances up as Aki leaves her seat.

“You are leaving? The fight’s at its peak.”

“Restroom,” Aki says quickly, already slipping past the seats, murmuring sumimasen as she squeezes through the row.

Once she’s out of sight of the stands, her pace quickens, heels tapping sharply against the corridor floor, not wanting to lose Ryoma and Aramaki.

By the time she reaches the main exit, the cold night air hits her face. Down by the curb, Ryoma and Aramaki are waiting for a taxi, still talking.

But on the other end of the street, she sees another group approaches, Sekino and his gang, with Kobo and Tsutomu among them.

Even from a distance, Aki can tell from their stride, the tension, the swagger: this won’t end well.

So she stops, watching from a distance.

Ryoma is still speaking with Aramaki at the moment, his tone calm, detached, but sounds underestimating.

“…Japanese boxing’s obsessed with hype,” he says. “Focusing on being flashy over building fundamentals. They sell image instead of craft. Traded their own identity for money and attention. They’ve forgotten what made them different in the first place.”

The words carry just far enough for Sekino to hear. And his expression hardens.

“That’s rich,” he says, his voice cutting through the cold air, “coming from someone like you.”

Ryoma glances sideway to Sekino’s direction, but doesn’t turn to him. He’s still facing the street, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, still waiting for a taxi.

Sekino steps closer, shoulders tense, his gang following behind with that familiar thuggish swagger.

“The kid who tortures an opponent for attention,” he continues, “making a show out of his misery when you could’ve ended the fight early. All that just to create hype… for a gym nobody even cares about. And here you are, a ’chameleon,’ a clown who keeps changing his face to win crowds, now talking about losing identity?”

Now Ryoma turns slightly, just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes narrow, sharp and steady.

“Big words,” he says quietly, “from a gym that sent its ants to spy on others.”

His gaze flicks toward Kobo and Tsutomu, the reminder hitting like a jab.

“Still playing undercover?”

Then Ryoma scoffs, shaking his head with mocking expression.

“Even after all that, still can’t do shit. So tell me… who’s the clown now?”

Sekino’s face twists, rage breaking through his restraint. His right hand jerks back, ready to swing.

But before he can move, Ryoma’s eyes cut sideways again, he’s already seen it coming, but also seeing Kobo and Tsutomu reaching out, catching Sekino’s arm mid-motion.

So Ryoma just stays motionless, still half-turned, both hands deep in his pockets.

“Not here, senpai,” Kobo hisses. “Not outside the ring.”

Sekino thrashes against their grip, teeth grinding. “Let me go, Kobo! I’m gonna break this damn kid’s mouth right now!”

Ryoma is still unshaken, even taking a single step forward, both hands still in pockets.

The air around him changes, something cold, silent and heavy. His gaze locks on Sekino’s eyes, steady as stone. For a second, the whole street seems to still.

Aramaki, who’d moved instinctively to shield him earlier, now stops. He realizes now Ryoma doesn’t need protection.

When Ryoma finally speaks, his voice is low and measured, but every word cuts.

“You’re just like your crybaby little kouhai,” he says. “Can’t tell the difference between pride and delusion. You’ve let a little reputation crawl into your head, and now you think you’re untouchable.”