VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, but Ryoma doesn’t stop. His voice stays calm, even casual, but there’s an edge that cuts through every word.

“Funny how some people talk about integrity only after they lose it.”

A few reporters gasp, flashbulbs erupt. The host tries to regain order, but the tension has already hit its peak.

Sekino leans forward finally, voice low but sharp. “You talk big for someone who’s never gone ten rounds. Maybe you should learn what real boxing feels like before preaching.”

Ryoma meets his gaze. “Oh, I’m counting on it. You’ll be the one teaching me, right?”

Their eyes lock, the air between them heavy enough to crack. The photographers love it, shutters clicking in rapid bursts as the two stand for the staredown.

An official steps between them, but Ryoma leans slightly forward, his lips barely moving.

“Still think I’m that baby-faced kid from Kamisaka High? Then maybe you need the same lesson Kanzaki got.”

Sekino’s expression twitches, a spark flaring in his eyes. His jaw sets, nostrils flare. He takes a half-step forward before Soda’s hand shoots out to stop him.

Reporters shout louder now, voices overlapping.

“Sekino! Ryoma! Look this way!”

But the two don’t blink, locked in a silent simmering battle of will.

Finally, the host intervenes, ending the session early before it explodes into something worse.

As the cameras flash one last time, Ryoma turns away first, still smirking faintly.

“Guess the lesson starts sooner than I thought,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Behind him, Sekino’s breathing sharpens, eyes burning. The war of words is over. The real fight now is just thirty hours away.

At the very back of the hall, the veteran journalist, Sato, exhales a faint laugh. “What a smart move. They want to recreate the same fever that filled Ota Gym, using the kid’s knack for controversy to their advantage.”

Tanaka raises a brow. “Risky gamble, though.”

“Maybe,” Sato replies. “But if they win, they clean their name after Kanzaki’s loss and steal Ryoma’s thunder in one go. If they lose, they still win.”

Tanaka frowns. “How so?”

Sato begins walking toward the exit, already done with the circus. Tanaka follows a few steps behind as Sato keeps talking, voice calm and steady.

“They’ve got six boxers fighting tomorrow, but Sekino’s reputation isn’t enough to fill the entire hall. They’re using Ryoma’s spotlight to show their whole stable off to the public, introducing their uprising rookies at once. It’s smart PR.”

Tanaka’s grin is forming as they pass through the door. “So in the end… both sides are using each other, huh?”

Sato hums in agreement. Then, just before stepping outside, he stops and turns back toward the conference room. The muffled flashes and voices still echo faintly from within.

“But there’s still the chance it could all go wrong for Minato,” he says quietly. “The risk’s small… but it’s there.”

***

The late spring sun already tilts westward. The air carries that faint humid warmth of early June, not hot yet, but thick enough to make shirts cling to the back.

Nakahara and Sera take the first taxi, leaving the others waiting by the curb. As the next taxi drawing closer, Hiroshi checks his phone for the time.

But it suddenly buzzes in his hand, a call from Satoru.

“What is it, Satoru?” he answers, voice casual at first. “Yeah, we’re heading back…”

Then his tone suddenly changes mid-sentence, tightening.

“What did you say? Yakuzas? At the gym?”

Ryohei freezes halfway through opening the taxi door. Ryoma turns slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, we’re coming now,” Hiroshi says as he steps toward the front passenger seat, gesturing for the other two to get in.

The car doors shut in near-perfect sync. Inside, the silence is sharp enough as the taxi starts driving.

Once Hiroshi ends the call, Ryohei leans forward from the backseat.

“Did I hear that right? Yakuzas?”

“That’s what the boy said,” Hiroshi replies, his voice grim. “Dozens of them, crowding around the gym. Said they want to see Ryoma.”

Ryohei turns to Ryoma slowly, expression tightening.

“See Ryoma? What, they didn’t like your answers at the press conference?”

***

Later, by the time their taxi reaches the gym, they finally see it, a crowd of men loitering outside the front entrance. They’re rough-looking, thick-armed, tattooed, dressed in mismatched coats and jerseys.

From a distance, it really looks like a small mob.

Coach Nakahara and Sera are already there, standing stiff by the door. Nakahara glances at the arriving taxi, then gestures briefly before heading back inside, Sera following.

Hiroshi’s face tightens, and Ryohei swallows hard with a grim in his face.

But Ryoma’s gaze sharpens, scanning the group, reading their stance and eyes. Once he steps out of the taxi, a big man jogs forward, bowing so low his back nearly folds in half.

“Ryoma-aniki!” he says, grinning nervously. “I-I hope we didn’t startle anyone!”

Ryoma blinks, squinting. “Wait, you’re… yeah. You’re the guy who waves that ridiculous war banner calling me The Cruel King, right?”

The man laughs awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. “Ahaha… We spent all night thinking up that nickname. Hope you’re not disappointed.”

Ryoma exhales. It turns out they are just supporters.

Behind him, Hiroshi lets out a small sigh of relief.

And Ryohei mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

There are at least two dozen of them, dockhands, factory workers, maybe a few ex-punks. Definitely not Yakuza, but close enough to fool anyone from afar.

“You’ve made quite a scene,” Ryoma says, folding his arms. “The kids inside thought you were here to smash the place up.”

The man waves both hands quickly. “No, no! We’d never do that! Ah, let me introduce myself. Matsuda. Kenji Matsuda. I’m the head of your official fan association… well, sort of.”

Ryoma raises his brows. “Fan association?”

“Yeah! We met after one of your matches, and, uh… kinda merged all the fan groups together. Twenty-one in total across Tokyo.”

Ryoma stares at him. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious!” Matsuda beams. “We even made shirts!”

Hiroshi groans under his breath, and finally gets inside. Then Okabe and Satoru step out of the gym, drawn by the noise.

“Alright, Kenji-san,” Ryoma finally asks, “What do you want with me?”

The big man’s grin fades, replaced by something startlingly serious. His voice drops. “We’ve been following the news. We know Minato Bayside’s trying to ruin your name… to steal your spotlight. But don’t worry, boss. Even if tomorrow doesn’t go your way…”

Ryoma narrows his eyes. “You think I’m going to lose?”

“N-No! Of course not!” Matsuda waves frantically. “We just mean… even if it did happen, we’d still back you. Our support’s genuine! For the record, we’ve got over a thousand members now. All of us already bought tickets for tomorrow!”

Ryoma’s eyes widen slightly. That number alone already fills half of the Korakuen’s max capacity.

Now, a ridiculous idea stirs something dangerous and amused in him. He glances over at Ryohei and the others, then leans closer to Matsuda.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s talk.”

He pulls Matsuda a few steps toward the middle of the crowd, whispering low. The group tightens around them like a huddle.

Hiroshi and Ryohei can’t hear a thing, until one line floats back to them.

“…we can just do that, yeah?” Matsuda says, his voice almost gleeful.

Ryoma grins, boyish and mischievous, like a kid planning a street war. “Perfect. Oh, by the way… you guys eaten yet?”

The men glance at one another, sheepish.

Ryoma claps his hands once. “Come on. Let’s go. I know a good soba place nearby. My treat.”

And just like that, Ryoma Takeda, the supposed villain of the ring, marches off at the head of two dozen cheering “thugs,” leaving his stunned teammates behind in total disbelief.