VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

June 4th, 2016 — Korakuen Hall

Irony has a strange way of showing itself in boxing. The tickets had sold out days ago, every seat supposedly claimed. Yet as the first bell rings, the great Korakuen Hall looks half-asleep, its seats more than half empty, its cheers scattered and thin.

The noise doesn’t swell, only drifts. The crowd that is present barely claps between rounds, their voices sounding more like polite obligation than excitement.

“Keep your guard up!” someone yells from the middle rows.

Another voice answers, half-hearted, “Body, go for the body!”

A moment later, someone laughs nervously, clapping twice. “Don’t fall asleep in there!”

But perhaps it’s only natural. The first five bouts on the card are between unknowns rookies and mid-tier fighters, most of them from Minato Bayside Gym’s young stable.

The so-called “sold-out event” feels less like a fight night and more like a rehearsal.

For the first three fights, Tsuchida Inejiro leads the corner, sharp towel on his shoulder, expression growing heavier by the minute. His two assistants and the cutman move around him like clockwork, but his eyes keep drifting to the stands.

Even as the second bout nears its final round, Tsuchida glances again toward the upper rows. But they are still empty, no new spectators have entered.

Even the commentators, despite their practiced enthusiasm, struggle to keep their voices lively.

They fill the silence with polite analysis, repeating the same praise and observations that sound thinner with every round.

“Good exchange there… nice left hook,” one says, but there’s no conviction behind it.

His partner chuckles dryly. “Yeah… both fighters showing heart,” he adds, though his eyes keep flicking toward the half-empty stands.

They came expecting energy, a crowd to feed off, but tonight… this can hardly be called a real crowd. Every word they say feels like it’s echoing into a void.

***

By the time the fourth bout begins, Tsutomu’s Super Featherweight match, a fight between to B-class boxers, Tsuchida’s already restless.

This one should’ve drawn more attention. The cornermen now are captained by Mita Shiki himself, the former Japanese champion, Minato’s prized veteran. Surely his presence would draw eyes.

But the air stays flat, the crowd unchanged. While the referee stands between both fighters, reciting the standard rules and instructions, Tsuchida leans toward Shiki, lowering his voice.

“This is strange,” he mutters, still scanning the rows. “I heard the tickets were completely sold out. But look around… it doesn’t even fill half the hall.”

Shiki doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts upward, mirroring Tsuchida’s unease. He nods slowly, as if trying to make sense of it himself.

One of the assistants behind them pipes up. “Maybe they’re still outside, waiting for the main event?”

Another nods. “I saw a lot of people earlier near the entrance. Thought they were lining up for something.”

Tsuchida exhales through his nose, frustration leaking into his tone. “They’d better come in soon. We didn’t hold this whole event just to let them see Sekino fight. This was supposed to help our rookies build their own career too.”

But as the third round of Tsutomu’s fight starts, still no new faces appear. Tsutomu’s struggling now, his opponent’s jabs landing cleaner, and his rhythm falling apart.

But Tsuchida barely notices. His focus is on the crowd, or rather, the lack of it.

He turns to the same assistant again. “You’re sure there were people outside?”

The young man nods, looking almost guilty. “Yes, sir. A lot of them.”

Tsuchida’s brow furrows deeper. The math doesn’t add up. If two thousands of tickets were sold, then where the hell are the rest?

***

Inside the red-corner locker room, the air feels heavier. Only Minato’s men occupy the space here. The muffled commentary and crowd noise drift faintly from the wall-mounted TV showing Tsutomu’s fight.

Yuichi Sōda watches in silence, one hand under his chin, eyes flicking between the monitor and the scene beyond it, the empty rows, and the flat atmosphere.

“Something isn’t right.”

Then he looks at Sekino, eyes narrowing, his his voice low and puzzled.

“Strange… tickets sold out, but the hall’s half empty.”

Sekino doesn’t say a word. He’s trying to stay focused on his own fight. But even he can’t ignore the strange emptiness creeping under the surface.

Yuichi Sōda leans closer to the monitor, his eyes narrowing as if he could will the scene to change. Maybe new spectators would pour in, maybe the hall would finally look like the sold-out event it was promised to be.

But even as Tsutomu’s bout drags into the final round, nothing changes. The seats remain empty, the air heavy and dull.

And to make matters worse, when the final bell rings, Tsutomu actually loses by a slim judges’ decision.

Yuichi’s composure snaps. “Useless brat!” he snarls at the screen. “You had him in the second! And you blew it! What a moron.”

The other coaches and rookies in the room stiffen but say nothing.

Minutes later, Tsutomu steps into the locker room, face pale, still catching his breath. Before he can even open his mouth, Yuichi’s voice cuts through the air.

“Don’t bother making excuses. You fought like a goddamn amateur. Couldn’t close a single round cleanly!”

He jabs a finger toward Tsutomu’s chest, every word sharp as glass.

“I put you on this stage so people would know our gym still produces real fighters, not another collection of soft-hearted kids chasing some hero dream!”

Tsutomu flinches, staring down at the floor, lips trembling but silent.

But Yuichi doesn’t stop. “And you, Kobo,” he snaps suddenly, turning toward the next fighter warming up by the wall. “You better not embarrass me next. You’ve seen what happens when you take it easy out there. You either dominate, or you disappear.”

The room falls dead quiet. The sound of the gloves tightening around Kobo’s wrists feels painfully loud.

Sekino exhales slowly through his nose, gaze fixed on the wall. He’s not the target of Yuichi’s rage, but the tension sticks to him all the same.

***

Out in the corridor, two spectators wearing black shirts with Cruel King’s Army emblazoned across the chest suddenly rise from their seats.

“Guys! It’s time!”

“Let’s move!”

They rush toward the exits, not to leave, but to spread the signal.

Within minutes, messages fly through group chats and calls.

Then it happens.

Doors swing open.

Crowds flood in.

Yuichi Sōda notices first, glancing up from the monitor. Relief flickers over his usually stoic face.

“Finally,” he murmurs, watching as the seats start to fill.

***

Meanwhile, in the blue corner locker room.

When the winning fighter from the previous bout and his team burst in, loud and sweating, Ryoma is the first to greet them with a slow, steady applause.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

The sound startles them.

They freeze mid-laughter, unsure whether it’s mockery or sincerity. But Ryoma’s calm smile leaves no doubt.

“Good fight,” he says simply.

And somehow, that breaks the tension. The other boxers from other gyms, the ones who’d lost earlier, begin clapping too.

It’s awkward at first, then genuine. The small room feels lighter for a moment.

Then the door slides open again, and a staffer calls out, “Ryohei Yamada. Get ready. You’re up next.”

Ryoma turns to Ryohei, eyes glinting under the white light.

“You remember what they’ve done, right?”

He slings an arm over Nakahara’s shoulder, his tone turning sharp beneath the calm.

“How they played with this old man’s kindness, pretending to be eager, just to use him. Made him wait like a fool for students who never meant to come back.”

Ryohei’s grin disappears. He nods slowly, pulling at the tape on his wrist until it tightens.

“Yeah. I remember.” His voice drops low. “Don’t worry. I already planned the same thing you’re thinking.”

Ryohei is always the gym’s mood-maker, the joker who could make even Nakahara laugh on his bad days.

He was the one who first welcomed Tsutomu and Kobo when they showed up pretending to join, even cracking dumb jokes to make them feel at home.

And they turned him into a joke.

Now, the same man wears a different face. His tone is low, eyes dark.

“They already made us the villains,” he mutters, sliding his gloves on. “So I’ll play the villain right.”

The staffer returns, waiting by the door. Hiroshi and Sera lead the way out first. Ryohei follows, exhaling through his nose.

“Kinda sad, though. Sold-out tickets, but the hall’s half empty.”

From behind, Ryoma chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ve prepared something for your entrance tonight.”