VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryohei pauses mid-step, glancing back, seems curious by Ryoma’s words. But Kenta claps him on the shoulder, inviting him to leave.

“Focus on your fight, man. Let’s go.”

Ryohei, still looking unsure, nods and stars to the exit. The two follow their coaches out.

But once they steps into the aisle, the sound suddenly hits them, deep, rhythmic, impossible to ignore.

Dudum.

A pause.

Dudum.

A pause again.

Then a rolling thunder of drumbeats fills the hall, followed by a chant that shakes the air itself.

“Ryo–Hei! Ryo–Hei! Ryo–Hei!”

Down the aisle, Ryohei himself stands frozen, his eyes wide. The noise swallows him whole.

Kenta leans close. “What’s going on here?”

Sera glances between them. “You didn’t expect this?”

Hiroshi can’t help a dry laugh. “Ryohei hasn’t fought in over a year. Even back when Shimamura was still here, we never had support like this. This is… this is Ryoma-level stuff.”

And that’s when Ryohei realizes it. All around him, scattered through the stands, the crowd moves as one, black shirts, with the same logo, the Cruel King’s Army.

He breathes out, shaking his head with a grin that borders on madness.

“That brat…” he murmurs.

The drums boom again. The chant rises higher.

Ryohei lifts his chin, rolls his shoulders back, and starts walking down the aisle like a man reborn.

For the first time in his career, he isn’t just a fighter. He’s a part of Ryoma’s legend.

The sound in Korakuen explodes like a dam breaking. Even the commentators, to this moment, still fall silent, caught between disbelief and awe.

“What… where did they all come from?” one blurts, half-standing from his seat. “This hall was half empty just a minute ago!”

His partner stammers, voice cracking with excitement. “No, wait… look at their shirts! ’Cruel King’s Army’? Those are Ryoma Takeda’s supporters!”

The realization spreads like fire. Cameras swing, capturing the waves of black shirts rising from the stands, chanting Ryohei’s name with the rhythm of those war drums.

“Unbelievable!” the lead commentator finally says, his voice booming now, full of renewed energy. “The crowd that came for Ryoma Takeda is now standing behind his teammate, Ryohei Yamada, making his long-awaited return after more than a year out of the ring!”

His co-commentator laughs, unable to hide the thrill. “This is incredible, folks! You can feel it… the brotherhood of Nakahara Boxing Gym! They’re not just cheering for one man. They’re cheering for all of them, under one banner, the Cruel King’s Army.”

The crowd keeps chanting, the rhythm rolling through the air like thunder. Ryohei walks the aisle slowly at first, then faster, chest high, eyes fierce, the lights catching the sweat on his face like battle paint.

“And listen to that welcome!” the commentator shouts. “Ryohei Yamada, the forgotten fighter, is no longer walking alone! This is what loyalty looks like in boxing!”

The cameras zoom in on Ryohei’s smirk as he steps toward the ring apron. The drums reach their peak, the chant swelling louder than ever.

“Tonight,” the second commentator says, almost reverently, “the Cruel King’s Army has officially announced their existence, not just for Ryoma, but for everyone who fights under that banner.”

The bell hasn’t even rung yet, but the hall finally feels alive.

***

Back in the red-corner locker room, Yuichi’s brow furrows.

He’d picked Kobo for this fight precisely because Ryohei Yamada was supposed to be harmless, a washed-up lightweight with nothing left to prove. But now, the entire hall feels like it’s shifting, vibrating with energy he can’t control.

“What the hell is this…?” he mutters, leaning closer to the monitor.

Kobo sits in the corner, gloves already on, his usual swagger gone. His knee bounces restlessly, a thin sheen of sweat coating his face even before the warm-up starts.

Even Tsuchida notices it now, glancing over with a deep frown.

“Kobo, breathe,” he says, trying to sound calm.

But Tsuchida’s own voice wavers.

Then a staffer appears by the doorway. “Red corner, standby.”

Kobo flinches at the call, shoulders stiffening. The small movement is enough to make everyone in the room realize how bad the pressure has sunk into him.

Mita Shiki, who’s been watching in silence, finally stands and adjusts his towel. His face stays calm, but his voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

“Let’s go.”

He walks out first, his composure steady and quiet.

Tsuchida pats Kobo on the shoulder, a gesture meant to reassure, but it feels heavy instead.

Kobo nods mutely, eyes fixed ahead, and follows. Two assistants trail behind, carrying a bucket of ice and water, their footsteps the only sound for a few beats.

Then the aisle opens before them.

The moment Kobo steps out, the air changes. The same crowd that thundered for Ryohei seconds ago… falls silent.

There are absolutely no jeers, no boos. They all turn silent, eerily stillness.

Thousands of eyes follow Kobo as he walks, but not one sound greets him. The war drums stop completely, only the faint creak of the floorboards and his own footsteps remain.

It’s worse than being hated. It feels like being buried alive in their silence.

Kobo’s throat tightens. He tries to keep his chin high, but his pace falters. The only voices come from the commentators, their tone hushed, as if afraid to break the spell.

“Listen to that silence,” one of them says quietly. “Not a word. Not even mockery.”

His partner exhales. “They’re not ignoring him… they’re judging him. That’s the weight of fighting against a man who carries someone else’s redemption.”

Down the aisle, Mita Shiki doesn’t look back. Tsuchida keeps his head low. The assistants follow with uneasy eyes.

And behind them, the entire Cruel King’s Army watches in silence, not hostility but disciplined and rehearsed, letting their quiet presence crush Kobo far more effectively than any shout could.

For Kobo, every step toward the ring feels like walking into his own funeral.

***

Before climbing the short ladder to the ring, Kobo stops, and then freezes.

For a split second, he just stands there, staring blankly at the mat. Then Tsuchida’s voice cuts in sharply behind him.

“Shoes, Kobo. Clear your shoes!”

The reminder snaps him halfway back to reality.

“Ah… y-yeah,” he stammers.

He bends awkwardly to brush his soles against the small mat by the steps. Once, and then again, and again.

His movements are clumsy, almost childlike. The ritual that every boxer performs without thought suddenly looks like an ordeal.

Behind him, Mita Shiki watches in silence. His eyes follow every fumbling motion, the way Kobo’s gloves tremble slightly as he steadies himself on the rope.

After a moment, Shiki exhales through his nose. “Forget it,” he says flatly. “Just focus on the fight.”

Kobo looks down, startled by how calm Shiki’s voice sounds. The former champion’s tone carries no warmth, only blunt conviction.

“Once you land a clean punch,” Shiki continues, “they’ll acknowledge you. Beat him, and those cheers will be yours.”

Kobo nods again, too quickly, too shallowly. He forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Y-yeah. I’ll steal the crowd. Just watch.”

But the words feel empty as he climbs through the ropes, telling himself the same lie over and over.

I’m the better boxer.

He’s just a washed-up clown who cracks dumb jokes to stay relevant.

But then once he looks across the ring, Ryohei is already waiting in his corner, calm, hands on the ropes, eyes fixed on him.

And in that moment, every thought Kobo rehearsed dies.

This isn’t the grinning joker who always lightened the gym with stupid humor. This isn’t the man he mocked in his head as harmless.

The Ryohei standing there looks carved from stone. His posture relaxed, but his gaze sharp, cold, and cruel.

Those are not the eyes of a man returning for fun. They’re the eyes of a villain who already knows exactly what he’s about to do.

The bell hasn’t even rung yet. But Kobo’s already exhausted by the pressure alone.