VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The lights dim over Korakuen Hall. The air thickens as the ring announcer introducing Kobo for his first ten-rounder fight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, introducing our uprising star, fighting out of the red corner! Nineteen years old, standing at one-seventy-five centimeters, officially weighing in at 63.4 kilograms. He enters the ring tonight with an undefeated record; four fights, four wins, all by knockout!”

His hand cuts through the air toward the red corner.

“Representing Minato Bayside Gym… Kobo Maruyama!”

But the applause that follows is thin, polite, almost hollow. And Kobo doesn’t raise his gloves, doesn’t even blink.

His chest still moves fast, his breathing uneven. The announcer’s voice barely registers. Everything around him feels muffled, distant, like he’s underwater.

After the ring announcer leaves, the referee finally gestures sharply, callin both fighters to the center.

Ryohei moves first, calm and deliberate, gloves hanging loose.

But Kobo doesn’t move until the ref calls again, firmer this time.

“Red Corner! To the center!”

The sound finally pierces his haze.

Kobo trudges forward, each step heavier than the one before. His gloves feel like anchors. His heart beats like a drum out of rhythm.

The commentators fill the silence, their voices hushed but cutting through the moment.

“Kobo Maruyama, nineteen years old, undefeated, all knockouts. One of Minato’s brightest prospects.”

“Yeah, and what’s interesting… his career path mirrors Ryoma Takeda’s. Same high school, Kamisaka, same two-time Interhigh medalist. I even heard Minato pushed his A-license early by telling JBC he’s ’the same breed’ as Takeda.”

“Well…” The first one exhales softly. “We’ll see if he really is… or if he’s just wearing the same skin.”

The referee raises both hands, “Alright, gentlemen. You know the rules, obey my commands at all times, protect yourselves, and fight fair. Now, touch gloves.”

Kobo hesitates for a heartbeat. He’s done this ritual countless times, four pro bouts, dozens of amateurs, but never like this.

His expression wavers between focus and fear. He extends his right glove, arm trembling just slightly, trying to keep the motion steady.

For once, the swagger that usually coats his every move is gone. He looks less like a knockout artist and more like a schoolboy caught out of his depth.

But Ryohei doesn’t move. His gloves hang loose by his sides, his eyes locked on Kobo’s face.

The silence stretches, and the crowd senses it. Even the referee pauses, unsure whether to step between them.

Kobo’s uncertain smile falters. His gaze lifts slowly, and finally meeting Ryohei’s eyes.

That’s when Ryohei finally moves, not his hands, but his head. He leans forward just an inch, his shadow falling over Kobo’s face.

“Acting all polite now, huh? You think I forgot what you did to us?”

Kobo blinks, throat tight, trying to find the meaning through the haze of noise and adrenaline.

“What…?” he starts, but the words don’t come out.

Ryohei just steps back, not taking his cold gaze away from him.

“I’ll show you a nightmare,” he says slowly.

***

In the journalist row, Sato leans back in his seat, eyes narrowing as the two fighters step back.

“Look at them,” he says quietly to Tanaka. “Same height, same reach, but that’s where the similarity ends. Ryohei looks still built like an out-boxer. The muscle’s tight, shaped by years in the ring. But that kid…”

“Looks fat?” Tanaka finishes for him.

“Can’t say he’s fat,” Sato shakes his head. “How should I put it… Softer? He’s scaled at sixty-three, but he’s probably closer to sixty-nine right now. Looks strong, but lacks the definition in his frame. Like he bulked too fast.”

Tanaka chuckles under his breath. “Funny, though. I swear he looked bigger at the weigh-in yesterday. Why does he look smaller now?”

Sato smirks faintly, never looking away from the ring. “That’s what pressure does. It shaves weight faster than any sweat suit ever could.”

The bell rings.

Ding!

Both journalists fall silent, eyes fixed on the ring. Kobo stands rigid in the center, while Ryohei bounces lightly around him, loose and fluid, a predator testing his range.

“Round one! Here we go, ladies and gentlemen! Super Lightweight, ten rounds scheduled, Ryohei Yamada versus Kobo Maruyama!”

***

For ten long seconds, Ryohei circles him like a vulture stalking a dying deer, and the chant of the Cruel King’s Army still rumbles through the hall like distant thunder.

Then, at last, he starts flicking probing jabs, closing the space inch by inch, testing the distance.

Then Ryohei exhales through his nose, takes another half a step forward, and shoots his first jab. It’s a flick of the left, sharp, and calculated.

Kobo jerks his head back too late. The glove barely rises, and…

Dsh!

The jab taps the side of his temple, a whisper of contact, but enough to make his vision jolt.

And Ryohei doesn’t stop. He throws another left, and then another. Each punch pulls a synchronized growl from the stands…

Ough! Ough! Ough!

…the chant of an army marching with every strike.

Only one jab lands on Kobo’s guard. The other two kiss his cheek…

Dug! Dsh! Dsh!

…snapping his head sideways, sweat bursting from his skin.

What’s wrong with me? My hands… feel heavy.

Kobo blinks hard, disoriented. And Ryohei reads it instantly, the stiffness in Kobo’s legs, the delayed twitch in his guard, the fear behind his pupils.

“Perfect. This is just perfect”

He lowers his stance, crouching slightly, ready to swarm.

Kobo’s instinct fires first, a desperate one-two, but both punches thud uselessly into Ryohei’s forearms.

Dug, dug!

Then Ryohei strikes back, three angles, three clean intentions; a liver shot, a cross to the nose, and a short left hook to the head.

Thud!Dug! Tham!

Kobo only managed blocking the cross aimed straight at his face, eating the body blow and the hook.

Now he folds slightly, knees dipping, eyes wide. He tries to bring his guard tighter, elbows locked, head buried between his gloves.

Ryohei steps back half a foot, recalibrates, and starts again, this time methodical: a jab to the guard, a hook to the ribs, another jab to the forehead, then a sneaky right under the elbow.

Each punch lands like punctuation, spacing his rhythm, suffocating Kobo under a slow relentless tide.

From outside the ring, the Cruel King’s Army roars louder, a storm feeding on precision.

“Ough! Ough! Ough!”

The sound swells until it drowns the hall, until Kobo can’t even hear his own breath anymore.

Shiki leans over the ropes, voice cutting through the crowd. “Relax, Kobo! Don’t let the noise mess with you! Breathe… read his punches, and fire back!”

But Kobo doesn’t react. Maybe Shiki’s voice is lost beneath the roar, or maybe Kobo’s already lost inside the noise in his own head. No one can tell which.

He backs up, his skin already brushing the ropes, panic flickering in his eyes.

Why can’t I move?

Damn it!

My arms… they won’t listen.

Ryohei exhales, straightens his shoulders, and wipes a drop of sweat from his chin with the back of his glove.

“Welcome to the ring, kid,” he mutters under his breath, voice flat, unreadable.

Then he steps forward again, and the villain everyone feared begins his work as Kobo starts questioning his life choice.

What am I doing?

Why did I even come here?”

Then finally, out of sheer desperation, Kobo swings a wild hook, just as Ryohei launches a heavy shot of his own.

Dhuak!

Both punches land flush, snapping their heads in opposite directions.

The crowd erupts with a single, collective gasp.

“Ooough!”

The commentators burst into half-shocked laughter.

“Woohoho… what a brutal exchange!”

“Kobo finally fires back! And Ryohei… he looks shaken from that one!”

That one clean hit reignites Kobo’s confidence. His instincts as a boxer flare back to life, urging him forward.

“This is it…”

“He must be hurt.”

And yes, the corner of Ryohei’s lips is red with blood. His face twitches, jaw tightening as he exhales through his nose.

He’s in pain, No doubt about it.

But then Ryohei looks up, and that glare, wild and burning, freezes Kobo mid-step.

It isn’t the look of a wounded man. It’s madness staring back.

The joker, the lighthearted mood-maker, finally shows his dark side.