VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The silence stretches until it starts to hum. Then a staffer pokes his head through the door, voice cutting the stillness.

“Ryoma Takeda! You’re up soon. Wraps checked in five.”

Ryoma gives a short nod and resumes his warm-up, shadowboxing in the middle of the room. The air fills with the faint thuds of his feet, the whisper of gloves brushing fabric.

Ryohei stays hunched on the bench, laces half-undone, eyes fixed on the floor. No one speaks. The walls seem to breathe with them.

Minutes drag until the door creaks open again, the same staffer, waiting by the door.

“Ready?”

Coach Nakahara answers with a nod, motioning toward Ryoma.

“Let’s move, kid.”

Ryoma follows him out, Sera and Hiroshi in tow. The corridor already smells of dread and expectation.

Kenta hesitates beside Ryohei, about to speak, but Ryohei’s already on his feet, rushing to the door. Once he reaches the corridor, he calls out, voice rough.

“Hey, Ryoma!”

Ryoma turns, framed by the hallway light.

Ryohei forces a crooked grin. “Go make the crowd wild again… like you always do.”

For a heartbeat they just look at each other.

Then Ryoma nods once, silent, and steps toward the ring, where the noise waits to swallow him whole.

The staffer stops them just short of the tunnel. “Hold here,” he says, one finger to his earpiece, waiting for the cue.

***

Beyond the door, the arena breathes like a single creature, a low murmur of thousands waiting for movement. The air trembles with anticipation.

But amid the restless buzz, The Cruel King’s Army, Ryoma’s faithful, stand still like statues. Hundreds of them, faces painted in black and silver, those who bring drum hold their sticks frozen mid-air.

And Kenji Matsuda, the loudest one, along with the twenty other leaders, doesn’t move either. The stillness crawls through the crowd.

People start to notice. Whispers pass like static.

“What’s with them?”

“Why’re they not drumming?”

Then the house lights dim.

And five sharp beats crash through the silence…

Ddududududum!

…and stop.

Then another five beats follow, tighter, louder, echoing off the rafters.

And stop again.

The crowd stirs, drawn into the rhythm’s grip.

Finally, the cue from the official comes, and the door opens.

Ryoma steps into the tunnel glow. And Ryoma’s fans, clearly has no cooperation with Korakuen Officials, give their own ceremony.

The drums change. A new rhythm blooms, grand and heavy, joined by hundreds of voices chanting in unison, rolling like thunder through the hall:

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

The chant swells, the anthem of a kingdom built on violence and awe. And Ryoma walks forward, into his throne of light.

A few socialites lift their phones, filming through parted fingers. Their polished faces glow in the screenlight, hands half-covering their mouths, awed and disbelieving, as if afraid to breathe during the Cruel King’s coronation.

Up at ringside, even the commentators go quiet for a moment. The cameras sweep across the darkened stands, catching the synchronized glow of the Cruel King’s Army and the steady pulse of their drums.

The lead commentator finally exhales, voice barely above a whisper.

“I… I don’t even know what to say. I’ve covered Korakuen for fifteen years, and I’ve never seen an entrance like this.”

His partner lets out a soft, incredulous laugh.

“What is this… a coronation?”

The drums thunder again. Smoke rolls down the ramp like mist spilling from a stage. When Ryoma appears through the haze, spotlight slicing around him, the crowd’s roar folds over itself, half reverent, half feral.

“Oh, come on!” the second commentator bursts out, laughing now. “They’ve turned Korakuen Hall into a cathedral for one man!”

The first commentator shakes his head, smiling in disbelief.

“This isn’t a boxing entrance anymore. This is theatre. This is the Cruel King’s court!”

Their laughter crackles through the broadcast, a mix of awe and pure delight.

“Ladies and gentlemen, forget the weigh-in, forget the stats… Ryoma Takeda just made history before the bell even rang.”

Behind Ryoma, Nakahara and the others follow in silence, each step more hesitant than the last. None of them had seen this coming, not the drums, not the army of synchronized fans.

Sera glances at Hiroshi, who only shrugs, eyes wide. Even Nakahara, the man who’s seen everything, can’t help muttering under his breath.

“Since when do we have a royal parade team?”

The surreal grandeur leaves them walking half in awe, half in disbelief, swept along by the storm they didn’t know they’d started.

***

In the red corner’s locker room, Yuichi Sōda’s jaw tightens as he watches the monitor. This was supposed to be their event, their show. Sekino’s entrance had been planned, rehearsed, timed to perfection. And now it already feels small.

From the back of the room, a couple of young boxers can’t help whispering.

“Man… I got goosebumps.”

“That was insane. Like something outta a movie.”

Yuichi’s eyes flick toward them, and the whispers die instantly.

He doesn’t need anyone to tell him, the spectacle outside is far grander than what he prepared for Sekino.

For a second, he glances at his fighter. But Sekino isn’t watching the screen. He’s still shadowboxing, calm and precise, as if the noise of the world can’t touch him.

That steadiness, however, gives Yuichi a sliver of relief.

A staffer appears by the door.

“Ready?”

Yuichi exhales, and then nods.

“Let’s go.”

As they head out, Tsuchida mutters under his breath, still dazed. “That whole thing out there… it’s like a concert.”

Yuichi gives him a sharp look. “We came here to fight, not to hold a concert. We’ll win the crowd with our fists, not gimmicks.”

And with that, they step into the corridor, the dull roar of the arena growing louder with every stride.

***

But the moment Sekino’s team steps into the tunnel, the sound inside Korakuen Hall changes. The cheers still come, polite and measured, the kind of applause reserved for respect, not devotion.

A few voices call Sekino’s name, and a smattering of camera flashes pepper the air.

But the Cruel King’s Army… almost a thousand of them, don’t even move, drumsticks idle at hands, standing like a field of statues.

Their silence spreads like fog.

The neutral spectators shift uneasily, sensing the imbalance. Some start to clap, then hesitate, as if afraid to break the strange spell.

The whole hall seems to realize at once. There’s no competing with what came before. The cheering fight is already over.

Up at the commentary desk, the hosts do their best to stay gracious.

“And here comes Minato Bayside’s pride, Sekino Yasinobu, the hometown hero,” one says, voice careful.

“Indeed,” his partner adds quickly, “and we should remind everyone, this is his show tonight. The host gym has worked tirelessly to make this event possible.”

But down in the journalists’ row, the tone is different. Tanaka and Sato can barely keep straight faces.

Tanaka leans close, whispering, “This is tragicomic. They tried to steal Ryoma’s popularity to build a stage for Sekino. But Ryoma already stole the crown even before the first bell. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Sato sneers. “But we both know this is exactly what they want, to steal the spotlight and drag their gym back into the big leagues.”

Tanaka nods slowly. “Maybe. But that’s if they can beat Ryoma.”

“And I’ll take my word back,” Sato shakes his head. “Just putting on a good fight won’t be enough anymore. Those fans out there…”

He gestures faintly toward the chanting crowd.

“…they already look like they’d die for their hero. It will be hard to make them switch side. Sekino needs to dethrone their king first.”