VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

On the opposite side, Ryoma doesn’t sit. His face is burning red, his cheekbone a bit swelling where Sekino’s hook landed.

“Sit down, kid!” Nakahara orders.

Ryoma shakes his head violently. “No… if I sit… I’ll cool down… I can’t cool down now…”

His voice is shredded, barely audible.

Hiroshi grabs him by the arm. “Your legs are gone! Sit for ten seconds… no, five seconds!”

Ryoma jerks away, still panting, still trembling from fatigue.

“I stand… until it’s over…”

His stubbornness leaves Hiroshi speechless. Nakahara swears under his breath and gets to work anyway, wiping Ryoma’s face, dumping water across his shoulders, massaging his arm to force life back into it.

Ryoma’s eyes stare forward, unfocused yet burning. His Vision Grid still gives the same verdict. Sekino shouldn’t be able to fight anymore.

A strained whisper escapes him, rough around the edges:

“…What’s keeping him standing…? Are all veterans like that?”

Nakahara and Sera trade a look. Sera’s lips press into a thin line; Nakahara nods slowly.

“That’s what makes seasoned fighters dangerous,” Nakahara murmurs. “You don’t have to know their whole story. Just know they’ve lived through things. Hard things. Losses, mistakes, regrets that dig deep. Guys like that… they don’t collapse easily.”

The words sink into Ryoma’s chest like a weight. He doesn’t know Sekino’s background.

Doesn’t know what ghosts chase him or what pride holds him up.

But talking about regret, he had experienced it too. And he knows how bitter it was.

And now, for the first time tonight, Ryoma feels something shift inside him, a thin thread of respect tightening beneath the exhaustion. Respect on the man who refuses to go down.

***

In the next round, after a slow minute of half-hearted jabs and drifting footwork, the slugfest returns like a storm.

Ryoma steps in fresher, just enough, eyes blazing with the need to end it. Sekino hangs on through sheer stubbornness, ignoring the screaming pain in his body, and keeps swinging.

Gone is the technique, the patience, the careful footwork of earlier rounds. The clean chess match they started with has devolved into a bar fight with gloves on.

Even the blue corner starts to shift uncomfortably. Ryoma is drained, his punches losing snap, and somehow Sekino still refuses to fall.

“This could turn ugly for us,” Sera mutters. “Coach, get the towel ready. We can’t let the kid’s career end here.”

“I know,” Nakahara says quietly, fingers already curling around the towel.

But the fight won’t die. It drags on… slower, grittier, two exhausted men trading whatever scraps they have left.

By the tenth round, Ryoma’s once-smooth footwork is completely gone. His legs drag, and his shoulders slump between exchanges. But his eyes stay sharp, and his hands, though slower, are still deadly.

Sekino refuses to fold. He clings to consciousness, to pride, to something deeper than reason. He even has the nerve to aim for a counter, misses entirely, and gets countered instead.

Dhuak!

He staggers, twisting sideways under the blow… but he doesn’t fall. He straightens, tightens his guard, and Ryoma storms in again, punches sluggish but still vicious.

The commentators can barely keep up:

“He’s fighting on fumes… Ryoma is fighting on PURE FUMES!”

“And Sekino… Sekino shouldn’t even be standing right now!”

“This is insane! This is madness!”

Sweat flies off their heads and shoulders in sheets, blurring the lights into streaks. The crowd surges forward, some fans climbing onto their seats just to see over the chaos.

“DON’T FALL!”

“DON’T YOU DARE FALL!”

Sekino stumbles sideways. But he still winds up and throws a looping right, only to miss again.

Ryoma pulls his head, and throws a compact cross.

BAGH!

But still, Sekino holds on, and they crash together again.

Chest to chest. Forehead to forehead. Sweat dripping like rain. Neither willing to take even half a step back.

The noise rises higher and higher, spilling over the ropes, bouncing off the lights, threatening to shake the arena apart.

And finally…

DING! DING! DING!

The bell cuts through the chaos.

“That’s it! Ten rounds… ten rounds of heart, pride, and pure stubborn will!”

Sekino survives the round, collapsing forward against the same man he tried to break minutes ago.

Ryoma doesn’t push him off, letting the older fighter lean into him, shoulder to shoulder, breath to exhausted breath.

All the spite, the rivalry, the contempt that fueled the opening rounds has burned away, bled out punch by punch.

What remains is simple: a seasoned veteran recognizing the rise of a younger fighter,

and a young contender finally respecting the will of the man in front of him.

The crowd’s cheering shifts, no sides, no factions anymore, just an arena acknowledging two men who refused to break.

“Oh my god… he made it!”

“Sekino… after everything Ryoma threw at him… he made it to the last round!”

“And that kid too… I didn’t know he could endure this kind of ugly fight for so long.”

Even the commentators can’t stay seated. They stand, yelling over the roar:

“This is one of the craziest nights we’ve ever seen!”

“Ryoma shows his true face tonight, the REAL face of the Cruel King!”

“But Sekino endured the torment to the very end!”

***

Cornermen from both sides spill into the ring. Yuichi and Tsuchida rush straight to Sekino, easing him off Ryoma’s shoulder, each hooking an arm under him to pull him upright.

Ryoma steps back, chest heaving, watching them with a faint lingering edge of contempt. He may have grown to respect Sekino, but not the men who sent him out round after round to be broken.

Sekino can barely stand, his legs trembling, but before Yuichi and Tsuchida can guide him away, he turns back.

He reaches out, finds Ryoma’s glove, and lifts it.

And the crowd explodes.

A thunder of cheers rises into a standing ovation; blue corner, red corner, neutral fans, all of them forgetting who they supported. For a moment it isn’t about sides, or gyms, or grudges. It’s about two fighters who refused to quit.

Ryoma says nothing. Sekino says nothing either. But the look they exchange is clear enough: mutual respect has finally exchanged.

Then Sekino lets go, the strength in his arm evaporating. He turns and limps away, leaning heavily on Yuichi, every step a struggle. He doesn’t look back again.

Both fighters return to their corners, teams crowding around, lifting arms, wiping sweat, trying to hold them upright. The arena buzzes with anticipation as the ring announcer steps to center ring, mic in hand.

Sekino doesn’t bother listening closely. He already knows.

The announcer waits for the judges’ cards from the commission table, then raises the mic.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after ten rounds of a grueling, unforgettable contest, we go to the judges’ scorecards.”

The arena holds its breath.

“Judge A scores the bout: 95–93…

Judge B scores the bout: 96–92…

Judge C scores the bout: 95–91…

all for your winner… by unanimous decision…”

A heartbeat of silence.

“RYOMA ’the Chameleon’ Takeda!”

“There it is! Ryoma Takeda by unanimous decision! What a statement from the Cruel King tonight!” What a turning point in this young man’s career!”

“And Sekino… he may have lost the fight, but he won every soul in this arena tonight.”