VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma lifts his gloves, trembling with exhaustion. The arena erupts again, louder than before, chanting his name.

RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!

Then he raises a hand high. For a moment he lets the noise wash over him; relief, exhaustion, triumph all tangled together.

But as he lowers his arms and glances across the ring, he finally notices Sekino. The older fighter, battered and barely upright, still takes the time to bow deeply to his supporters.

It’s an apology, quiet, humble, and sincere, a veteran accepting the result with dignity.

Ryoma waits, watching Sekino finish his bow. When the man straightens and happens to meet his eyes, Ryoma returns the gesture.

His bow isn’t an apology but a sign of respect, and deep inside, a wordless gratitude for the experience Sekino forced out of him tonight.

When he looks up again, Sekino offers a weary nod, a simple acknowledgment between fighters who have finally understood each other.

Mita Shiki holds Sekino’s head, and forces him to bow along, showing respect toward the blue corner as well.

Yuichi stiffens, caught off guard, and Tsuchida glances away in discomfort. For a few seconds they hesitate.

Realizing they can’t just stand there, Yuichi lowers his head too, Tsuchida following a moment later.

And soon, both corners are bowing toward each other in a gesture none of them could have imagined at the start of the night.

The entire arena responds with warm applause, rolling across the ring like a wave of approval. Up in the media row, even Tanaka and Sato rise to their feet, joining the standing ovation.

Tanaka lets out a long breath. “After everything that happened between these two over the past year… who would’ve thought it would end like this?”

Sato keeps clapping, eyes still fixed on the ring. “Yeah. Now I’m curious what comes next.”

“You talking about the kid?” Tanaka asks.

“Him too,” Sato replies. “But Sekino… he moved up from Super Feather just to take this fight. Said he wanted to teach the kid a lesson. And now look at him… old, bruised, probably slipping right out of the contender list after tonight.”

Tanaka’s applause slows, his expression softening. “Hard way to go out.”

Sato nods. “Harder way to keep standing.”

***

An hour later, the hallway outside Ryoma’s locker room is still jammed with reporters. All of them buzz with questions they refuse to save for tomorrow.

Nakahara blocks the door with both arms spread, sweat still drying on his shirt. “Everyone, please, give the kid some space. He just fought ten brutal rounds. He needs to breathe.”

But none of them budge. If anything, they lean in harder.

“Coach Nakahara, he looked fine walking out of the ring!”

“His face isn’t even swollen… why is he hiding?”

“We let Sekino’s camp leave because their guy can barely stand. Your fighter looks like he jogged here!”

“Jogged my ass!” Nakahara snaps.

“Just five minutes, coach! Please…”

“We have deadlines!”

Nakahara clenches his jaw. “He’s not hiding, damn it. He’s literally trying to stay conscious.”

One journalist snorts. “Come on. He just fought a career-defining performance. He can answer two questions.”

Another raises a tablet toward the doorway. “We saw him on the walk back. He looks better than half of us do on a Monday.”

A ripple of laughter travels through the group.

Finally, Ryoma’s voice drifts out, tired but steady. “Coach… just let them in.”

Nakahara turns around instantly. “What? No. You can barely lift your arms. They can wait.”

Ryoma currently sits on the bench beside the row of lockers, elbows on his knees. Sweat still clings to his skin, drying in uneven patches.

“They won’t leave,” he says quietly. “If we don’t do it now, they’ll still be here an hour from now.”

From the hallway, someone shouts, “See!? He can talk!”

Another voice, “Let him speak!”

Nakahara glares at the crowd over his shoulder. “Ten minutes. And you keep your hands…”

But the journalists are already pushing forward, triumphant.

“Ryoma! First and foremost… your impression of Sekino tonight?”

Ryoma blinks at the crowd. “My impression? He’s… tough. Tougher than anyone warned me about.”

Pens scribble. Cameras edge closer.

Another journalist chimes in, “Given the feud between your gyms over the past year… does this win settle it?”

A few heads turn, waiting for a sharp answer, some hoping for gasoline on old flames.

But Ryoma just shrugs lightly. “To be honest… the whole feud was blown out of proportion. Half misunderstanding, half pride. And…”

He raises an eyebrow, faint grin forming.

“…maybe twenty percent your fault.”

The reporters burst into laughter; a few groan theatrically.

“You wrote ten articles about it,” Ryoma adds, “so don’t act innocent.”

More laughter, cameras lowering for a moment as the tension breaks. Then someone from the back raises their voice:

“But Ryoma… Sekino said he wanted to ’teach you a lesson.’ Did he?”

The room quiets again. Ryoma’s smile fades into something softer, more honest.

“Oh, he did,” he answers immediately. “He taught me a lot tonight.”

His gaze drifts for a moment, as if replaying flashes of the fight; Sekino refusing to fall, the trades, the tenth-round madness, the bow, even the tricks.

“He taught me what real persistence looks like,” he adds. “What it means when someone fights past pride… past pain… He taught me what it feels like when someone drags you into a place you didn’t know you could reach.”

Another voice jumps in: “So your view of Sekino has changed?”

Ryoma doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, a lot. I respected him before tonight, but… I didn’t understand him. Now I do, at least a little. And trust me… being on the receiving end of his lessons? It hurts like hell.”

The room erupts. Even Nakahara can’t help a small smile, though he’s still hovering protectively near Ryoma’s shoulder.

Tanaka finally pushes his way to the front. “Ryoma, with tonight’s win… after beating a veteran like Sekino, don’t you realize what this means?”

“Based on the rankings, you’re practically in the contender list now,” Sato adds.

The room quiets. Even the journalists who were laughing moments ago lean in.

“So,” Tanaka continues, “what’s your next goal?”

Before Ryoma can answer, Nakahara steps forward, palms raised. “Alright, that’s enough for today. The kid needs rest. We’ll continue this another…”

But the crowd pushes back immediately.

“Coach, just one more…”

“Nakahara-san, please…”

“One final question!”

Nakahara’s shoulders sag in defeat. And Ryoma gives him a small nod.

“My next goal?” he repeats, as if testing the words. “…Becoming a champion is every boxer’s dream in this country. I’m no different.”

The journalists tense like hounds scenting blood.

Ryoma continues, voice steady but earnest. “If I’m close to the contender list, then… I want to challenge the champion. Of course, it’s up to him whether he accepts it.”

A ripple of surprise moves through the room. Ryoma then cracks a grin; tired, lopsided, but mischievous.

“Or maybe,” he adds, “he’s scared of me and won’t accept my challenge.”

He laughs, loud and genuine, the kind of laugh that clearly signals he thinks it’s a joke.

But the room doesn’t laugh with him. Pens freeze mid-air, cameras slowly rise, eyes widen as if he’s just declared war.

Tanaka straightens, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable.

Sato mutters under his breath, “Oh boy…”

Someone whispers, “He’s calling out the champion…?”

Another, chimes in, whispering, “Is he serious?”

Ryoma blinks. “You guys know that was a joke, right?”

But it’s too late. They are already packing up with the urgency of men who just found a headline.

Tanaka gives Ryoma a deep nod. “Understood. We’ll report it clearly.”

“Wait… hold on. What exactly are you reporting…?”

But they’re already filing out. And Ryoma watches in disbelief as the door swings shut behind them, leaving only a stunned silence.