VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The refusal hangs in the air longer than it should. For a brief moment, no one moves. The gym noise feels distant now, like it’s been pushed behind glass.

Ryoma stands where he is, shoulders loose but unmoving, eyes steady. He’s said his piece, and he isn’t going to soften it.

Logan studies him. Something sharp flickers behind his eyes, too quick to be called anger, too restrained to be dismissed as nothing.

For a second, it looks like he might push back, press harder, or test how far Ryoma’s resistance goes.

Then the moment passes. Logan exhales and smiles, calm and professional, perfectly controlled.

“Alright,” he says lightly. “I understand. If you’d rather not film anything new, we can work with existing footage.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “NSN still holds the rights to your bout against Masuda Kokushi. That was a good fight, very efficient. But it ended in two rounds. Not a lot of material to build a narrative around.”

The words aren’t an insult. They don’t need to be. Logan spreads his hands slightly, as if conceding the obvious.

“Still,” he says, unbothered, “we’ll make do for now.”

Ryoma watches him carefully. The ease of the concession feels rehearsed, temporary.

Logan’s attention shifts. “Nakahara-san,” he says, turning toward the older man. “There are a few other matters regarding preparations I’d like to go over with you.”

Coach Nakahara studies him for a beat, then nods once. “Come inside. We’ll talk in my office.”

Logan follows without another glance back. Ryoma watches him go, his stare cold, layered with distrust that hasn’t dulled in the slightest.

Beside him, Reika lingers. Her expression dims, the earlier brightness fading as she looks between Ryoma and her father’s retreating figure.

She had thought she was closing the distance between her and Ryoma, that whatever stood between them was thinning, becoming something manageable.

Now, standing there, she feels it stretch again. Not just a gap, but a space widening into something harder to cross. Something she isn’t sure can be bridged at all.

As the office door closes behind Logan, the gym noise rushes back in all at once. But something has changed. The conversation may be over, yet the tension lingers.

Ryoma exhales slowly. Whatever Logan’s next move is, he knows it hasn’t been abandoned, only postponed.

***

A few days later, the promotional video goes live. It floods everything at once; social media timelines, unskippable YouTube ads, late-night television slots.

NSN runs it across their own streaming platforms, pushes it through partner services, even embeds it into betting sites where the odds flicker beneath the footage, updating in real time.

The screen opens on Paulo Ramos, bright colors, fast cuts. A narrator’s voice slides in, smooth and energetic:

“Speed. Rhythm. A fighter born in motion.”

Clips roll of Ramos dominating the local Philippine circuit, belts cinched around his waist as he laughs, sweat dripping, arms raised. The footage jumps to OPBF bouts; Ramos gliding in and out, hands flashing, combinations landing clean. He smiles mid-exchange, and nods to his corner.

Training footage follows. Jump rope snapping against the floor. Ramos grins at the camera like the work barely registers.

“The Philippine champion who made the ring his playground.”

Then the music shifts, and the color drains. Ryoma appears next, not with fanfare, but intrusion. The narrator lowers, the energy stripped away:

“Then there is the Cruel King.”

There aren’t many clips. NSN only has rights to one fight, the bout against Masuda Kokushi, short segments, tight angles. Ryoma’s face is cold, expression locked behind discipline.

The arena cuts in next. The Cruel King’s Army rises as one. Rows of supporters, perfectly aligned. Silent and intimidating, less a crowd than a formation.

“No cheers. No chaos. Only loyalty.”

The final sequence begins.

Masuda steps forward. Ryoma dips, too low, almost wrong, his right glove falling so close to the canvas it seems to vanish from frame.

The narrator pauses. And the uppercut erupts.

“One strike.”

The punch detonates under Masuda’s guard. It’s blocked, technically, but the force lifts him anyway, spine bowing, body rising until only the tips of his shoes cling to the floor.

“Enough to shake the ceiling.”

The frame freezes at the peak. Text crashes onto the screen:

A PUNCH THAT BREAKS THE LIMIT.

A CHALLENGE TO THE WORLD.

The narrator delivers the final line, low but impactful.

“Speed versus power.

Joy versus resolve.

Only one leaves the ring unchanged.”

The screen cuts to black, before showing fight date, venue, then Ryoma’s fist, frozen mid-rise, as if daring the world to stand above it.

***

Sunday at Nakahara Boxing Gym, Satoru stands near the lockers, flanked by Ryohei and Okabe, with his phone angled just enough for them to see. The ad loops again here, compressed onto a palm-sized screen, but it loses none of its impact.

The uppercut freezes mid-rise, and all three of them react at once.

“Damn…” Okabe lets out a low sound from the back of his throat, half a laugh, half a growl.

Ryohei rubs his arms, goosebumps climbing beneath his sleeves. “That’s not fair,” he mutters. “They made it look like a disaster waiting to happen.”

Satoru swallows, eyes locked on the screen as the final frame lingers. “I’ve watched that fight a dozen times,” he says. “But seriously… It never looked like that.”

The narrator’s last line fades. The screen cuts to black. And again, Okabe exhales slowly.

“Did you see how low he dipped? That angle’s insane.”

“Yeah,” Ryohei says. “It’s like the punch comes from underground.”

Satoru nods, thumb hovering but never hitting stop. “And they barely showed anything else. No buildup. No explanation.”

Okabe grins, teeth flashing. “They don’t need to. Anyone who sees this is going to want to know what happens next.”

Ryohei glances toward the ring through the locker room door, watching the heavy bag sways faintly from Kenta’s work.

“Makes you want to train harder,” he says quietly. “Like you’re already late.”

Satoru finally locks the phone and slips it into his pocket, breath still unsteady. “If this doesn’t fill Ota,” he says, “nothing will.”

Okabe cracks his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be there.”

Ryohei nods. “All of us.”

***

But clearly the ad doesn’t inspire everyone. Especially for Masuda Kokushi, it lands like a punch that never finished traveling.

He’s midway through his road work when he slows beneath an intersection. A massive outdoor screen hums to life above the traffic, sound muted but images unmistakable.

He sees himself, caught in that impossible instant; spine bowed, guard raised, feet barely touching the ground as Ryoma’s fist rises beneath his chin.

To passersby, it’s spectacle, too dramatic to be real. But Masuda knows better.

He remembers how the force made his body lifted before his mind caught up. Seeing it now, enlarged and frozen, sends a chill through him that has nothing to do with the breeze.

For a moment, he just stands there, breath caught.

Then his expression hardens. The awe drains away, replaced by something sour and heavy. His mouth twists, eyes narrowing with open contempt.

***

Meanwhile, the Champion himself, Sinichi Yanagimoto, encounters the ad in a quieter place.

His living room is still warm, curtains half-drawn against the afternoon light. The television idles in the background, forgotten for the moment.

Beside him, his girlfriend shifts closer, draping herself comfortably against his side, hair still mussed, fingers idly tracing the edge of his shoulder.

At first, she’s only half-paying attention, still caught in the lingering warmth between them. She leans close, lips parted near Sinichi’s neck, breath soft and audible against his skin.

Then Ryoma appears in TV, the colors darken. And she straightens without realizing it.

“Wow…” she murmurs.

Sinichi feels it before he looks; the way her attention slips from him to the screen, the way her breathing stills as the uppercut rises in slow motion, the moment frozen at its peak.

Her gaze follows the fist, captivated, lips parting slightly.

“That’s insane,” she says. “Who’s this guy? Wait, isn’t it… Ryom Takeda?”

Sinichi watches in silence.

He doesn’t need the sound to understand what the ad is doing. He sees how it strips context, how it turns violence into myth, how it makes his own seven-round title defense feel distant and careful by comparison.

When the video ends, she’s no longer tucked against him. She slips out of his arms, stretching lightly as she stands.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she says, already heading down the hall.

Sinichi watches her naked hips swaying as she leaves, and he feels a small unwelcome sting to his pride.

It’s less about her leaving and more about what pulled her attention away. A part of him already starts questioning her loyalty.

Another part blames himself for insisting his management decline NSN’s proposal before his title fight.

Logan Rhodes had insisted Ryoma lacked material for the promotional video. But the two pieces they do have, the disciplined presence of the Cruel King’s Army and Ryoma’s devastating uppercut, brief as they are, deliver the strongest impact.

A week before fight day, all 4,012 tickets are sold out. Out there, demand only intensifies, with people hunting for resales, some even offering twice the original price to anyone willing to sell their tickets back.