VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

December 20th, 2016, Ota City General Gymnasium.

Less than an hour after dusk, the building is already alive.

Crowds press in from every direction, spilling out of side streets and parking lots, funneling toward the entrances in steady waves.

Breath clouds the winter air. Shoes scrape against concrete. Lines wrap around the structure, bending and reforming as staff guide people through metal barriers.

Near the outer gates, another group stands apart from the flow. They don’t carry tickets. Instead, they hold up hand-written signs, thick marker bleeding into cardboard.

BUYING TICKETS.

DOUBLE PRICE.

“Anyone selling?” a man calls out, pacing along the barrier.

“Two times the price… cash!”

“Any seat, doesn’t matter! I will buy for three.”

Some people slow. A few glance down at the tickets in their hands, tempted. Most shake their heads and keep moving, gripping the paper a little tighter as they pass.

A couple don’t even break stride, eyes forward, afraid that hesitation alone might cost them their place inside.

But the calls continue.

“Last chance!”

“Come on, don’t waste it!”

The answers are usually quiet smiles, or brief shakes of the head. Whatever is waiting inside the gym feels worth more than money tonight.

Not everyone walks past so easily.

A group of teenagers lingers near the edge of the crowd, jackets zipped up, eyes darting between the entrance and the men holding cardboard signs.

None of them have ever watched Ryoma fight live. Some haven’t even seen a full bout, only clips, highlights, the sudden rise of his name through local chatter and late-night videos.

One of them takes a step forward, but then…

“Wait,” another mutters, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t rush it. Let’s see how desperate they are.”

They hang back, pretending to scroll through their phones, watching the ticket buyers pace and call out again.

Minutes pass. The adults’ voices lose some of their edge, frustration creeping in as fewer people slow down.

That’s when the boldest of the group finally moves. He approaches with his hands in his pockets, posture casual.

“You still buying?”

One of the men turns quickly. “Yeah. Double price.”

The teenager tilts his head. “How about triple?”

The man blinks. “Triple?”

“I’ve got seven tickets,” the kid says, voice steady. “My friends don’t really want to sell. But if it’s three times, I might convince them.”

The adults exchange looks. One shakes his head, scoffing. “You’re pushing it, kid.”

“Maybe,” the teenager replies. “But you’re the one standing outside.”

They go back and forth, numbers lowered, then raised again. The kid doesn’t budge. His friends watch from a distance, trying not to grin.

Finally, another man calls out from a few steps away, arms folded, tone dry. “Just take the kid’s offer. Let them have their fun.”

There’s bitterness in it, but not cruelty, more resignation than anger.

The buyer sighs, rubbing his face. “Fine,” he mutters. “Three times. But you’d better not be lying.”

The teenager breaks into a grin, already waving his friends over. For them, the night just changed shape.

After the deal is done, the adults count their tickets again and frown. They’ve bought too many, because the kids had refused to split them.

All seven or nothing.

And the price of giving in: two extras sit folded in one man’s hand, suddenly heavier than before.

He looks around, clears his throat, and raises his voice again, louder this time.

“Tickets! Four times the original price! Best seats!”

People glance over, slow for half a second, then keep walking.

A few shake their heads outright. Others don’t even pretend to consider it. The buzz outside the venue keeps flowing past them, indifferent.

Minutes pass. The man tries again, voice already roughened by irritation, but no response.

“Tch,” someone mutters behind him. “Should’ve stopped at three.”

Another checks his watch. “They’re about to start.”

The first man clicks his tongue. “Aramaki’s up second.”

“Yeah,” the reply comes immediately. “Against a ranked guy. I’m not missing that.”

They exchange looks, the kind that settles an argument without words. Finally, pride gives way to time, and one of them lowers his sign.

“Fine. Double price. Last call.”

This time, a pair of latecomers slows, hesitant but willing. The transaction is quick, almost quiet, money exchanged without ceremony.

As soon as it’s done, the group exhales as one.

“They should’ve booked a bigger venue,” someone grumbles as they turn toward the entrance.

“Next time,” he mutters. “Once Ryoma beats that Philippine champion, they won’t be able to cram it into Ota anymore.”

They disappear into the flow of bodies, tickets finally gone, still muttering about space and demand as the doors swallow them whole.

***

Nakahara keeps the card lean this time, only four bouts, no padding, no filler stretched thin to please sponsors, but enough to make a statement.

On paper, only the opener looks safe. A courtesy match, Nakahara calling in Murakami Boxing Gym again to fill the slot with a low-level bout, the kind meant to warm the canvas and settle nerves.

Mino Anzai opens against Wakasugi “Metro” Eien from the reputable Narisawa Boxing Gym, two young fighters still rough around the edges, records light, ambition heavy.

But everything after that is different.

Aramaki faces Hanazawa, a Japan Super Featherweight ranked contender. And then a JBC–OPBF welterweight sanctioned bout, Kenta against Liam Kuroda, third in Japan, sixth in the OPBF rankings.

Two bouts, same opposing gyms.

It’s not announced as a rivalry. But anyone who follows the scene can see it as a quiet challenge to the giants, Nakahara Boxing Gym versus Raging Fox Gym.

Whose training holds? Whose fighters break first?

And then, looming over everything, the main event, the highest mountain saved for last:

Ryoma Takeda versus the Philippines Champion Paulo Ramos.

***

By the time the group who paid too much for their tickets finally make it through the gates, the arena is already packed.

“Maaan…” one of them mutters, slowing to a stop.

The other scans the stands, and exhales. “It’s just the first bout, and this place is full already.”

The seats aren’t just filled, but claimed, people standing shoulder to shoulder along the aisles, unwilling to miss even a moment.

The opener is already underway.

It isn’t pretty. Anzai swings too wide. And Wakasugi rushes his feet. Punches slap more than they snap, clinches come too fast, balance breaks too easily.

Between rounds, Anzai slumps into his corner, chest heaving. Coach Murakami crouches in front of him, hands firm on his shoulders.

“Slow it down,” he says calmly. “Breathe first. In through the nose. Out.”

Anzai nods, tries to follow, but his voice wavers. “I’m trying,” he pants. “But my legs won’t listen. My arms feel… late. Like they’re not mine.”

Murakami meets his eyes, unflinching. “That’s nerves. Not weakness. Stay here with me. One breath at a time.”

Anzai had survived his last outing on grit and fortune, escaping with an ugly decision that could have gone either way. Tonight offers no such mercy.

Wakasugi is the same age, but he comes from Narisawa Boxing Gym, a stable known for producing elite fighters, including Super Lightweight Champion Hamakawa Shoji.

The stage rattled Wakasugi in the first round too, but only briefly. By the second and third, he had already settled in, his movements smoothing.

Now by the fourth, the balance of the fight tilts completely. Wakasugi takes control, peppering Anzai with sharp left hands, stepping in to drop right hooks and out with ease, using the ring like it belongs to him.

A pocket of cheers rises from the stands, his fans, small but distinct. Wakasugi has already begun building a following, drawn to the calm confidence of a fighter who looks like a star in the making.

“And this is just the opener,” the commentator notes, voice edged with surprise. “If this is how the night starts, the rest of the card won’t disappoint.”

From the red corner, Takanobu Narisawa watches with arms folded, expression calm. “Good,” he calls out. “That’s exactly what we worked on. Keep it clean. Stay patient.”

Anzai lasts to the final bell, but the result is never in doubt. When the ring announcer reads the scorecards, he can’t bring himself to lift his head.

It’s a majority decision win for Wakasugi Eien.

Anzai leaves the ring in slump, only six rounds behind him, yet his body feels hollowed out. He’s not broken by punishment, but drained by something heavier. By the time he reaches the blue locker room, his shoulders sag as if he’s gone twelve.

He spots Aramaki and stops in front of him, bowing deeply, fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight, eyes burning.

He keeps his head down, fighting the tears that threaten to spill.

Aramaki shakes his head at once. “You did what you could. You hung in there. That matters.”

But Anzai straightens, eyes glassy, and shakes his head harder. “No. That’s not enough. I trained harder than ever. I really thought I’d gotten stronger. But the moment I stepped out there…”

He swallows. “My legs were shaking. I couldn’t make them move the way they should.”

Aramaki feels his throat tighten. He wants to say something, but the pressure has already turned inward.

His fight is coming. His name will be called next. And unlike Anzai, this isn’t just another bout for him.

Nakahara has staked the gym’s future on this night, and Aramaki knows he can’t afford a single mistake.