VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The space collapses, and a sharp one-two is already on its way.

Dug. Dug.

Aramaki blocks it clean.

He sees the opening to fight back, but his hands lag half a beat behind the thought, and Hanazawa’s lead hook crashes into his right side instead.

Thud!

And swiftly, the same hand snakes up, gripping the back of Aramaki’s neck.

“What?” a commentator frowns. “Clinch already? This is too early!”

But Hanazawa only holds Aramaki just long enough to drive a compact shot into the guts…

Thud!

…then slightly shoves Aramaki back. He sends a cross, and Aramaki raises both guards.

Bug!

It’s blocked clean, but Hanazawa steps in and lays his forearms into the guard, giving a sharp borderline shove, just enough to knock Aramaki fully into the corner without drawing a warning.

“Ah… no! Aramaki’s trapped already!”

“Not even ten seconds into the first round!”

Hanazawa strolls after him, unhurried. He stops a few steps short, just out of reach, both gloves hanging low at his sides.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “If it weren’t for that two million yen, I wouldn’t have taken this fight.”

His grin spreads. “Beating up a clueless kid like you just stains my name. But that greedy old bastard couldn’t help himself… had to hand you over.”

Ten seconds into the round, notebooks in the press section go still. The men and women who’ve chronicled Aramaki’s rise know how hard he usually has to work for that kind of control. And Hanazawa takes it with ease.

Nakahara’s voice cuts in again, sharper now.

“Don’t stay there too long,” he barks. “Find the angle. Get out of the corner.”

Aramaki listens. He starts with small feints using his right, twitching the shoulder, asking the question without committing. Then the left snaps out.

Dug!

Hanazawa blocks it. But in that instant, Aramaki steals a step, sliding to his left, trying to slip past the edge of the pressure.

For half a second, it looks like it might work.

Hanazawa is there immediately. He crashes in, forearms thudding into Aramaki’s body, not punching, but crowding.

The ropes bite into Aramaki’s back as Hanazawa pins him, clinches for a heartbeat, sneaks a punch to the ribs, and then shoves him off, driving him straight back into the corner.

Hanazawa glances sideways, eyes cutting past Aramaki to Nakahara just behind the post. A crooked smirk pulls at his mouth.

“Not that easy, old man.”

Hanazawa’s eyes are still on Nakahara when Aramaki moves. The left snaps out again.

Hanazawa jolts, surprised, but he gets his gloves up in time, catching it on the guard.

This time, Aramaki doesn’t pull back. He steps in hard, chest to chest, arms coming up and around, both forearms hooking behind Hanazawa’s neck. He clamps down, tight, ugly, and stubborn.

“Oh?” Hanazawa scoffs, lips curling. “You play dirty too, huh?”

“Aramaki goes to the clinch!” one commentator calls out.

“And he’s holding… yeah, that’s a long one,” the other adds.

The referee is already there, wedging himself between them, slapping Aramaki’s forearm.

“Break. Break.”

But Aramaki doesn’t waste the second. As the ref pries them apart, he pivots his feet, shoulder slipping past rope and post, turning his body just enough.

When they separate, Aramaki isn’t trapped anymore.

“Smart move,” the commentator says, surprise creeping into his voice. “He needed that badly.”

“Yeah… but he only gets that chance because Hanazawa’s been taking him lightly,” the other adds. “And that’s dangerous. You give Aramaki room, he will bite.”

Aramaki settles outside the corner and takes the center at last, feet setting, guard rising as his breathing evens out a notch.

Hanazawa doesn’t rush him. He doesn’t even bring his gloves back up right away.

Instead, he smirks, slow and lazy, rolling his shoulders as he drifts sideways, cutting the ring without looking like he’s trying. One step, then another, casual as a stroll. A bully’s patience. A hunter playing with distance.

“Not bad,” Hanazawa says, almost bored. “You learn quick, kid.”

He keeps circling, eyes never leaving Aramaki, gloves still hanging low, as if to say the ring still belongs to him.

***

Hanazawa has already banked the first round. There’s no need to hurry it.

He spends the remaining time poking and teasing, never committing, flicking jabs just to draw reactions. Each one is a question more than an attack.

Step in-step out. Pause. Drift. Watch.

He studies Aramaki the way experienced fighters do: how he reacts to feints, how quickly his guard resets, whether his feet move before his hands or the other way around.

Aramaki advances, retreats, probes again. And every time he does, Hanazawa is already reading it, already filing it away; measuring, cataloging, waiting.

Hiroshi shifts beside Nakahara, eyes never leaving the ring. “You’re not saying anything,” he mutters. “Aramaki’s not fighting like himself tonight.”

“I know,” Nakahara replies without looking away. “That bet’s sitting in his head. If I throw more at him now, I’ll just make it worse.”

Sera scoffs quietly. “You shouldn’t have told him about that. Sure, it gives him and Kenta something to bite down on… but this kind of pressure? It can cost us the fight.”

Nakahara’s jaw tightens, just slightly. “I can’t carry it alone,” he says. “If they want to survive in this sport, they don’t get to lean on me forever. We’re in trouble now. That’s the truth.”

He finally turns to Sera, eyes hard. “If they want success, they carry the weight too. If they can’t… they better quit early.”

Sera doesn’t nudge at him anymore. He knows that tone, knows better than to push when Nakahara sounds like this.

After a beat, Nakahara’s shoulders ease. “Aramaki’s young. But he’s not a kid anymore. He’s got a wife. A child. He knows what responsibility looks like.”

He watches the ring as he speaks. “I didn’t tell him about the two million yen just to crush him. I told him because I trust; a man like him won’t let himself fall when he knows what’s riding on it. That’s just who he is.”

His eyes narrow. “Call me cruel if you want. But if I don’t pull that side out of him now, he won’t make it any further, not against men like Hanazawa.”

Eventually, the clock winds down to the last ten seconds. In the red corner, Masahiro Nishiyama slams his palm against the canvas, sharp and loud.

“Hanazawa! Strike!”

But Nakahara says nothing. He keeps watching, waiting to see how Aramaki responds.

Hanazawa steps in and swarms. Hooks pour out from mid-range, fast and snapping. Not full power, not reckless, just enough to leave a mark and make a point.

Aramaki covers, rolls with it, shoulders turning, forearms sealed. He gives ground when he has to and steps out clean when the pressure crests, refusing to give Hanazawa anything clean to score.

Nakahara sees it immediately; Aramaki’s balance is back, his mind is clear now.

***

The bell finally cuts through the exchange.

Ding!

Hanazawa scoffs, lips twisting as they separate. “Good little kid,” he mutters. “Can’t do a thing without his old man.”

Aramaki doesn’t answer. He turns and walks back to his corner, breathing steady, expression set.

In the red corner, the mood is light. Gloves clap against shoulders as they welcome Hanazawa in victorious.

Masahiro leans in, nodding. “Good round,” he says. “He’s still lost. Still doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“Yeah,” Hanazawa says, unimpressed. “Clueless kid. And that old man never shuts up.”

“Take a seat,” Masahiro says. “Breathe. Take your time.”

Hanazawa nods, drawing in a long breath through his nose, letting it out slow. He doesn’t look winded. If anything, he looks bored.

Masahiro gives a faint smile. “You’re doing fine. No need to force anything for now.”

Hanazawa snorts. “Why would I?”

“That’s right,” Masahiro says. “Just enjoy the fight.”

They don’t talk strategy, no adjustments needed. To them, this is just work, time to be spent, rounds to be burned, and money already waiting at the end.

Hanazawa leans back on the stool, loose and comfortable, eyes drifting toward the opposite corner as if watching something mildly entertaining.

“Kid’s still green,” he mutters. “I don’t know if I really can enjoy this.”

Masahiro chuckles softly. “Why don’t you end it next?”

“Sure,” Hanazawa says, eyes still cold, detached.

***

In the blue corner, Nakahara crouches in front of Aramaki, eyes sharp, taking him in from gloves to feet without rushing to speak.

Aramaki’s breathing is still now. His shoulders have dropped. The tightness from before the opening bell is gone.

“How is he?” Nakahara asks.

Aramaki thinks for a moment. “He’s experienced,” he says honestly. “And I made it easy for him early.”

Nakahara nods once.

“But…” Aramaki continues, eyes lifting. “He’s not that dangerous.”

“Of course not,” Nakahara says. “Veterans rarely show their teeth in the first round.”

He reaches out and taps Aramaki’s glove lightly. “That doesn’t mean you get careless. Don’t drop your hands. Don’t rush.”

Aramaki listens, eyes steady.

“You didn’t grind through all that training just to stand there,” Nakahara says. “You didn’t spend those weeks at mid-range with Ryoma for nothing. Second round… use it. Let’s see if those fancy things of yours are ready to show themselves tonight.”

Aramaki nods. His face stays composed, but his eyes change, something sharp flickers there, contained but unmistakable.

It’s not showmanship, just anticipation, the kind that comes from knowing you’ve been holding something back.