VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, the blue corner’s locker room is packed, but no one is celebrating.

They’re all facing the flat screen mounted above the equipment cases. Coaches, cornermen, fighters from Murakami Boxing Gym standing shoulder to shoulder. They look thrilled, but no one speaks.

Aramaki lets out a breath through his teeth, an unsure grin tugging at his face.

“…That was a hell of a fight,” he mutters. “That last counter was crazy. And Liam Kuroda…”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving the screen. “I can’t believe he even got up after that.”

He glances sideways at Ryoma. “You think the ref made the right call?”

Ryoma doesn’t look away from the screen. “He had a valid reason,” he says evenly. “And Liam Kuroda himself convinced him. He should’ve stayed down longer. Not rushing to his feet.”

Coach Murakami folds his arms, now shifting his attention to Ryoma, listening.

Ryoma’s voice softens. “And even if the referee hadn’t stopped it… Liam’s chances were almost zero.”

Aramaki frowns. “That bad?”

Ryoma nods. “Kenta’s been stacking damage since the second round. And look at him.”

He gestures toward the screen, showing Kenta in the corner; calm, balanced, still standing tall.

“He’s still fresh,” Ryoma continues.

Kenta does still look fine. Ryoma’s Vision Grid has run the scanning and can see that Kenta will still be able to keep his rhythm alive at its optimum capability for another two rounds.

That’s not the old Kenta who gassed out in round five. That’s the new Kenta who’s prepared for ten-round fight.

One thing that Ryoma doesn’t miss is the look in Kenta’s eyes. There’s still a trace of that sharpened focus, thought he’s not really in the zone.

Those are the eyes of someone who’s ready to slug it out to the last breath, ready to hurt and get hurt. There’s no longer softness in him.

>

“Why would I be?”

>

Ryoma stays quiet, even in his mind.

>

>

“I didn’t… I just wanted to sharpen my defense. And he’s the best fighter in the gym.”

>

>

***

When Kenta and the team step into the locker room, they find Ryoma already shadowboxing.

The others greet them with light applause, but Ryoma doesn’t react. His focus doesn’t waver. He moves as if sealed inside a separate world, breath measured, shoulders loose, eyes fixed on something only he can see.

Kenta doesn’t take the lack of acknowledgement personally. He understands. He keeps his distance, heading for the bench with the doctor following behind, careful not to intrude on Ryoma’s space.

When Ryoma finally lowers his hands, Nakahara steps forward and presses the gloves into his palms.

Ryoma slips them on without a word.

Then Nakahara raises the mitts. “Come. One-two.”

The mitt session starts smoothly, controlled, the kind meant to settle rhythm rather than test it. Straight punches at mid-range. Clean mechanics. Breath in sync.

Then, gradually, Nakahara closes the distance. The space tightens, cues change.

“Keep it tight.”

Pak! Pak!

“Widen your stance. Here… body.”

Pak!

“Now. Your trademark. Triple hooks.”

Pak! Pak! Pak!

Across the room, Murakami watches in silence.

He’s seen Ryoma fight before. He’s watched those combinations countless times. But this is different.

Ryoma’s stance is lower, the rotation sharper. The twist through his hips and spine is more pronounced, compact, violent in a way it hadn’t been before.

As the first trainer who once turned Aramaki into a pure in-fighter, Murakami recognizes the form instantly.

More than that, he has noticed the body itself much earlier; thicker calves, heavier thighs, dense obliques. A frame conditioned for pressure fighting.

The urge comes suddenly, to question Nakahara’s decision. This build dulls Ryoma’s light gliding footwork. It trades speed for force.

But Murakami tightens his jaw, swallowing the comment before it leaves him.

Watching them now; how seamlessly Ryoma works in close quarters, how naturally the combinations flow in tight space, there’s nothing left to say.

The decision has already been made. They’ve shaped him for this. Whatever the reason, whatever the cost, it can’t be changed now.

The fight is too close.

***

A few minutes later, a staffer leans into the doorway.

“Ryoma Takeda.”

Nakahara lowers the mitts. Ryoma stills instantly.

The staffer smiles. “It’s your time. The crowd’s been calling your name.”

Nakahara nods once. He tightens Ryoma’s gloves, checks the tape, and then smooths down the robe at his shoulders.

“Stay with yourself,” he says quietly. “Nothing else matters now.”

Ryoma exhales, slow and steady.

They move together, out of the locker room, down the narrow corridor, Sera and Hiroshi follow behind.

The air changes immediately, warmer, thicker, vibrating. Out there in the arena, Ryoma’s name rolls through the concrete halls in broken waves.

“RYO-MA!”

“RYO-MA!”

“RYO-MA!”

They’ve seen two of Nakahara’s fighters already, and both sent a jolt through the arena. Now the crowd is primed, expecting something even more chaotic from the headliner himself.

The sound isn’t unified. It comes from everywhere, scattered, overlapping, echoing off the walls.

Except for the Cruel King’s Army themselves.

Spread across the stands, they are divided into twenty separate clusters, perfectly spaced. White T-shirts, matching robes, headbands marked with the words Cruel King’s Army.

They don’t chant. They don’t move. They don’t raise their voices at all.

They stand silent as statues. And somehow, that silence cuts through the roar louder than any scream.

***

When Ryoma finally steps through the door, the spotlight snaps onto him. And for a breath, nothing happens.

One of the commentators clears his throat, voice rising to meet the moment.

“This is it. The main event of the night.”

“And a pivotal one,” the other adds. “Ryoma Takeda’s first step toward the world stage. A win here, and he’s knocking on the OPBF’s door.”

Then the drums begin, tight, fast, perfectly unified.

Dum-dum-dum-dum!

And a pause.

Ryoma takes a single step into the aisle, and stops.

He stands there, motionless.

The neutral crowd keeps calling his name, voices overlapping, unsure whether to cheer louder or wait.

The Cruel King’s Army answers with the drums again.

Dum-dum-dum-dum!

Another pause. Longer this time.

“This… this is different,” one commentator starts to say, uncertainty creeping in.

But the words trail off.

The cheers falter. Some whistles persist. A few girls shriek, carried by adrenaline rather than understanding.

And Ryoma still doesn’t move.

Then the drums come again.

Dum-dum-dum-dum!

This time, the hush spreads.

People quiet each other without speaking, as if reminded of an unspoken rule, that this entrance isn’t meant to be shared.

Finally, the arena settles into silence.

Even the commentators fall silent too. For once, they don’t fill the space with introductions or statistics. They don’t explain what’s happening. They simply let it happen.

Almost all of the arena is quiet now. Except for a handful of foreign spectators murmur in confusion, questioning the theatrics in whispers, but even they sound careful.

Then the trumpet cuts through.

TARARARAA!!!

The sharp ceremonial call rings out, absurd and regal at once.

And again.

TARARARAAAA!!!

Ryoma finally moves.

He walks down the aisle with measured steps, chin level, posture unyielding. Not strutting, not rushing, but advancing like someone to whom the space already belongs.

When the trumpet fades, the Cruel King’s Army begins to sing; low, unified, and melodic.

It’s not a chant, but a hymn in Japanese.

***

Walk the road where crowns are earned in blood

Kneel or stand, judgment comes all the same.

No cheers guide the king’s advance,

Only silence dares to follow him.

Step aside, for the throne does not wait,

All paths bend before the Cruel King.

No mercy asked, no mercy given,

Only the king remains.

***

It carries the weight of a funeral rite, or a national anthem, filling the arena with something heavier than noise.

And as Ryoma walks beneath it, even the commentators remain silent. Because there’s nothing left to introduce. Because the Cruel King has arrived.

Ryoma stops at the mat before the ring steps. The hymn continues behind him, low and steady. Hiroshi waits for its final note, then steps forward and removes the robe from Ryoma’s shoulders with careful hands, like a servant divesting a king before ascension.

The drums return, slow, long, and unified.

Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum. Dum.

With the final beat, the arena falls silent.

Ryoma climbs the steps alone at last. His team remains behind. This is as far as they follow.

Inside the ring, he raises his gloves. At once, the Cruel King’s Army erupts in wild war cries, order breaking into chaos.

Only then do the commentators speak.

“We’ve seen theatrical entrances from his camp before… but this is something else entirely.”

“This isn’t hype anymore. That’s devotion… the Cruel King’s Army has taken it to another level.”