VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The locker room stays frozen after Ayano’s words, no one laughs, no one moves.

The echo of his voice hangs in the air, louder than the celebration outside. Okabe’s shoulders tense beneath the towel, his hands curling slowly into fists. Kenta stares at the floor like he’s afraid he’ll throw something if he looks up.

But Aramaki, Ryoma’s closest friend, refuses to let it pass, the tension finally pushing him to speak.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he says at last.

Ayano turns his head, lazy, amused. “What was that?”

“With the way you fought,” Aramaki continues, voice steady despite the heat crawling up his neck, “there’s no way you beat Shinichi Yanagimoto. You walked through damage because your opponent let you.”

The room tightens another notch, air thickening as every pair of shoulders stiffens, eyes flicking between them, waiting for the first real spark to ignite.

Ayano scoffs, waving him off like a nuisance. “Says the guy who barely got ranked off a win where his opponent didn’t even take him seriously.” His eyes flick over Aramaki once. “Talk to me when you get to my level.”

Kenta shifts forward, jaw clenched, and beside him Ryohei pushes up from the bench, movement sharp and instinctive, as if the words struck him directly.

Before anyone can do anything, Nakahara steps in.

“That’s enough,” he says calmly.

He doesn’t even look at Ayano. Instead, he turns to his own fighters. “Ignore him. Mind our own business. And Ryohei, you have your own fight. Let’s warm you up.”

Kenta restrains himself.

Ryohei straightens at once and moves to the open space near the lockers. Nakahara slips the mitts on, claps them once.

“Focus.”

Ryohei nods and starts moving; jab, cross, hook.

Pak-pak-pak.

The sound of leather popping cuts through the leftover silence.

His breathing steadies, footwork loosening as Nakahara feeds him combinations, sharp and precise.

Until moments later, a staffer appears at the entrance. “Blue corner,” he calls. “Main event. It’s time.”

The words settle heavy in Ryohei’s chest.

Final bout of the Class-A tournament. Last fight of the night. Even in the blue corner, even as the underdog, the pressure of being set as the main event is unmistakable.

Noticing the tension in him, Nakahara rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Believe in your boxing,” Nakahara says quietly. “You didn’t get here by favors or noise. You crawled through every round, beat everyone they put in front of you. This ring is yours.”

Ryohei nods once. Then he turns toward the door, stepping into the rising roar of the arena, the corner team falling in behind him.

***

The walkout swells like a tide. Cheers break unevenly, some hopeful, some indifferent, while a heavier roar waits for the favorite.

Ryohei moves through it steady, shoulders loose. At the back, Ryoma follows, eyes already stripping the night down to numbers.

Points, footwork, distance, that’s Ryohei’s only path. Win the rounds, don’t give them excuses.

But the thought curdles, because if the fight is rigged again… rigged fights don’t reward patience.

Not long Ryohei stands in the ring, the lights dip again.

A low rumble rolls through the arena, swelling fast into something louder and younger. Uchida Nori and his team from Kyoto Ironworks Gym emerge from the tunnel to a roar that doesn’t bother pretending to be neutral.

Uchida walks loose, shoulders bouncing lightly, chin high, feeding off the noise like it belongs to him. A sea of supporters surges, voices chanting his name with unfiltered belief.

“Listen to this crowd,” a commentator says, excitement sharpening his tone. “Uchida’s brought half of Kyoto with him tonight.”

Uchida slips under the ropes and raises a glove, smiling, confident without arrogance. He looks comfortable here. Too comfortable.

“Eleven wins, nine knockouts,” the other commentator adds. “And not once has he been knocked down as a professional.”

The words ripple through the ring, through the seats. The announcer waits for the noise to crest first, then lifts the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, voice carrying easily through the arena, “this is the main event of the evening.”

The crowd responds at once. Polite applause swells into whistles and scattered cheers, excitement rising without full commitment.

“Twelve rounds scheduled,” he continues, letting the words settle, “for the Class-A Tournament Final.”

Then he turns, arm extending toward the blue corner beneath the lights.

“From Nakahara Boxing Gym, Tokyo… 14 fights, 8 wins, 4 knockouts, 1 draw, 5 losses. Age twenty-five. Officially weighed in 63.4 Kg, standing at 173 centimeters… Ryohei Yamada!”

Applause follows, polite but warm, threaded with familiar cheers. It’s the supporters he’s earned through the tournament, fans who’ve watched him grind his way here and stayed.

“And his opponent… Fighting out of the red corner, official weight 63.5 kilograms, standing at 174 cm, with a professional record of 15 bouts, 11 victories, 9 by knockout, and 4 defeats. Age twenty-two, representing Kyoto Ironworks Gym… Uchida ’Rising Hammer’ Nori!”

Ryoma’s Vision Grid hums softly as Uchida’s frame resolves; 1.5 centimeters taller than Ryohei, broader through the chest, weight already creeping back after the cut. Less bounce in the legs, but planted. The kind that doesn’t go away easy.

>

Moments later, Ryoma’s eyes flick to the referee stepping into position. Unfortunately, it’s the same one that officiated Okabe’s fight.

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***

As Ryoma predicted, the first round unfolds exactly along the lines he hoped, precision over power, movement over force.

Uchida advances carefully, feet planted, guard high, eyes sharp. He doesn’t chase, but uses the first round to study.

A probing jab shoots out…

Dug.

And another…

Dug.

It’s solid, disciplined, but finding nothing but forearms and gloves.

Ryohei keeps swaying in his Soviet pendulum, hips loose, head drifting just off center.

Uchida fires again and again, punches slicing air where Ryohei had been a breath ago. And the crowd stirs, sensing the rhythm.

“Uchida’s struggling to find him early,” a commentator notes.

“And that’s credit to the footwork,” the other adds. “Ryohei’s not just moving. He’s dictating distance. Uchida keeps throwing where he was, not where he is.”

Then Ryohei starts firing, not sudden, just lulling tempo with three beats pattern; jab, lead hook, cross.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Then he slides out, letting Uchida’s answer find only the empty air.

But then, when the sway stops, just for a beat, Ryohei steps in, unleashing a sudden chain.

Dug. Dug.

Dsh! Thud! Dsh! Dug.

The sound snaps the arena awake. Uchida’s guard absorbs some, but two get through clean, one digging into the ribs.

The crowd rises, whistles cutting through applause.

“Beautiful timing!” the commentator exclaims. “That footwork is giving Uchida problems.”

Uchida retreats half a step, eyes narrowing. Ryohei slides away, pendulum already swinging again, firmly in control.

And the pattern settles quickly.

Ryohei owns the space, owns the tempo, and the bell comes almost as a mercy.

Ding!

There’s no debate about the round. Ryohei takes it clean, Uchida unable to land a single scoring blow.

***

The next round unfolds much the same.

By the second and third, Uchida begins to adjust, not really to the sway itself, but to the moment it breaks.

He still gets peppered by Ryohei’s slapping jabs. But each time Ryohei lingers to fire a flurry, Uchida digs in, answering with short hooks to the body.

Thud!

Dug. Thud!

Solid shots to the ribs.

“Those body shots matter,” one commentator says quickly.

“Absolutely,” the other agrees. “They’re not changing the round yet, but they’re investments. You keep digging like that, the movement slows.”

They score. They hurt. But they don’t change the balance. Ryohei still dictates when exchanges happen, when they end.

By the fourth bell, Ryohei returns to his corner breathing easy, confidence rolling off him.

Nakahara meets him halfway, already nodding, hands light as he steadies the ropes.

“Good,” he says calmly. “That’s your ring. You owns that round again.”

Sera smiles as he presses the towel to Ryohei’s shoulders. There’s no panic in him in the slightest bit.

Meanwhile, Uchida walks back slower, brows knit, eyes searching for something that hasn’t appeared yet. His corner, though, still looks calm.

And Ryoma watches them closely.

Teshima Koichi leans in to his fighter, speaking low, and Ryoma reads his lips.

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Ryoma’s stomach tightens. On points alone, he believes Ryohei is far ahead. Yet, the red corner looks so calm, even completely unbothered.

And then Ryoma sees it; Koichi glances up, brief and precise, toward the front row.

Toward Logan Rhodes.

And his lips curl.

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Meanwhile, Nakahara rests a steady hand on Ryohei’s shoulder, already looking too comfortable with how the fight going on.

“You’re sharp tonight,” he says evenly. “He still hasn’t solved your pendulum. Keep this pace, keep the space, and the fight stays yours.”

Ryohei listens, breathing even, eyes clear. But Ryoma steps in immediately before the moment passes.

“We can’t get comfortable,” he says, voice low but unyielding. “Not after what they did to Okabe. Look at that corner, too calm. That’s not how you act when you’re down on points.”

Ryohei’s jaw tightens, the confidence in his eyes sharpening into focus.

“I can read lips, remember?” Ryoma adds quietly. “His coach told him this… as long as Uchida stays on his feet, the win is guaranteed.”