VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Back home, the plans have changed. The suitcases that were supposed to be packed stay buried in closets.

Ryoma’s ruined conditioning plan makes the decision easy, even if it hurts a little. No one says it out loud, but everyone understands the same thing: this fight has already taken more than it was supposed to.

Okabe and Ryohei were the first to accept it. Fumiko was never really too serious about it in the first place. Kaori and Nanako were a bit disappointed, but not too much.

So instead, they gather something else.

The idea comes together at Shimizu’s soba shop, a place that smells of broth and old wood. It’s not built for events. No television hangs on the wall.

Ryohei brings it up first, scratching the back of his head like he’s thinking out loud.

“What if we rent a projector?” he says. “Project the broadcast onto the wall. Big enough for everyone.”

Shimizu-san pauses mid-motion, brows knitting, not in reluctance but calculation.

“A projector…?” he repeats, already turning to look around his shop.

Okabe follows his gaze. “We can handle the setup. Speakers too. All we need is a clear wall.”

Shimizu’s eyes settle on the plain white surface of the wall. For a moment, it’s just plaster. Then something sparks.

He starts seeing it; ropes, canvas, and the ring will be flickering to life between bowls of soba and bottles of soy sauce.

“…That could work,” he says, a smile creeping in. “Ryoma’ll show up right there on the wall.

Beside the table, Kaori shifts Nanako onto her lap. The little girl peers at the wall too, head tilted, as if trying to imagine it herself.

“Uncle Ryoma will be in there?” Nanako asks, pointing.

Shimizu grins, then leans down a little, lowering himself to Nanako’s level. “And your father too,” he says lightly. “He’ll be right beside him. Big as life.”

Nanako’s eyes widen as she looks back at the wall, then at Kaori. “Really?”

Kaori laughs softly. “Looks like it.”

Ryohei grins. “And I’ll bring people. A lot of them.”

That earns a sharp laugh from Shimizu. His hand slaps the counter once, delighted.

“Customers and a title fight?” he says. “Now you’re talking.”

Fumiko watches quietly from the side, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. She doesn’t interrupt. When Shimizu turns back to them, already nodding, her shoulders ease, breath leaving her slowly.

“Alright,” Shimizu says, eyes bright now. “We’ll do it. One night. As big as we can make it.”

Nanako swings her legs under the table, already smiling, and for the first time that day, the plan feels less like waiting and more like gathering.

***

Meanwhile, the broadcast itself has been impossible to miss. For days now, Ryoma’s name has been surfacing everywhere; sports news tickers, late-night variety shows, short clips looping between commercials.

The fight night is set at Festival Hall in West Melbourne, a storied ring where champions have walked through history and where tonight, Ryoma would make his own mark.

On the morning of February 25th, it ramps up even more; highlight reels, still photos from the weigh-in, the OPBF belt gleaming under studio lights.

Even people who don’t follow boxing can’t help but notice that a Japanese fighter is challenging for a continental title overseas, tonight.

The opening card in Melbourne will start at five in the afternoon. In Japan, that means three o’clock.

And by the time the clock creeps toward it, Shimizu’s soba shop is already full. Neighbors squeeze in with curious smiles, asking which wall the fight will be on.

Ryohei and Okabe are crouched near the projector, cables snaking across the floor, arguing cheerfully about angles and focus like stagehands before a festival.

“Don’t bump it,” Okabe warns.

“I’m not bumping it,” Ryohei fires back. “You’re the one who set it crooked.”

The bell over the door rings, and the noise spikes.

Matsuda Kenji steps in first, broad grin under his cap, followed by five of his generals from the Cruel King Army. Their presence alone changes the air.

“So this is our arena tonight?” Matsuda says, looking around approvingly.

“Best seats in town,” Okabe answers without missing a beat.

Moments later, more follow, one by one, then in clusters. A dozen more generals drift in, some greeting Ryoma’s mother respectfully, others already arguing about rounds and outcomes like it’s settled fact.

The shop stirs with overlapping voices, jokes about time zones, mock complaints about nerves, bets made with bowls of soba instead of money.

Behind the counter, Shimizu can’t hide his excitement. He moves faster than he ever has, laughing as he takes orders. His wife and daughters work the back with practiced urgency, trays sliding in and out like clockwork.

Every time the door opens, Shimizu’s grin widens. This is already the busiest day his shop has seen in years.

***

Before five, the semifinal fight has just finished. On the screen, the TV commentators’ voices rise.

[…and coming up later, the OPBF lightweight title fight. Main event expected around five-thirty.]

A ripple of relief moves through the shop.

“Plenty of time,” someone says.

“That means one more bowl,” another laughs.

Ryohei freezes mid-step. “…Locker room,” he mutters.

Okabe looks at him. “What?”

“Ryoma should still be in the locker room,” Ryohei says slowly, eyes lighting up. “Right?”

Matsuda turns. “Probably. Why?”

Ryohei grins. “What if we call him? Show him this.”

The idea spreads instantly. Phones come out. Someone laughs. Someone else says it’s stupid. Someone says just do it anyway.

Matsuda doesn’t wait for consensus. He takes out his own phone and taps the screen.

The video call connects. For a second, there’s nothing but movement and sound, until Ryoma’s face fills the phone.

Gloves taped. Hood up. Jaw set.

Behind him, the narrow locker room moves with quiet urgency.

“Yo… Cruel King! How you doing?”

“Oh,” Ryoma says, surprised. Then he smiles. “You guys…”

Matsuda swings the camera around. The shop erupts into view, packed tables, raised hands, bowls lifted in salute. Shimizu leans into frame, grinning wide.

“The Cruel King’s Army is here,” Matsuda says. “Not all of us. Just the generals.”

Laughter roars behind him.

Ryoma’s expression softens. “Thank you, Kenji-san,” he says. “But sorry, I’ve been called already. I’m about to leave.”

The room goes quiet.

“…Eeh?” someone says.

“But they said thirty minutes,” another protests.

Matsuda snorts. “That’s TV time. They delay it for commercials.”

He leans closer to the phone. “Ryoma, keep the phone as you leave the locker. I’m afraid there is no one there to cheer for you. So let us show it from here before you reach the arena.”

Ryoma hesitates. Then he nods. “Alright.”

He turns and calls out, “Aramaki… hold the phone for me, please.”

Nanako, standing on a chair near the counter, hears the name and squeals.

“Papa!”

Matsuda looks at her. “Oh, the little girl is Aramaki’s daughter?”

***

Back in the challenger’s locker room, Aramaki takes the phone from Ryoma, lifting it high. He smiles, soft and wide, and waves.

“Hi, Nanako,” he says gently. “Be a good girl until Papa comes home.”

The door opens, and Nakahara’s team steps into the corridor.

Aramaki walks at the back, phone held steady, capturing Ryoma and the team from behind as they move toward the arena entrance.

The sound in the phone changes; footsteps echoing, crowd noise bleeding through the walls.

Then it starts; from the soba shop, voices rise together, rough and unpolished but united.

Walk the road where crowns are earned in blood

Kneel or stand, judgment comes all the same.

Aramaki doesn’t turn the phone. He lets Ryoma hear it as it is.

No cheers guide the king’s advance,

Only silence dares to follow him.

Ryoma’s chest tightens.

He’s always thought the anthem was ridiculous, too dramatic, too silly. Something meant to inflate egos, not ground them.

But tonight, walking through a foreign hallway, knowing how close he came to breaking before this moment, it feels different.

Step aside, for the throne does not wait,

All paths bend before the Cruel King.

The voices crack. Some are off-key. Some are shouting instead of singing. And somehow, that makes it stronger.

No mercy asked, no mercy given,

Only the king remains.

As the corridor opens into light and noise and movement, Aramaki lowers the phone.

Ryoma exhales slowly. At least, now home doesn’t feel far anymore. The video call ends, but the echo stays with him as he steps forward, ready to walk the last few meters with them team.

Toward the OPBF title fight. A step into territory yet to be claimed.