VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The soba shop in Tokyo is packed, but no one is eating anymore. Steam stops rising from bowls left untouched, chopsticks resting where they were abandoned.

Every eye is fixed on the wall projected with the OPBF title fight, where the broadcast, delayed by several minutes, shows the first minute of the fifth round.

Ryoma is backed toward the corner.

“Good! Good!” someone shouts. “That’s it…Philly Shell!”

“Don’t give him any opening,” another adds.

A few voices cheer every blocked punch, every shoulder roll, every glove that slides harmlessly off forearm and elbow.

Okabe and Ryohei, the only professional boxers present, know so well that Ryoma’s in pinched. But the twelve generals of the Cruel King Army never stop talking, never stop believing. They call for patience, for calm.

“Don’t rush it!”

“Stay there!”

“The opening will come!”

Others can’t speak at all. They just watch, hands clenched around cups.

When Ryoma’s flicker snaps out and brushes the champion’s cheek, the shop erupts. Chairs scrape, fists punch the air.

“That’s it!”

“Light, but it works nonetheless!”

But Fumiko can’t take it anymore. She rises from her seat, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Sorry,” she says lightly, half joking as she bows to Shimizu. “I’ll step out. I still don’t understand why you all enjoy watching my boy punch someone’s face so much.”

No one laughs. Shimizu says nothing. Neither do Okabe or Ryohei. They all understand Fumiko’s condition.

But Matsuda Kenji doesn’t. “Ah… wait, Mama-san!” he says, standing. “Stay a bit longer! Believe in your son! Ryoma-anniki’s been in worse fights than this. He always wins!”

Fumiko waves a hand as she heads for the door. “How can you call my son anniki when he’s clearly younger than you?”

Matsuda falters. “…Well. He’s like a leader to us.”

“He inspires people,” one of the generals adds quietly.

“That’s right,” another says. “Believe in him, Mama-san. He’ll win.”

Fumiko nods, still smiling. “I believe,” she says. “I always do. I just can’t enjoy it.”

She finally leaves. And at that exact moment, the hooks collide on-screen.

The shop freezes, all face shrouded by dread.

Kaori moves instantly. She lifts the sleeping Nanako into her arms and heads for the door. But before she exits, Ryohei catches her wrist.

“Kaori, wait. Don’t tell her,” he says quietly.

Kaori looks back at the screen, and sees Ryoma collapsing near the ropes. Then she turns toward the direction Fumiko disappeared.

“I won’t,” she says. “But we can’t let her be alone. If there’s good news… come quickly. She’ll worry.”

Ryohei nods.

The door slides shut behind Kaori, and the sound feels louder than it should.

***

Inside the soba shop, the noise drains away all at once, like someone has pulled the plug on the room itself.

No one speaks. Even the clatter from the kitchen seems to retreat, leaving only the low noise from the projected streaming and the ragged sound of breathing.

On the wall, Ryoma is still down near the ropes.

Okabe leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whiten. His lips move in a near-whisper, words tumbling out like a prayer he doesn’t realize he’s saying.

“Get up, man… come on. That’s not enough to drop you.”

A man near the counter swallows. “He’s taken worse than that,” he says, unsure if he’s trying to convince the others or himself. “Why now?”

Another voice answers, low and resigned. “Because this is an OPBF champion.”

The words settle heavily. Okabe doesn’t look away from the screen, but his eyes flick briefly to Ryohei. Ryohei meets his gaze for half a second, and that’s enough.

They both know. Ryoma didn’t come into this fight in perfect condition.

Then, finally, Ryoma moves. And a collective gasp runs through the shop as he pushes himself upright.

Chairs scrape. Someone actually laughs in relief. Hope surges back, raw and unfiltered.

And then, that face comes into view.

The grin is wrong. Too wide. Too empty.

“This…” someone mutters, voice cracking. “Is he okay?”

Okabe’s shoulders stiffen. Ryohei’s jaw tightens. They’ve seen this once before, back at training camp, Ryoma against Kenta. Those nine seconds when Ryoma was gone, and what came back wasn’t quite the same.

They don’t say it out loud now, just waiting in hope that side of Ryoma can stay longer than just nine seconds.

The cheers return anyway. Ryoma slipping punches after punches, and then punishes the champions with devastating blows.

Someone starts talking about belts, about history being made. And they all then turn quiet seeing how much blood splattering on the white canvas.

Moments later, the image cuts to the referee. The wave of the arms is unmistakable.

TKO.

The shop goes silent again as Ryoma’s body is lifted onto a stretcher.

Ryohei, already pulling out his phone, turns to Kenji Matsuda. “You said the broadcast was delayed, right?”

Matsuda nods quickly.

Okabe stands. “I’ll tell Fumiko-san.”

“Okabe! Just say he won,” Ryohei says at once. “Nothing else.”

Okabe grins, showing a thumb up, forcing brightness through the worry. “I know. The kid’s stronger than that.”

He’s gone before anyone can stop him.

Moments later, Ryohei’s call connects. “Aramaki… how is he?”

Then he doesn’t speak for a long time. But his face is etched with worry, front teeth biting lower lip.

Meanwhile, the TV anchors keep talking; replaying the chaos of that fifth round, the TKO, the announcement that Ryoma has won the OPBF championship even as he’s carried from the ring on a stretcher.

The broadcast continues, but no one in the shop is really watching anymore. Every eye has shifted to Ryohei, or more precisely, to the phone in his hand.

When he finally lowers it, the room seems to lean toward him.

“They’re taking him to the hospital,” Ryohei says.

Shimizu doesn’t hesitate. “And his condition?”

“They don’t know yet.” Ryohei exhales, then forces a smile that feels practiced. “Don’t worry. This isn’t new for him. He’ll be fine. He’ll come back… with the belt.”

Heads nod around the room, some more convincing than others, each man borrowing optimism from the next. The worry doesn’t disappear, but it loosens its grip.

Matsuda raises his glass. “I know it,” he says, voice steady. “He’s coming home as OPBF champion.”

One glass lifts. Then another. Until all of them.

They clink together.

“KAMPAI!!!”

***

Meanwhile, Gifu is quiet at night in a way Tokyo never is. No shouting from other tables, no glasses clinking, no one telling the screen what to do.

Sagawa watches the broadcast alone from the floor of his apartment, back against the sofa, one knee pulled up, the other leg stretched stiff in front of him.

The volume is low, but the commentators’ voices still cut through, sharp and excited, as if they’re afraid the moment might slip away if they don’t keep talking.

“Just twenty-one years old, only seven fights into his professional career, and Ryoma has gone into Jade McConnel’s backyard and come out with the OPBF title. This is unbelievable.”

The words land wrong in Sagawa’s ears.

That belt was supposed to be his. Not in a vague, wishful way. He had signed for it, prepared for it, broken his body for it.

He remembers the contract, the dates circled on the calendar, Fumihiro’s voice telling him to pace himself. Then the injury. Then Ryoma stepping in like it was nothing.

When Ryoma collapses on-screen, Sagawa leans forward despite himself.

“So you won,” he mutters, not sure if it’s accusation or admiration.

The agreement echoes back to him, between Fumihiro and Ryoma. If Ryoma wins, he will get the priority to challenge for that title.

Yet, even as the stretcher rolls into view, something tightens along Sagawa’s spine. Not just fear of losing, but something worse.

Because this isn’t the kind of man you wait your turn for.