VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The flight back is long in a way that doesn’t get easier with experience. Even having done it before, Ryoma never quite adjusts to the rhythm of it.

They land at Narita under a pale morning sky. The cabin empties slowly. Everyone moves with the same dull patience, carrying fatigue like an extra layer of clothing.

As they step off the jet bridge, Aramaki exhales. “You know,” he says, voice flat, “people say overseas fights are a good experience.”

Kenta doesn’t look at him. “This wasn’t overseas. This was work. With turbulence.”

“Zero sightseeing,” Aramaki adds.

“I saw a hospital ceiling,” Kenta says, turning to him, and grins. “The beautiful western nurses too. That counts.”

Ryoma walks between them, shoulders tight, head heavy, already aware of the distance still left between this airport and Tokyo.

The humor barely registers, but it anchors the moment, proof that nothing about this trip ever tried to pretend it was a vacation.

The thought comes unbidden: one more ride, another van, another stretch of road.

But once they clear the terminal corridor, the thought dissolves.

Voices overlapping, sharp and urgent, rising above the usual airport noise. Camera shutters. Footsteps quickening. A ripple moving toward them with purpose.

It’s the media, reporters, journalists, more than just a few.

They cluster just beyond the arrival gate, microphones already raised, lenses angled forward as soon as they catch sight of him.

Names are called out. Ryoma’s name, pronounced cleanly, without hesitation.

“Takeda-san… this way.”

“Ryoma, a comment.”

“OPBF champion… just one question.”

The group slows instinctively. Sera steps half a pace closer. Nakahara’s presence shifts, alert now despite the fatigue.

This is different from Australia. There, attention came late and cautiously, filtered through obligation. Here, it’s immediate, familiar, and relentless.

It’s the first reminder that they’re back in Japan.

Ryoma stops, exhales once, steadying himself. Jet lag still weighs behind his eyes. His hands throb faintly beneath the bandages. But the noise sharpens his focus instead of blurring it.

Despite the fatigue, he lifts his gaze, and signals for Nakahara to act as a temporary moderator. Whatever comes next, he knows this much, this time, he’ll choose what to give them.

And they don’t ease into it. The questions come fast, layered over one another, sharpened by timing and appetite.

“Please, go ahead,” Nakahara says. “Make it brief.”

“Ryoma… some critics say your OPBF title win reflects poorly on Japanese boxing.”

“Others claim the result was circumstantial, that you benefited from an opponent already declining.”

“There’s talk that you won’t hold the belt long.”

There’s really no preamble, no congratulations, just expectation, waiting for him to snap back. They know him, and know how to stir the tension for headliners.

Ryoma listens without interruption. He doesn’t look for Nakahara right away. When they finally quiets, it’s because he raises his hand, composedly.

“I’ll answer,” he says, voice even. “But first, allow me to say something.”

The impatience, but he continues anyway.

“I want to thank Aqualis,” Ryoma says. “The notice for this fight was short, and the schedule was difficult. Weight management, travel, recovery, none of it was ideal. But they sent a professional nutritionist immediately, and without that support, I wouldn’t have made the limit safely.”

He bows his head slightly, the gesture small but deliberate. “I also want to acknowledge Noya Fumihiro and Hirobumi Sagawa. This opportunity didn’t appear on its own. It was built through matches, negotiations, and trust. I’m aware of that.”

Only then does he look back up, eyes steady.

“As for the criticism,” he continues, “I understand it. Boxing invites opinions. Titles invite scrutiny. I don’t take it personally.”

A reporter leans forward, ready to press.

Ryoma doesn’t rush to block it. “I fought under OPBF rules, on foreign ground, against a reigning champion. Officials made the decisions they believed protected both fighters. That’s all there is to it.”

“If people believe I won’t hold the belt long,” he adds, “then the solution is simple. Someone will come and take it.”

The room doesn’t erupt, but something shifts all the same.

This isn’t the Ryoma they thought they were getting. They’d expected defiance, a sharp retort, maybe even a reckless promise aimed straight at his critics. Instead, he sidesteps the confrontation with precision, neither retreating nor posturing, leaving no clean edge for anyone to grab.

A few reporters exchange glances. The absence of fire unsettles them more than anger would have.

Then another hand rises. The journalist doesn’t bother softening his tone.

“There was a statement earlier from Daisuke Yoshizawa,” he says. “He claimed his camp intends to challenge your belt for a unification bout with Japan’s Lightweight Champion, Shinichi Yanagimoto. He also said, if you’re not a coward, you should accept.”

The word hangs there, heavy and intentional. But Ryoma doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t smile either.

“Yanagimoto has a title defense scheduled,” he says evenly. “Against Shimamura Suzuki.”

He lets that settle before continuing.

“If his camp is already looking past that fight, they should be careful. Belts don’t belong to people who stare at the future instead of what’s in front of them.”

His gaze stays steady, voice calm. “That’s how you lose one,” he adds. “And usually in the most humiliating way.”

The same journalist doesn’t sit back. “What if Yanagimoto defends his title?” he presses. “If he does, will you accept the challenge?”

The question hangs longer this time as Ryoma doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes drift, just for a second, to the belt inside the briefcase. To the weight of it, not the leather or the gold, but how it came into his hands.

There are a lot of unfinished things waiting for him back home. Old grudges. Old shadows. Things left unresolved, humiliations that haven’t been paid back yet.

He feels them pull at him, quietly, like hands he refuses to look at.

But now, he exhales slowly, letting them go. When he looks up again, the hesitation is gone.

“I don’t have any interest in the Japanese title anymore,” Ryoma says calmly. “I’ve already achieved something beyond that.”

A few pens stop moving.

“As the OPBF champion,” he continues, “I have an obligation to accept challenges from the OPBF contender list. That’s how this belt works. If Yanagimoto wants it, he’s welcome to come for it.”

There’s a pause. And for the first time, Ryoma’s eyes sharpen, sweeping the room, steady and unflinching.

“But he’ll have to climb the ladder first,” he adds. “Same as everyone else. That’s all there is to it.”

Before anyone can follow up, Nakahara steps forward. “That will be all for today,” he says. “Ryoma is still recovering, and we have a long journey back to Tokyo.”

Hands go up anyway. Voices rise, and questions still pile over one another.

Nakahara doesn’t slow. He places a hand lightly at Ryoma’s back and guides him away from them. Security steps in, forming a narrow corridor through the press.

Outside, a rented minibus waits at the curb. Ryohei stands by the door, Okabe already inside, waving them on.

The door slides shut. The engine turns over. And just like that, they’re gone.

At the edge of the group, a veteran journalist lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Boomerang,” he says to no one in particular.

A younger colleague looks over. “What?”

“Back in 2016,” the veteran continues, packing away his recorder, “that kid challenged Yanagimoto. Know what the response was?”

The colleague shakes his head.

“Climb the ladder first. Prove your worth.” The veteran smiles thinly. “Well, looks like he did. Funny thing is, now it’s the Japanese champion asking for a fight.”

He shrugs. “Guess ladders work both ways.”