VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena erupts, the roar of shock and excitement mixing with disbelief, the intensity spiking as everyone realizes the fight has suddenly shifted.

Rikiya lies flat on his back, eyes open to the ceiling lights that blur and spin above him. The world tilts unnaturally, the ropes bending like waves at the edge of his vision. A violent ringing fills his ears, drowning out the arena into a distant hum.

Pain blooms at the base of his jaw, sharp and electric, radiating up toward his temple and down his neck. It feels as if something inside his skull has shifted half a second too late.

A few steps away, Aramaki stands frozen. His face is a mess of disbelief, mouth slightly open, breath coming fast and uneven. His heart pounds so loudly he can almost hear it over the crowd.

That punch… it actually landed. He hadn’t thrown it with certainty. It was a gamble, a last roll of the dice, an effort out of desperation. And now the former champion is on the canvas.

The referee’s voice slices through the haze.

“Neutral corner. Now.”

Aramaki blinks, as if waking from a dream.

Then he nods quickly. “Ah… right.”

He turns and walks toward the designated neutral corner. But his gaze keeps drifting back over his shoulder, unable to let go of the sight.

How could he misread it?

How could someone like him… so sharp, so composed…

Yet he failed to see that coming?

It doesn’t make sense. The cobra shot, the step-back counter; those were layered traps, subtle and dangerous, techniques built to deceive. And Rikiya had dismantled them effortlessly, as if he’d memorized every sequence beforehand.

Yet the gazelle punch, a leaping strike launched from farther out, a louder and riskier motion, should have been easier to anticipate. And still it crashed through.

In fact, Aramaki hadn’t leapt with confidence. He had leapt out of desperation.

Up in the booth, the first commentator’s voice trembles, struggling to catch up with what just happened. “I… I can’t believe it! After three rounds of complete control, Miyamoto gets caught by a gazelle punch? From that distance? That’s unbelievable!”

The analyst exhales sharply, eyes locked on the fallen former champion. “That’s the danger of boxing at this level. You can read patterns, you can solve combinations. But one explosive variable changes everything. Aramaki had nothing working. Nothing. And yet he finds the one moment, the one angle.”

“It didn’t even look like his cleanest setup!” the first commentator adds, still in disbelief.

Across the ring, Coach Okada is already halfway through the ropes, stopped only by the official’s warning glare. His composure is gone.

“Rikiya!” he shouts, voice cracking. “Rikiya, look at me! Can you hear me?!”

His hands grip the top rope so tightly his knuckles pale. The calm strategist who warned about traps between rounds is nowhere to be seen now. All he sees is his fighter flat on the canvas, eyes unfocused after a brutal blow.

“Stay with me! Listen to the count!” Okada calls out again, trying to anchor him through the noise, through the ringing, through the spinning lights.

In the neutral corner, Aramaki stands with his gloves resting lightly against the top rope, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. The roar of the arena feels distant, almost muted behind the pounding in his ears.

Now his emotions twist together. Part of him wants this to end here, before the former champion rises and restores order.

But another part hesitates. Four rounds is too early. And somewhere in the back of his mind lingers a stray thought. Has Arman Sargsyan arrived yet?

***

In Nakahara’s locker room, the tension thickens long before the referee makes his decision. The flat screen mounted on the wall shows the ring from a high angle, the broadcast coming in clean and immediate.

There is no delay, no mercy of time to prepare for what might happen next. Every second unfolds in front of them as if they are standing at ringside themselves.

No one sits comfortably. A few fighters remain perched on the edge of the benches, elbows on knees. Others stand with arms crossed, pretending composure they do not feel.

Nakahara stands near the center of the room, his gaze fixed upward, jaw locked tight. The atmosphere mirrors Aramaki’s own state in the neutral corner: part hope, part disbelief, part anxiety that refuses to settle into certainty.

When the camera cuts to Rikiya lying flat on his back, the room grows even quieter. Even the usual background noise seems to disappear.

Okabe is the first to break the silence, though his voice carries more irritation than celebration.

“Damn Aramaki…” he mutters, forcing out a scoff that doesn’t quite hide his unease. “He actually dropped a former champion with one punch.”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving the screen. “If this ends like that, then my counter against Wakabayashi? The one everyone was talking about? It’ll be forgotten completely.”

No one answers him. There is no appetite for rivalry at the moment. The stakes feel larger than pride.

On the flat screen, the referee lowers himself to one knee beside Rikiya. The official’s lips move as he continues the count to seven, then his hand hovers, and pauses.

Instead of resuming the count immediately, he leans closer, studying Rikiya’s eyes, checking the response.

Nakahara and his team unconsciously lean forward at the same time, waiting.

Then the referee’s arms sweep across his chest. And the bell rings a few times.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

For a brief fraction of a second, no one in the locker room reacts. The image on the screen shows the referee waving it off with authority, signaling the end.

The commentators’ voices surge through the speakers in a rush of triumph and disbelief.

“It’s over! The referee has stopped it!” the first commentator shouts, barely containing the shock in his tone. “Aramaki has just defeated Rikiya Miyamoto in stunning fashion!”

“This is extraordinary!” the analyst adds, his voice rising above the crowd noise. “After being systematically outboxed for three rounds, he finds a single opening and ends it! That is the definition of a game-changing punch!”

The arena roars so loudly that the locker room walls seem to vibrate. But Nakahara does not celebrate. His face tightens instead, the lines around his mouth deepening.

“Damn, Aramaki…” he mutters, already moving toward the door. “He actually ends it this early.”

He steps into the hallway, the roar from the arena bleeding faintly through the concrete corridors. His pace quickens into an urgent stride as he heads toward the locker room assigned to Arman Sargsyan’s camp.

When Nakahara reaches the door, it stands wide open. Inside, the room is empty. No equipment bags, no cornermen, no sign of arrival.

Nakahara stares for a moment, as if something might materialize if he waits long enough.

“This is a disaster,” he mutters under his breath, turning back down the corridor. “Damn it. Damn it all. I paid them thirty thousand dollars… and they ruin my event.”

By the time he returns to his own locker room, the atmosphere has shifted. The fighters inside are no longer watching the television alone; they are watching him.

They heard his raised voice in the hallway, heard the frustration crack through the concrete walls. They can read the truth in his expression before he says a word.

As the old man’s jaw tightens with mounting anger, Kenta steps forward, placing a steady hand on Nakahara’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, old man,” he says in a low voice meant to calm rather than convince. “It’s not your fault. I don’t mind it at all. I can wait for my chance to come.”

On the flat screen, the commentators continue riding the wave of the upset.

“What a seismic result for this division!” the first commentator declares. “Aramaki has just altered the landscape tonight!”

“You can see it in the crowd,” the analyst adds. “This is the kind of victory that reshapes careers!”

The arena chants Aramaki’s name in thunderous unison. Yet when the camera cuts to the ring, focusing on Aramaki and his team as they gather near the ropes, something feels off.

There are no wide smiles, no ecstatic embraces. Their expressions are tight, uncertain. They exchange brief looks that carry more calculation than celebration.

And in that moment, Nakahara understands. The crowd may see a triumphant knockout.

But the men who understand the consequences see something else entirely.