VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The referee glances toward Kenta, eyes narrowing briefly as he catches the cut above the brow. It’s bleeding, but not heavily, not the kind that usually forces a stoppage.

He hesitates for a second, weighing it. “…You think it’s necessary?” he asks.

Zhou doesn’t slow. “I’ll make it quick.”

The referee exhales through his nose, then gives a short nod. “Alright. Go ahead. Quick check.”

Zhou then climbs the apron and gestures toward Kenta.

“Moriyama. Come here for a second.”

But there is no response. Kenta doesn’t move, nor does he acknowledge the call, even as the doctor leans close enough to fall within his line of sight.

Zhou’s expression tightens slightly before he slips through the ropes, closing the distance himself.

He reaches out, intending to examine the cut more closely. But just as his hand comes near Kenta’s shoulder, Nakahara intercepts immediately. His grip closes around Zhou’s wrist, firm enough to stop the motion entirely.

“Don’t,” Nakahara says in Japanese, his tone low but insistent.

Zhou frowns, not understanding, irritation surfacing almost immediately. “Your fighter’s injured. You’re just going to ignore that?”

Nakahara doesn’t let go. He tries again, still in Japanese, his voice carrying urgency now. But the meaning doesn’t land. The doctor clearly not understanding a word coming out of his mouth.

There’s a brief pause after that, before Nakahara forces the words out in broken English.

“Please… don’t. You take him out… the zone.”

Zhou exhales sharply, frustration clear. “I need to check his condition.”

Before he can push further, Kurogane moves along the apron, circling behind Kenta without stepping into the ring, positioning himself where Zhou can hear him clearly.

“It’s not serious,” Kurogane says, his tone firm. “The cut is above the brow. It’s not affecting his vision. This is normal. It’s manageable.”

Zhou shakes his head without hesitation. “You call this manageable, but you’re not even doing anything.”

And with that, he brushes past Nakahara’s resistance, reaching Kenta and placing a hand on his shoulder, pulling him slightly, not just to examine, but to break whatever focus he’s locked into.

Kenta’s eyes flick toward him. For a brief second, there’s something sharp in his gaze, irritation surfacing in a way that doesn’t match his usual composure.

But it fades just as quickly as he turns his attention back toward Dela Cruz.

Still, Zhou doesn’t stop. “Moriyama,” he says, more firmly now. “Come here. I need to see your right eye.”

There’s still no response from Kenta. Eventually, Zhou simply pulls out a small flashlight and raises it, angling the beam toward Kenta’s face as he studies the swelling above the right eye.

The cut sits high along the brow ridge, not on the eyelid itself, and the thin line of blood does nothing to obscure his vision.

Even so, Zhou continues with examination despite how unnecessary it is.

“Moriyama, look here,” he says, directing the light. “Follow this.”

The interruption finally takes hold. Kenta’s eyes blink, once, then again, the rhythm breaking as his focus shifts fully onto the doctor. The edge he was holding onto finally slips.

“Can you see my fingers?” Zhou asks, raising his hand.

Kurogane’s voice cuts in immediately from behind. “This is absurd. Unnecessary. You can see his eyes are fine.”

Zhou ignores him, his attention fixed on Kenta, though he registers quickly that Kurogane is the only one speaking fluent English.

This time, he adjusts his approach, his tone more deliberate now, words more complex as he repeats the question, knowing Kenta won’t be able to follow it.

“Moriyama, I need to know if your vision is still good. I’m responsible for your safety here. So answer me. Can you see my fingers? How many are there?”

Kenta blinks, confusion settling in as the words come too quickly, too layered for him to follow cleanly.

He can’t answer, not right away. He isn’t even sure whether the doctor is asking a question, giving an instruction, or just speaking about the weather.

And around the arena, the murmur shifts again, anticipation giving way to unease as the possibility settles in.

With the fighter not even responding to the doctor’s instruction, they are afraid that the fight might be stopped.

“Kenta,” Kurogane says sharply from behind him. “He’s asking about your vision. Look at his hand.”

Kenta’s eyes shift, and then turns toward the doctor again. His gaze settling on his fingers.

“How many?” the doctor asks. “Can you see clearly?”

Kenta stares at the hand for a second longer than necessary, his brow tightening slightly. Then he looks back up at Zhou, confusion giving way to mild irritation.

“It’s three. And why the hell are you asking this to me? You think I’m blind already?”

Zhou blinks. “…Excuse me?”

“Kenta… English. English,” Kurogane snaps, more impatient this time.

Kenta exhales through his nose, jaw tightening as he shifts his gaze back to the doctor.

“It… three.”

Zhou studies his eyes carefully, watching the tracking, the response time, the steadiness. The referee steps closer as well, leaning in just enough to observe the exchange for himself.

Kenta doesn’t look away this time. His gaze holds, clearer now, more grounded, even if the earlier edge is gone.

The doctor watches him for another second, then gives a small nod. “…Alright,” he says, straightening slightly before turning toward Nakahara. “He can go. But you better treat that wound first. You are endangering the fighter’s life.”

Without waiting for a response, he steps back, dropping down from the apron and motioning for the referee that he’s done with the examination.

Nakahara remains where he is, the words only partially landing.

“…What?” he mutters under his breath.

Kurogane clicks his tongue, stepping closer. “They want the cut treated.”

Nakahara’s gaze shifts back to Kenta, studying him.

The stillness in Kenta has gone. His posture is the same, his stance unchanged, but whatever he had been holding onto before, it isn’t there anymore.

His eyes are clearer, more present, but also heavier, pulled back into the noise, the space, the reality around him.

The edge is gone. And Nakahara knows there’s no reason not to touch him anymore.

“…Alright,” he says, lifting a hand. “Work.”

The team moves instantly. Okabe steps in with the bucket and water bottle, holding it up toward Kenta as Kurogane brings the towel up, pressing it carefully against the cut. Hiroshi reaches for the swab, already preparing to clean the blood before it can run further.

“Kenta, sit,” Nakahara says, his tone firm. “We don’t have much time.”

Kenta finally lowers himself onto the stool. And just like that, whatever he had been reaching for, collapses entirely.

***

Meanwhile, the locker room is quieter as Ryoma and Ryohei watch the doctor’s interruption with mild irritation.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ryohei curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “That damn doctor just killed it. Kenta had it. You saw it too, right? He was right there.”

Ryoma doesn’t respond, but the displeasure lingers, faint but unmistakable beneath his steady gaze on the screen.

“…Oi,” Ryohei says. “You’re not going to say anything?”

Ryoma’s gaze narrows slightly. “Yeah…That’s strange,” he says quietly. “In most cases, the referee makes the call first. If there’s a concern, he stops the action, brings the doctor in, and then they check the fighter. But here… the doctor moved on his own.”

Ryohei shrugs. “So? He saw the cut and just decide to just interfere like that?”

Ryoma shakes his head slightly. “There’s nothing wrong with a doctor taking initiative. But that wasn’t urgent. There was no need for him to intervene like that.”

Ryohei’s expression shifts, the annoyance fading just a bit.

“You’re saying something’s off?”

“…I don’t know yet,” Ryoma says. “But that didn’t feel right.”

The screen flickers as the broadcast cuts back to ringside. The camera lingers on the ring doctor for a moment longer than usual, catching the set of his jaw as the commentators shifting their tone.

“Man… for a second there, I thought we were about to see this thing get stopped. And right when it’s starting to heat up too.”

“Yeah, that was getting real tense. Kenta didn’t even respond at first. You could feel the whole arena holding its breath.”

“But I’ve got to say… that was a pretty quick decision from the doctor to step in like that.”

“It was. Especially during the break. You don’t usually see that unless there’s something more serious going on.”

“…At the same time. you can’t completely fault him either. There is a cut there, and the corner wasn’t doing anything about it.”

“Exactly. If you’re the ringside physician, that’s your responsibility. You can’t just let a fighter stand there bleeding and not get checked.”

Ryoma’s gaze sharpens as he catches the subtle shift in the ring doctor’s facial micro-expression in response to the commentators’ words.

There’s a faint tension at the corner of his mouth when the lead commentator questions his initiative, before loosening slightly when the second commentator makes an excuse.

And for a brief moment, Zhou flicks his gaze toward a direction, a trace of discomfort surfacing before it settles again.

From the angle of the camera shown on the screen, it isn’t clear to whom that gaze is directed. But Ryoma can map it out, and when the broadcast cuts to a wide shot of the arena, his suspicion locks immediately onto Hugo Ramirez.

And indeed, even at this moment, the doctor is still glancing in Ramirez’s direction. Ryoma’s Vision Grid System confirms it too by capturing the trajectory of that glance.

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