VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

It turns out Tokyo Dome has an excellent sense of humour. Barely half an hour after lecturing Satoru about losing his composure, Okabe has somehow managed to produce an even more convincing demonstration of exactly the same mistake.

By the time he returns to the locker room, he looks far worse than Satoru ever did. One eye has swollen into something that no longer appears to belong to the standard catalogue of human anatomy. His nose and split lip remain painted with drying blood.

”I’ve always wondered whether people actually listen to themselves when they talk,” Sera whines.

Okabe opens his mouth on instinct, but the words never come.

”Thank you for answering that question,” Sera continues immediately. ”And yes, I was standing right there listening to every wise word that came out of your mouth.”

Okabe manages to stay quiet for exactly three seconds. Faced with enough embarrassment, most people would choose reflection. Okabe, however, chooses innovation.

”Give me a break,” he says, gesturing irritably toward the tunnel. ”More than half the people out there were against me. Every time I threw a punch, they booed. This was supposed to be our home event, and somehow it felt like I was fighting in Osaka.”

”Interesting,” Sera scoffs. ”I don’t recall the crowd throwing the punches that knocked you down.”

Nakahara raises one hand before the argument gathers any more momentum.

”That’s enough.”

The bickering dies instantly. Even Sera bites back whatever was about to come next, while Okabe falls conspicuously silent, looking almost hopeful that Nakahara’s kinder nature might finally come to his rescue.

”The crowd didn’t make things easy for you,” Nakahara says, his voice calm as ever. ”You’re right about that. Walking into an arena where tens of thousands are hoping you lose isn’t something anyone enjoys. But that’s exactly why we trained for it. Now sit down, let Hiroshi take a look at that eye before it swells shut completely.”

Sera lets out an audible click of his tongue before throwing the towel over his shoulder. ”You’re too soft, Kaichō. One of these days, all that kindness is going to leave someone else cleaning up the mess. I just hope it doesn’t force someone else to become the villain again... just to cover the holes the rest of us left behind.”

The words linger in the air a little longer than Sera probably intended. Satoru and Kenta blink in quiet confusion. Even Coach Murakami raises an eyebrow.

Only Hiroshi and Nakahara react differently. Both lower their eyes almost at the same time, their expressions tightening with an unmistakable trace of guilt before cautiously glancing toward Ryoma.

”Save it for later,” Ryoma finally speaks, his voice as calm as ever. ”Aramaki, your fight is next. Don’t let what’s happened in this room become your opponent too.”

***

Roughly ten minutes later, the opening notes of Rikiya Miyamoto’s entrance theme echo through Tokyo Dome. The challenger steps out beneath the floodlights to a wave of applause.

It isn’t the explosive reaction reserved for hometown idols. Instead, it carries genuine respect.

”LET’S GO, MIYAMOTO!”

”SHOW US ONE MORE GREAT FIGHT!”

”I KNOW YOU’VE STILL GOT IT!”

Rikiya raises one hand in acknowledgment before continuing his walk with the quiet confidence of a seasoned champion.

”It’s hard to believe there was a time when Rikiya Miyamoto practically owned this division,” one commentator says. ”But he couldn’t have picked a worse time to start thinking about the world stage. Just when it looked as though there was nothing left for him to accomplish at home, an entire generation arrived at once.”

”First, Serrano took the belt from him,” the other adds. ”Before Miyamoto could win it back, Aramaki defeated him, then claimed the championship himself by beating Serrano.”

”Which is exactly why this rematch means so much,” the first says. ”It isn’t simply about reclaiming the Japanese title. It’s the opportunity to prove that Rikiya Miyamoto still belongs at the summit of one of the toughest super featherweight divisions this country has ever seen.”

Rikiya enters the ring wearing the face of a man who has stopped thinking about tomorrow and cares only for the twelve rounds waiting in front of him.

Moments later, when Aramaki emerges from the opposite tunnel, Rikiya’s eyes find him almost immediately. He remembers that gazelle punch all too well, the only clean shot Aramaki landed that night, the one that stole his rematch with Serrano.

Plenty of people had called it a fluke. Others insisted he had simply been careless. But Rikiya watched Aramaki defeat Serrano with his own eyes. Whatever people choose to believe about their first meeting, the man walking toward the opposite corner is no longer the same fighter.

”And would you believe it?” one commentator says as Aramaki continues his walk toward the ring. ”The man holding that Japanese title today was once considered the least gifted prospect in this division.”

”He lost in the opening round of the Rookie King Tournament,” the other recalls. ”Nearly walked away from boxing after struggling to find a gym willing to take him in, and somehow rebuilt his career through nothing but persistence.”

The commentators’ words draw the faintest change in Coach Murakami’s expression as old memories quietly resurface.

Standing here tonight, watching Aramaki defend the championship they had once dreamed of winning together, he cannot help wondering how different the journey might have been had he trusted him back then.

”Even now,” the first commentator continues, ”there are still people who insist his victory over Miyamoto came down to one lucky punch.”

”Perhaps that’s exactly why Aramaki asked for this rematch,” the second adds. ”Champions usually have the luxury of moving on, but he chose to face Miyamoto again because he wants nobody leaving this arena believing it ever belonged to someone else.”

Aramaki steps through the ropes with an ease that seems almost out of place on a stage this enormous. There is no trace of a champion burdened by the thought of losing his title, nor the restless urgency of someone desperate to prove the critics wrong.

His gaze settles quietly on Rikiya across the ring, carrying only the unwavering resolve of a man who came here to settle a single unanswered question, no matter what the final result may be.

***

Even as the ring announcer recites every milestone of his career and the crowd answers the mention of his name with warm respectful applause, Aramaki barely hears a word.

All he can hear is the steady rhythm of his own breathing and Ryoma’s voice repeating itself somewhere in the back of his mind.

Everyone prepares their body for an endurance war.

Very few prepare their mind.

So right now, Aramaki does exactly that, keeping his own thoughts on a short leash before they can wander somewhere they have no business being once the opening bell rings.

As the ring announcer steps away from centre ring, Nakahara uses the few seconds they have left to catch Aramaki’s eye.

”Remember,” he says, his voice low and even, ”Wear him down with relentless pressure. But don’t chase him blindly. Keep your head. Stay calculated. As long as he’s got space, be patient and keep taking it away.”

He taps a glove against Aramaki’s shoulder. ”Walk him to the ropes. Better yet, the corner. Once he’s there, don’t let him breathe. Forget about clean scoring blows. Just keep punching until he finds a way out, and don’t make that easy.”

Across the ring, Coach Okada takes the same final opportunity before the referee clears the corners.

”Don’t let the style fool you,” he says quietly. ”He’s as straightforward as they come, but he hits harder than anyone else in this division. If you let him dictate the pace, he’ll make every exchange feel expensive. And don’t forget, Aramaki’s strongest weapon isn’t just his power. It’s that he’ll keep walking at you until the bell tells him to stop.”

Rikiya gives a faint nod without taking his eyes off the opposite corner. ”Then I’ll make sure he spends the whole night chasing my shadow.”

***

With both corners finally cleared, the referee calls the fighters to centre ring. The final instructions are delivered without ceremony, both men listening in silence before acknowledging one another with a quiet nod.

Their gloves meet for a brief touch, born not of obligation, but of genuine respect, before they return to their respective corners.

”Ladies and gentlemen, this is the rematch Japanese boxing has been waiting for.”

”Power against precision. Pressure against movement. We’re about to find out which style prevails tonight.”

The anticipation inside Tokyo Dome reaches its peak as thousands rise from their seats. Across the ring, neither man bothers hiding his intent, their eyes locked long before the opening bell finally cuts through the arena.

Ding!

”There’s the bell for Round One!” one commentator exclaims. ”The cleanest technician in the division against Japan’s most relentless pressure fighter. Don’t expect a feeling-out process here. These two have every reason to set the pace from the opening seconds.”