VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The entire Tokyo Dome erupts into deafening cheers as more and more voices merge into a single chant, far louder than the reception Aramaki received before the opening bell.

”A-RA-MA-KI!”

”A-RA-MA-KI!”

Despite the deafening celebration around him, it is the sound of the final bell that finally brings Rikiya Miyamoto back to consciousness.

He slowly opens his eyes to find Coach Okada already at his side, and a slight glance over his shoulder tells him his back is still resting against the ropes.

Seeing the vacant look in Rikiya’s eyes, Coach Okada immediately realizes that somewhere during the final exchange, Rikiya had blacked out while still on his feet.

”Rikiya... are you okay?” Coach Okada asks, searching his face with undisguised concern.

Rikiya doesn’t answer right away. Still disoriented, he quietly tries to make sense of his surroundings before his gaze finally settles on Aramaki across the ring.

For the first time all night, the champion is no longer wearing the same composed expression. Relief and joy are written plainly across his face.

At that moment, Rikiya understands everything; not only that he has lost the fight, but also how much wider the gap between them has become.

”...So, I lost the fight?” he mutters weakly.

A faint smile forms on his lips, yet it does little to brighten the look on his face. It is the expression of a man carrying disappointment, desperation, and, at last, acceptance.

For a moment, Coach Okada remains silent, unsure how to comfort a fighter who has just suffered his third consecutive defeat. But when he notices the acceptance behind Rikiya’s faint smile, he quietly draws a deep breath and nods.

”That was the best fight of your career,” he says. ”Unfortunately, it was also the hardest one. You were facing the strongest fighter you’ve ever faced.”

Rikiya simply returns a small nod before allowing Coach Okada to help him back to the corner, where the ringside physician and the rest of his team are already waiting.

***

Moments later, the ring announcer steps into the center of the ring with a microphone, while Aramaki stands waiting nearby with the JBC title belt draped over his shoulder, surrounded by his corner team.

Bringing the microphone to his lips, the ring announcer raises his voice. ”Ladies and gentlemen, referee Takeshi Saito calls a stop to this contest at two minutes and forty-eight seconds of the seventh round.”

He pauses as the crowd responds with another wave of applause.

”Your winner... and still the Japan Boxing Commission Super Featherweight Champion... the man with the iron will... calm as winter... relentless as a storm... the unwavering champion... Tatsuki ’The Cold Storm’ Aramaki!”

The announcement is swallowed by another thunderous roar from every corner of Tokyo Dome. While much of the crowd continues chanting Aramaki’s family name, more than five thousand members of the Cruel King Army answer with something different.

”ARA-MAKI!”

”ARA-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

Their voices rise with remarkable discipline, drowning out the scattered chants echoing from the rest of the arena. One section after another begins following their rhythm until the entire Tokyo Dome is united behind a single name.

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”Listen to this crowd!” one commentator exclaims. ”They’re not chanting Aramaki anymore... they’re chanting Tatsumaki!”

”How fitting,” the other replies with a laugh. ”For our overseas viewers, tatsumaki means tornado in Japanese. Looking back, maybe that name had been waiting for him all along.”

”He began his career as the Small Whirlwind, just a talented youngster trying to survive against seasoned veterans.”

”And now? He’s become something far more terrifying. Like a tornado over the open sea… calm from a distance, but devastating the moment you’re caught inside it.”

Aramaki looks around the arena before rising a hand above his head, responding with a series of grateful taps against his glove as the chant only grows louder.

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

”TATSU-MAKI!”

A faint smile lingers on his face, as though quietly accepting the new name the crowd has chosen for him.

Then his eyes catch Rikiya Miyamoto walking toward him. And almost instantly, Aramaki’s smile fades, replaced by the same humble expression he has always worn.

Aramaki steps forward without hesitation, lowers himself into a respectful bow, meeting the veteran with quiet sincerity.

”Thank you very much for the fight, Miyamoto-san.”

The bow catches Rikiya completely off guard. For a brief moment, he can only stare at the young champion in silence.

Despite everything that had happened over the past seven rounds, despite proving himself to be the better fighter, Aramaki still carries the same humility Rikiya first saw in him this whole time.

And looking at the young champion now, Rikiya can only see a higher ceiling waiting for him. Aramaki is still growing, and one day, he is certain, the world stage will no longer be enough to contain him.

As for himself, nearing the end of his twenties, Rikiya no longer feels there is much room left to grow. Deep down, he knows this has been the final fight of his career.

Stepping closer, he slips an arm around Aramaki’s neck, and pulls the younger man in before lowering his voice into a whisper.

”When you become world champion...” he murmurs calmly, ”make sure people know I gave you one hell of a fight.”

Aramaki blinks, caught off guard by the words. ”World champion...? I... I’m not so sure if I...”

Rikiya simply tightens the arm around Aramaki’s neck, cutting the doubt short before it can go any further.

”Stay humble… and keep improving the way I know you will.”

Rikiya releases his neck and gives him a firm nod.

”I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”

In that instant, the uncertainty disappears from Aramaki’s face. His expression settles back into the same professional composure, accepting the veteran’s conviction as a dream he can no longer afford to betray.

After standing upright for only a brief moment, Aramaki bows once more, even deeper than before, without saying a single word.

And Rikiya doesn’t wait for an answer. The resolve Aramaki shows just now is more than enough. He turns and walks back toward his corner, while Aramaki remains bowed in silence until the veteran finally disappears through the ropes.

”What a moment between these two fighters,” one commentator says, his voice softening after the frenzy of the finish. ”We couldn’t hear a single word they exchanged, but sometimes you don’t need to.”

”Look at that respect,” the other replies. ”Miyamoto walks away without looking back, and Aramaki is still bowing to him. That’s the kind of moment that reminds you boxing is about far more than what happens between the opening and final bell.”

”Whatever was said between them will stay in this ring.”

”But one thing is certain... tonight, Japanese boxing witnessed one generation making way for the next.”