VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Aramaki covers his face just in time, and blocks it with both arms. But then, a sharp hook punishes his ribs, and quickly follows with a hit on the head.

The commentators lean forward now, their voices sharpening, excitement bleeding into every word as the exchanges grow faster.

“Ryoma’s mixing it up now. High, then low, then high again. Aramaki can’t read the rhythm!”

“That body shot’s gonna take his wind. If he keeps eating those, his guard won’t matter!”

Still, Aramaki refuses to go down. He shells up, arms tight around his head, lowering his stance into a desperate turtle, absorbing the storm of Ryoma’s fists.

In the blue corner, Masato Kanda slams the canvas with both palms, thunderous, his voice drowned by the crowd.

A signal: ten seconds left.

No words are needed. Aramaki understands. He bites down, digs in, and endures.

But his legs are trembling now, muscles quivering with every shot rattling through his guard. His knees finally betray him.

Then a clean hook crashes in from the blind side, drilling just behind his ear.

Finally…

THUD!

He drops forward out of his shell, crashing knees-first before his face onto the canvas.

The crowds erupt once more. The referee steps in, forcing Ryoma leave before starting the count.

Aramaki’s cheek grinds against the floor, the taste of sweat filling his mouth. But worse than the pain is the thought clawing at him.

I can’t win. Not against someone like him.

He is… smooth, flawless, untouchable.

He has known he was too perfect an opponent, too far above. Every exchange in the ring only carves that truth deeper.

And here he lies, proof of it. Not beaten by strength alone, but by a gulf he can never cross. The mat feels heavy beneath him, whispering it would be easier to stay down.

“…Five!”

His arms twitch, weakly pressing against the canvas. His shoulders sag, unwilling. For a heartbeat, he almost surrenders.

But then…

“…Six!”

Kaori’s face pushes through the haze. Her tired smile. The weight of Nanako on her back, swaddled as she works in their garden.

The crooked lines of their hut, so small and humble compared to the homes they were cast out from.

“…Seven!”

His raises and crawls, fingers scrape the ropes. He clings to them, muttering hoarsely into the blur of lights.

“…Nanako…”

The word pulls him up, inch by inch.

His body shakes, his right thigh spasms, but he drags himself higher, clinging like a drowning man.

“…Eight!”

At last, a foot plants, and then another.

His spine straightens despite the weight pressing down. With a final wrench of his body, Aramaki drags himself upright. His gloves lift, trembling yet defiant.

The right eye is still swollen half-shut. But from the left, his gaze burns with a hard unyielding light.

The referee closes in, catching Aramaki’s gloves in his hands. “You okay?”

“Yeah… I’m good!” Aramaki says, forcing the words through ragged breath.

But the ref lingers, unconvinced. His gaze hardens, the thought of waving it off flickering across his face.

Aramaki sees it, feels it, and snarls. “Don’t stop it! I know the round’s about to end… just let me back to my corner.”

The answer, too sharp, too coherent, makes the referee pause. He sees that Aramaki isn’t gone yet. With a reluctant nod, he steps back and chops the air.

“Box!”

But Ryoma doesn’t move. He stays where he is, cool and composed, glancing back at his corner. Two seconds isn’t enough to close the gap, and he knows it.

***

The bell finally splits the air. Relief and exhaustion crash over Aramaki as he trudges back, shoulders sagging, arms and legs like lead.

From the stands, the crowd erupts, not in triumph for Ryoma, but in sheer awe that Aramaki is still standing.

The noise is uneven, messy, but swelling, a raw chorus of disbelief and support.

“Aramaki, hang in there!”

“Don’t quit now!”

“You’re still in this!”

What started as scattered cries builds into a rough, defiant roar, as if the spectators themselves refuse to let him fall.

In the blue corner, Masato Kanda and his assistant wait. They don’t rush to him. They don’t even step forward.

They just stand there, faces tight with irritation. To them, Aramaki isn’t a fighter to protect. He’s a tool, one they expected to crack Ryoma with cheap tricks he’s refused to use.

Their silence isn’t concern. It’s disappointment, edged with contempt. And instead of offering praise for surviving, Masato greets him with venom.

“Why’d you even bother getting up? Still dreaming you can fight him on equal ground?”

He then leans in, lips curling into a sneer.

“Was that not enough to open your eyes? Your boxing’s ugly. Crude. Borderline stupid. Those three wins you brag about? Nothing but stubbornness against weak-willed rookies. This is your ceiling, Aramaki. Right here.”

Aramaki doesn’t answer. He lowers himself onto the stool, jaw clenched. But Masato doesn’t stop, thinking he may be able to convince Aramaki to follow his instructions by pushing him further.

“Guts alone won’t save you,” his voice cuts sharper. “Never enough when you’re too damn stupid, too damn slow to dodge the same heavy swing twice, coming from the exact same angle.”

That one lands deeper than the punches. Aramaki’s gloves tighten against his thighs, his jaw twitching.

“You think it’s just me?” Finally, he lifts his eyes, voice rough but steady. “That I’m too slow, too dumb? If you can’t even understand why I didn’t see his punches… maybe you’re not that good of a Second after all.”

The cutman freezes, glancing between them, while Masato’s face tightens, the sneer wavering just a fraction.

Aramaki exhales through his nose, cutting the exchange short. He tilts his chin toward the cutman.

“My right eye. Work on the swelling. I’m not totally blind, but he knows how to make his punch disappear.”

The cutman startles, then scrambles for the ice bag, pressing it against the puffed lid. Cold seeps in, sharp as needles, but Aramaki doesn’t flinch.

“Figures. You only know what to do after I spell it out for you,” Aramaki adds. “Don’t even know if you’re qualified to be a Second… or a cutman.”

The words hang heavy. The cutman lowers his gaze, hands stiff against the swelling. Masato’s jaw ticks, irritation breaking through his mask of disdain.

He leans in just enough for Aramaki to hear, voice low and final. “I already know how this fight ends. You lose. And worse, you didn’t even leave a scratch on our target.”

Masato straightens, brushing his hands off like the matter is already decided. His last words fall like a sentence:

“After tonight, we’re done. No gym’s going to take you in. You’re finished.”

Aramaki doesn’t argue. Deep down, he admits part of this mess is his own doing, his mistake for ever agreeing to throw his lot in with them.

The only reason he’d accepted Kirizume’s offer was because the terms had seemed simple enough. Win the fight. And if not, at least injure Ryoma.

He had convinced himself he could manage that much, dig in a few crushing shots to the body, leave Ryoma too battered for the next round, without resorting to cheap fouls or tricks.

But the truth is undeniable now. The gap between them yawns like a canyon, impossible to bridge.