VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The arena erupts into chaos. Spectators spring to their feet, rows upon rows of craning necks, a sea of bewildered faces twisted between shock and outrage.

A murmur builds, rolling like distant thunder until it swells into an unshaped roar.

“What’s going on here?”

“Why’d the referee stop the fight?”

“Did he get hurt?”

But no, the crowd can see it clearly. Junpei’s face is unmarked, his skin still fresh under the harsh lights, no blood, no swelling.

And down in the ring, Junpei himself is raging, his arms flung wide in fury.

“What the hell… why did you stop it? I still can fight! I almost got him there!”

Sure, he’d felt Serrano’s fists pounding through his guard, tossing his body like a pendulum. But his fists still burned with fight, his head still clear, and his will unbroken.

He storms toward the referee, eyes wild.

“I’m fine! Look at me… I’m fine!”

His voice cracks with desperation, the disbelief of a man robbed. But the referee just shakes his head, refusing to meet Junpei’s gaze.

“It’s over. It’s done.”

Junpei shouts back, pounding his chest with his glove. “Don’t lie to me! My legs are steady… look!”

But the referee keeps retreating, palms raised, eyes set. “I saw it. Your legs were giving out. I had to protect you. This isn’t an easy call, but your life comes first.”

Junji also bursts into the ring, shoving past officials, his cutman right behind him. His voice slices through the din.

“Protect him? He was fighting back! You should’ve seen it!”

The cutman jabs a finger at the referee, spitting words in fury. “You stole the fight from him! You stole it!”

Still, the referee stands firm, his voice drowned by the uproar. “I stand by my decision. His safety is my responsibility!”

The crowd answers with a deafening wave of boos, pouring down from the stands, rattling the air like a storm. Plastic cups and crumpled programs rain toward the canvas.

“You should have let him fight!”

“He wasn’t finished!”

“This is rigged!”

“How much they paid you?”

At ringside, the commentators struggle to contain the madness, their words stumbling over the noise.

“This is… unbelievable. The stoppage has shocked everyone here.”

“Yeah, I… look, we can only assume the referee saw something we didn’t. Maybe Junpei’s legs… maybe a sign of danger. It’s hard to justify this one.”

And finally, with no better explanation, they settle into the weakest of closures.

“The referee must have had his own considerations.”

“But this is going to be controversial for a long time.”

Meanwhile, Serrano stands frozen in his corner, blinking in bewilderment. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his chin, but his fists hang idle. The fight is over, though he can’t quite grasp how.

From behind, Shigemori claps a firm hand on his shoulder. “Good work, Leo. You did it.”

“What?” Serrano mutters, eyes darting. “I… won? That’s it?”

Shigemori nods, smiling like it was all by design. “Yeah. Ref stopped it to protect him. In boxing, that’s a Technical Knockout.”

Serrano’s mouth stays half open, no words left. Sure, he’s heard of TKOs, he’s watched fights stopped before. But this doesn’t feel like that.

He replays it in his head: he hadn’t landed clean after the knockdown. His punches had been wild, but not one flush on Junpei’s face.

In fact, he’d been cursing under his breath, frustrated at how impossible Junpei’s head was to catch. And he remembers, Junpei was mid-swing when it ended. A punch Serrano was almost certain he couldn’t have stopped.

The thought gnaws at him, bitter and sharp. What if that fist had smashed into his face? What would have happened then?

He swallows hard. “…so I won?”

His gaze drifts back to Junpei. The man’s face is twisted, veins straining at his temples, lips curled in rage.

Junpei’s eyes burn not just with anger but with a raw torment, like a beast chained just as it was ready to strike, denied its final roar.

***

Eventually, the ring announcer’s voice cuts through the uproar, declaring Serrano the winner by technical knockout. The words land flat, drowned beneath a wave of boos.

Junpei doesn’t stay to hear the rest. He climbs out of the ropes, head bowed, his gloves dangling at his sides. His team follows behind with heads held up.

The aisle stretches before them like a tunnel. The spectators rise as Junpei passes. Some clap, some cry out in protest, others chant his name in showing encouragement.

“Raise your chin, Junpei! You fought your heart out!”

“This isn’t over.”

“You didn’t lose tonight. Not really.”

But Junpei never lifts his head. He keeps his gaze low until he disappears from their sight.

In the locker room, Junji is still seething, slamming the door shut with a loud slam. Ryoma and his teammates tense, exchanging looks.

“Protect him?” Junji scowls. “Protect what? He was still fighting! They stole it from us!”

By the look of it, Ryoma can see that they lost the fight. But something that puzzles him is Junpei. He returns unscratched, his face clean, no visible injury can be seen from him.

Even Ryoma’s Vision Grid also gives the same assessment, that Junpei is still fine, still has enough tank to last at least until two more rounds.

Before he can ask any question to them, the door creaks open. Aramaki steps inside, and Ryoma straightens in surprise.

“Aramaki! You’re here?”

But Aramaki doesn’t answer. He steps closer to Ryoma, but his eyes linger on Junpei, the sympathy plain in his gaze.

“It’s such a bitter experience for him,” he mutters.

Ryoma frowns. “So… you watched the fight? What happened?”

Aramaki’s jaw tightens. His voice comes low, edged with bitterness. “The referee ended the fight when he still standing. I even saw him almost deliver a counter.”

Ryoma’s breathe catches. He doesn’t need further explanation. He knows so well what Junpei must feel.

He once felt bitter when Nakahara threw the towel when he almost beat Renji, and that was only a sparring.

“They stole the fight from him…” Ryoma mutters.

Aramaki nods grimly. “Yes. And I know with 100% certainty, it was Kirizume’s doing.”

Nakahara squints. “Kirizume?”

“He’s pulling strings, protecting his boy,” Aramaki adds, keeping his voice low. “The ref out there? I believe he’s part of it. They are making sure Serrano reach the Rookie King final.”

Aramaki glances at Junpei again, then back to Ryoma. “I walked away from Kirizume before, because I wouldn’t play along. But Noguchi? He’s still with them. And you’ll be fighting him under the same referee.”

The room hangs heavy with Aramaki’s words, until Nakahara breaks the silence with a sharp scoff. His arms cross, his brows low with skepticism.

“Come on… Kirizume would go that far? Rigging a rookie tournament? Just to win a cheap little crown?”

Aramaki’s eyes flick toward him, calm but cutting. “It’s not about winning the tournament.”

Hiroshi leans forward. “Then what?”

Aramaki doesn’t answer right away. He exhales, weighing the words in his throat, like each one might cost him something. Then his gaze narrows as he reminds them.

“Remember what you said before. How hard it’s been just to arrange a fight. And right now, the only reason Ryoma’s even here is because this tournament is official, run by the association.”

The team exchanges uneasy looks, the reality sinking in.

Suddenly, an official appears, calling for Ryoma to get prepared. Nakahara gives a nod, but Ryoma isn’t leaving the bench.

“If I win this tournament,” Ryoma says, his tone grim. “Everything changes. Doors open. Promoters come calling. We’ll stop being an outsider, and they’ll have no choice but to give us fights. But if we lose here…”

Nakahara exhales long. “I know… Your career will stall out. It’ll be twice as hard to arrange a fight for you.”