VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The closing ceremony commences. Cameras roam lazily, announcers read from the safe, and the hall fills with that polite low-volume applause reserved for award banquets and public funerals.

Fighters line up for photos, faces stretched into the weary civility of men pretending to enjoy someone else’s victory.

When the envelope opens for Most Valuable Fighter, the presenter’s grin locks into place, the practiced brightness of someone paid to sound thrilled.

“And this year’s All-Japan Rookie King Most Valuable Fighter is… Kobayashi Ayano!”

Ayano steps forward before the last syllable lands. Gloves off, towel slung over one shoulder, he moves like a man who assumes the spotlight was built for him.

He takes the trophy without waiting for the cue. Then, before the presenter can even inhale for the next line, Ayano already snatches the microphone.

“Thanks,” he says, calm and conversational, perfectly at ease, as if taking someone else’s mic is the natural order of things.

The presenter freezes beside him, smile caught halfway between polite and terrified. Ayano lets the moment breathe, the single word hanging in the air until every lens in the hall tilts his way.

Then he glances toward the stands, where a few loyal fans still wear Ryoma’s name like a lost cause.

“Funny thing about awards,” he says. “They’re for the ones who earned them, right? For the ones who fought for them.”

A ripple runs through the crowd. The press box murmurs. Someone near the front coughs a warning that he ignores.

Ayano’s smile twitches upward, more blade than curve. “East Block gave theirs to Ryoma Takeda! And sure, he had his moments. But trophies don’t mean courage. They just mean someone wrote your name on time.”

A few quiet boos float up. Ryoma’s small loyal cluster does their best to defend him.

“He ran away,” Ayano adds, soft but cutting. “You can give a medal to an empty chair, but you can’t award a fight that never happened. That trophy? It belongs to the one who stayed.”

Now the boos rise properly, not moral outrage, just the crowd enjoying a scene. Still, Ayano stands through it, unmoving.

“And since he’s decided to move up,” he says, turning slightly toward the cameras, voice steady, “I’ll go find him there. Lightweight, right? I’ll prove who the real most valuable is. Let’s see if he stands this time… or runs again.”

That’s the spark, half the room cheers, only a small number of fans jeer. The announcer coughs into his mic, JBC officials exchange that please-don’t-go-viral look.

From the pressbox, Aki already writes a headline on notebook: “MVP Declares War: Ayano Challenges Ryoma Takeda.”

Tanaka mutters beside her, “That’ll trend. Hope they really make it happen.”

Ayano tucks the trophy under his arm and walks off the stage. Every step says “You’ll be writing about me tomorrow.”

The presenter clears his throat and tries to resume the script, but the ceremony is over, and the story’s already left the ring.

From the mezzanine, Ryoma watches it play out. The noise rolls up in waves, all heat and ego, and somehow it reaches him even here.

Aramaki leans on the railing, following his gaze. “Well, that’s one way to call you out.”

Ryoma’s eyes stay on Ayano, who’s strutting offstage with the trophy tucked under his arm like a stolen wallet.

“Guy talks a lot,” he says. “Guess we’ll see if he hits as hard as he runs his mouth.”

Aramaki chuckles. “You’re enjoying this.”

Ryoma’s grin fades, but the spark behind it doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I kinda am.”

***

Ayano’s declaration does exactly what it was meant to do. It hijacks the entire boxing community. Promoters smell business before the applause even dies. The challenge is all anyone talks about now, because controversy always pays better than sportsmanship.

Before this, Ryoma’s name has already been a trending overseas, thanks to the wild clips from his fight with Serrano. And now, with Ayano calling him out, the two stories tangle into one profitable headline.

Speculation floods social media and boxing columns alike. Both Serrano and Hiroyuki are officially promoted to Class-A, after surviving ten rounds of organized violence. Meanwhile, the Most Valuable Fighter Kobayashi Ayano remains stuck in Class-B, though nobody seems to think he’ll stay there long.

The JBC’s statement:

“We recognize Kobayashi Ayano’s skills to be of Class-A standard, but protocol requires a test bout before official promotion.”

It sounds professional, reasonable, which only convinces everyone that something else is being arranged behind the curtain. Most fans call it what it is: a pretext for a blockbuster event.

And they’re right.

By mid-January 2016, Nakahara’s office phone rings. He answers with his usual half-grunt, pen still tucked behind his ear.

“…Yes, Nakahara speaking.”

“Uh-huh. Right… Ryoma Takeda? Of course. Yes, Lightweight now.”

Then he pauses, rubbing his chin. “That’s the plan, huh? A-License Promotion bout for both?”

“…I see. You want a twin card.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll be ready.”

The line clicks off. Nakahara exhales through his nose, stares at the receiver for a beat, then turns toward Hiroshi.

“They’re doing it,” he says. “JBC’s matching Ryoma with Ayano for the A-license test. Aramaki’s in too. He’s fighting Junpei.”

Hiroshi blinks. “Wait… How is that possible? Aramaki lost in the first round of the rookie tournament.”

“They don’t always judge by how far you go in the tournament,” Nakahara says. “They look at the fight itself. And the way Aramaki pushed Ryoma that night, that’s reason enough to give him a shot at Class-A.”

Hiroshi frowns. “What about the others?”

Nakahara exhales, regretting. “Kanzaki and Noguchi are already Class-A material, but they are no longer around. Serrano’s got his A-license secured. The rest, JBC’s setting them up for B-class promotions.”

Hiroshi falls silent, the weight of it settling in. “Ryoma and Aramaki… You think they’re doing this for the business?”

Nakahara’s lips tighten into something between a grin and a grimace. “Yeah. Double the fights, double the ticket sales. Guess we’re the main attraction now.”

He steps out into the gym. The air hits him, sweat, leather, the rhythmic thud of gloves against sandbags.

Ryoma and Aramaki are both at it, pounding away in opposite corners like they’re trying to erase gravity.

He watches for a beat, then raises his voice just enough to cut through the noise.

“Hey! You two can stop pretending this is just another day.”

Both look up, breathing hard.

And Nakahara smirks. “Congratulations. You’re officially fighting for your A-license. Both of you.”

Ryoma doesn’t look surprised. The JBC had already made the statement after he forfeited the All Japan Rookie Final.

Aramaki, on the other hand, just blinks, slow and stunned, before pointing a finger at his own chest.

“Wait… me?”

“You are fighting Junpei Teshima from Shinryu Boxing Circle.”

Ryoma glances at Aramaki, eyebrowr lifting. So it circles back after all, Aramaki versus Junpei, just like in his previous life. Same matchup, just different event, a few months late.

Then he turns to Nakahara.

“What about me?” he asks, the smile flickering, unsure whether it belongs there.

“The main event,” Nakahara lifts his chin, smiling. “Against Kobayashi Ayano.”

Ryoma’s smile falters for half a breath. Then it shifts, a small dangerous grin spreads instead, eyes bright with something that looks a lot like anticipation.

“So… you two up for this?” Nakahara asks.

Ryoma gives a single nod. Aramaki hesitates, and then does the same.

Nakahara’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Good. I’ll call JBC and give them our answer.”