VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In boxing, fame is supposed to be the prize. But somewhere along the way, it becomes the price.

Every punch now lands on camera, every bruise is worth a few more clicks, and every reporter smiles like a man selling tickets to a funeral. The sport has stopped being about fists and started being about followers.

Ryoma and Ayano are next in line, two fighters who think they are chasing an A-license. What they don’t know is that the real contest has already begun: a popularity war.

Yes, popularity.

It’s the most fragile currency in the world. But it’s also the only currency that buys you a shot at the big game.

The JBC knew that. That’s why they turn Ryoma vs. Ayano into a spectacle, move it from the hall to the gym, light it like a festival, sell it like popcorn.

***

“Nakahara-san! Is Ryoma available for a quick comment?”

“Please, Coach! Just two minutes, that’s all…”

“Can you tell us how he’s feeling before the A-license match?”

The gym sounds less like a boxing hall and more like a fish market. Reporters crowd near the ring, shoes squeaking against the worn mats, cameras flashing in the harsh fluorescent light.

“Gentlemen, please.” Coach Nakahara raises a hand, voice calm, still holding onto his patience. “Ryoma’s still training. You’ll get your quotes later. For now, take some photos. Sure, you’ll have something to write later.”

“Ah, come on, Coach, just one line from him!” one reporter pleads with a grin, like they’ve known each other for years.

“Public wants to hear it straight from the man himself!” another chimes in.

“He’s the talk of the Lightweight Division right now, don’t make us look bad!”

Nakahara’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “I said he’s training. You interrupt him, you throw off his rhythm. You wouldn’t want that headline, right?”

But they don’t budge.

One laughs, waving a recorder lazily. “Relax, Coach. We’re not trying to steal your guy.”

“Yeah, we’re just doing our job,” another adds. “You know how it is… press, hype, clicks. It will help selling tickets.”

Nakahara’s finally raises an octave. “You think this is a circus? He’s a boxer, not your mascot. You want hype, go write fiction!”

The laughter dies. For a beat, nobody moves.

Then one reporter drops something bitter. “We’re just the middlemen in this circus. You should know how this business works. Where do you think the money that keeps it running comes from?”

That’s when Nakahara snaps.

He steps forward and shoves the reporter in the chest, not hard to hurt, but enough to make a point.

The man stumbles back, eyes wide.

“Out,” Nakahara growls. “All of you. Now.”

Hiroshi, Okabe, and Ryohei don’t wait for a second order. They rush in, pushing the reporters toward the door as protests flare up.

“Come on, fellas, interview’s over.”

“Alright, you heard him. Now please leave us alone.”

“Aw come on…!”

“Hey, don’t touch my gear!”

“Nakahara-san, Please! We’re just…”

The door shuts hard. Nakahara turns the lock.

From outside, the knocking starts again.

“Coach! Just one more question!”

“Come on! It’s just a promotional bout. Why making this bigger than it is?”

Inside, the gym breathes a long collective exhale.

Okabe breaks the silence first. “Well… looks like we finally made it.”

Hiroshi snorts. “Yeah. Fame feels like a rash.”

Nakahara rubs his forehead, muttering, “If this is being on the radar, I want off it.”

In the corner, Ryoma and Aramaki punch the sandbags. The room has gone still after the commotion, except for the steady thuds of leather hitting canvas and the faint voices of reporters still calling from outside.

Ryoma’s punches start sharp, but then slip, his rhythm falters.

Aramaki glances over, smirking between blows. “What’s wrong? Reporters throw you off that bad? Should I start calling you a celebrity now?”

Ryoma exhales, lands one more hit, then lets the bag swing on its chain. Sweat runs down his jaw as he leans a shoulder into the bag.

“This isn’t what I expected,” he mutters. “I know they try hard to sell. But damn… if this keeps going like this until the fight day, I’m afraid I won’t enter the ring in my best condition.”

From across the room, Nakahara’s voice cuts through. “Kid! Get back to work! Don’t let that crap get in your head!”

He wipes his hands on a towel, still glaring toward the corner. “You don’t want your momentum slipping just because people finally started showing up here. Let them talk. You train.”

Ryoma lifts his gloves again, jaw tight.

Aramaki chuckles slightly, throwing a short combination.

“Guess fame’s got a weight class of its own.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He steps forward and starts punching again, every hit louder than the last, until that’s the only sound left in the gym.

***

At Kawahara Boxing Club, the same day feels completely different.

If Nakahara’s gym was trying to keep the reporters out, this place looks like it sent out invitations.

Cameras flash around Ayano as he stands by the sandbag, hands wrapped, grin bright. He basks in it; in the noise, the questions, the attention.

The camera blitzes catch the sweat on his shoulders, making him look like he’s been training harder than he actually has.

One reporter shouts, “So, how’s your condition for the A-license match?”

Ayano laughs, showing off his teeth. “Condition? You don’t need to ask. You can see it. I’m in my best shape.”

The reporters laugh with him, feeding the performance. Someone asks him to show a bit of his power.

Ayano doesn’t need to be told twice. He plants his feet, throws a clean hook into the sandbag.

It jumps on the chain, the impact echoing through the gym. And cameras pop like fireworks.

“You see that?” he says, flexing his wrist and shaking out his shoulders. “That’s real power. None of that dancing-around crap. One clean shot, that’s all it takes.”

He lets himself being surrounded by people with recorders and notebooks, all nodding like he’s already won.

Then he throws another punch, slower this time, purely for show, as if he’s giving a lesson instead of training.

“You see how it’s done,” he says. “Keep your knees loose, rotate your hips and shoulders for momentum… and don’t forget to put your haki into it.”

He smirks, and then…

Bam!

The bag jerks on the chain. The reporters burst out laughing, some grinning wide, others trading looks.

They know what they’re watching, just a boxer performing for attention, explaining basics like a YouTube tutorial, talking about “haki” as if he’s in an anime instead of a gym.

They humor him anyway, cheering, throwing questions, egging him on. It’s all good material, the kind of arrogance that sells headlines.

“So what do you think about your opponent?” Someone asks. “First time he’s fighting after moving up to Lightweight.”

Ayano smirks. “The kid’s a coward. Everyone knows it. He ran away from the Final, and now the JBC had to force him into this fight. Bad luck for him, huh?”

A low murmur ripples through the group. That’s the kind of line they’ve been waiting for. Pens start scribbling, cameras shift closer.

Then one reporter pushes in. “So you’re saying he doesn’t belong in the same ring as you?”

Ayano tilts his chin up. “I’m saying he’s lucky to even stand there.”

“Then how do you see this fight ending?” another asks, voice rising with excitement.

Ayano grins wide, eyes glinting. He walks up to the sandbag and taps it twice with his glove.

“Third round. That’s all it’s gonna take.”

He steps back, cocks his arm, and slams a straight right into the bag so hard it swings nearly horizontal.

“Right here,” he says, holding his fist up. “Straight through his guard. He won’t get up.”

The reporters cheer and laugh, tossing more questions at him. Ayano laughs with them, soaking it in, already imagining the headlines.

From the back of the gym, his coach watches in silence, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t smile, nor does he bother to stop the show.

After all, every boast helps sell the fight. The ticket money won’t go to him anyway, but the attention will.

And in a sport where reputation feeds survival, a little noise is worth the trouble.