VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Junpei buckles up, no longer in his Philly Shell, but half-bent, back leaned to the pole, turtling behind his gloves.

Aramaki doesn’t stop. He hammers at the guard, blow after blow, not chasing points, just forcing Junpei to feel every ounce of pressure.

Then Junpei’s legs give way.

The bell rings…

Ding!

…and Junpei drops to the canvas.

“Whoa… down?” one commentator blurts. “Or did the bell save him first?”

“Nah,” the other replies, waving it off, half-skeptical. “Bell came first. Aramaki never landed clean. Junpei just dropped from relief, not damage.”

The referee steps in quickly, motioning Aramaki to the neutral corner. Aramaki’s eyes are locked on Junpei for a moment before turning away.

But Junpei isn’t down from relief. His legs tremble uncontrollably; his head swims, his lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

“You okay?” the ref asks.

“Yeah… just need… a second,” Junpei gasps.

The commentators keep talking, but their words don’t match what everyone can see. Junpei looks drained, eyes glassy, face pale, breathing ragged.

The crowd senses it too. The same audience that mocked Aramaki minutes ago now falls silent. Then, slowly, a few voices start to rise, scattered at first, then building, echoing from different corners of the hall.

“Come on, Aramaki!”

“You got him now!”

“One more round… finish it!”

The tide begins to turn, the sound swelling into a chant that rolls over the ring, raw and uncertain but real, a crowd rediscovering its faith in the man they had already counted out.

Then the two commentators start speculating that last counter Aramaki threw back in the corner, still sounding intrigued that sudden improvement.

“You saw what he did back there?” says one of them. “He actually pulled a pull-counter, against Junpei. Have you ever seen him doing that before?”

“No, Aramaki never set that up,” the other one waves if off. “Junpei just threw too early, and Aramaki read it!”

“Oh, that’s so… and Junpei’s paying for that impatience now.”

“Yeah, it’s the risk of throwing a counter. You miss the timing, you pay the price.”

***

Junpei’s cornermen are now inside the ring, grabbing him under the arms, helping him upright and back to the stool.

“Easy, easy,” Junji says, steadying him as they walk. “Don’t force it. Breathe slow.”

Junpei’s words come out between breaths. “Sorry, coach! I got impatient, and screwed up my timing with that counter.”

“It’s okay. That’s bound to happen. Just take it as a learning material.”

“Anyway. How… how did I go down?”

“He caught you with a hook,” Junji answers. “Don’t you remember?”

“I know that,” Junpei exhales, lowering himself onto the stool. “But how did he get me? I was in control. He barely landed anything. Then suddenly…”

Junji hesitates, wiping sweat from Junpei’s shoulder before speaking again. “You lost balance trying to step out of range, and he slipped in a gazelle punch. You did great blocking it. If it landed clean… you wouldn’t have gotten back up.”

Junpei goes quiet. The explanation doesn’t sit right. Something still feels off, something he can’t name.

And Junji sees the doubt, mistakes it for old fear resurfacing, the same shadow that’s haunted Junpei since his loss to Serrano.

Then he crouches in front of him, resting a hand on his thigh. “It’s fine. He scored a down, that’s all. The fight’s still yours. You’ve got the lead, three clean rounds before that one. Even in the fourth, he only landed a few solid shots. You’re still ahead on points.”

“Yeah,” Junpei mutters, staring at the canvas. “A few clean punches… and those few took almost everything out of me. Even the one I blocked, hurt like hell. My legs still won’t stop shaking.”

Junji studies him for a moment, then exhales and admits quietly, “I’ll take my words back. He’s not fighting like a rookie anymore.”

Junpei’s head lifts slightly.

“He’s just… got a reach disadvantage,” Junji continues. “That’s why he doesn’t rely on flashy technique or outside boxing yet. But he’s a damn good in-fighter. The way he rotates through those hooks… that’s clean textbook. You got careless once, lost your footing, and he seized the chance. That alone says he’s no rookie.”

Junpei blinks, the fog in his head clearing. It wasn’t luck, wasn’t just his own mistake. Aramaki was just good enough to make it happen.

“And his punches…” Junpei murmurs. “They’re heavy. Can’t you tell him to make them lighter?”

Junji chuckles. “Yeah, nothing we can do about it, can’t exactly ask him to punch lighter.”

Junpei lets out a small laugh, and the corner lightens for a brief moment. The tension fades, replaced by something close to respect.

Then his gaze drifts across the ring, to Aramaki who is calm in his corner. Junpei sees him differently now, not the rookie who once fell in the first round, but a man who’s earned his place here.

“He’s proven his worth,” Junpei says quietly. “He deserves that A-License. Whether he wins or loses tonight, JBC’s gonna give it to him.”

Junji nods, smiling faintly. “And so will you. You’re more than good enough, Junpei. You just need to believe it. Forget Serrano, forget the counter stolen by that incompetence referee. There’s nothing wrong with your boxing.”

Junpei breathes deep, steady this time. “Yeah…” He exhales slowly, nodding.

***

Across the ring, Hiroshi finishes icing Aramaki’s swollen cheek. The bruises are still there, but the swelling’s eased enough to fool the crowd. He looks fresher, at least from a distance.

Up close, though, his eyes betray it. Dissatisfaction burns quietly beneath the calm. And Nakahara sees it right away.

“Forget that missed chance,” Nakahara says. “Your gazelle punch was perfect. He’s just too good to block it cleanly.”

“No,” Aramaki mutters, shaking his head. “I missed the timing. Should’ve thrown it sooner, before he slipped out. I knew that right was coming, knew he’d use it to escape. But I thought too much about his counter… and screwed it up.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he did see something even he didn’t.

“But talking about it now won’t change anything,” Nakahara says. “That’s done. Focus on what’s next.”

“Hold on, Coach,” Aramaki cuts in. “I want to try it again.”

Nakahara frowns. “That’s dangerous. Junpei’s a counterpuncher. You’ve tried it twice already. Push it again and he’ll read it. You’ll walk right into his trap.”

Aramaki meets his gaze, unwavering. “He hasn’t realized it yet. I missed the timing. And he only ate my hook after I tagged his body. He probably thinks that’s all it was.”

“But his corner might’ve seen it,” Nakahara warns. “They could be telling him right now.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Aramaki says flatly.

Nakahara studies him, the air thick with seconds slipping away. “And if he does see it? If he baits you with a counter?”

Aramaki goes quiet, eyes lowering, weighing the options. But there aren’t many. This is his only way to break Junpei’s rhythm, to catch him right at that chopping right, before he slides away again.

He looks back up. “Ryoma once told me something,” he says slowly. “A counter hurts most when you don’t expect it. But if you know it’s coming, if you brace for it… you might take the hit and still return one of your own.”

Nakahara raises an eyebrow. “And you think you can survive that trade?”

Aramaki gives a small grin, the kind that hides equal parts pain and defiance. “Come on, Coach. I’ve eaten worse. Remember the Rookie Tournament? Ryoma punched me harder than anyone, and I held my ground.”