VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The two commentators react in perfect sync, their voices colliding with the roar of the crowd.

“Wooo… what a trade!”

“That was dangerous!”

The hall gasps as one. Then the sound fractures into a hundred murmurs, bewildered, breathless, but alive.

What had been a dull methodical contest a moment ago suddenly explodes into madness.

“Both punches land clean, but Aramaki’s the one who finally drops!” one commentator calls, half-standing.

“Yeah, that’s Junpei’s first knockdown tonight,” the other answers quickly. “That wipes out Aramaki’s earlier knockdown. Junpei just stole the momentum right back. He’s dictating the pace now.”

“But wait,” the first says, his voice lowering. “Look at Junpei. He didn’t come out of that unhurt.”

“Right… you can see him clutching the side there. He’s hurting bad.”

Still, none of that dulls the crowd’s fever. The audience has been starving through seven rounds of grinding attrition, and now they have their oasis: a clean simultaneous exchange that shakes both men to their cores.

And the one who feels the most excitement could be Logan Rhodes, now holding his grin hard. Junpei finally pulled out a miracle when he thought a while ago that Aramaki might win this fight.

Back in the locker room, Ryoma stares at the screen with a jaw so tight the muscle near his temple twitches. He doesn’t blink, and his hands are clenched into fists that never quite unclench.

“Come on, Aramaki,” he mutters under his breath. “You’ve been through worse. Don’t tell me that counter hurts more than my knuckle.”

In the ring, the referee hesitates. He hasn’t begun the count yet, and for good reason.

Junpei is still there, standing upright, but barely. He’s bent slightly to one side, one hand pressed hard against his ribs where Aramaki’s hook landed.

His left arm trembles, and his legs threaten to give out beneath him. He’s grinding his teeth, every breath scraping against something sharp inside.

“Back to your corner,” the referee says, waving him off gently.

Junpei nods once, tries to draw in a deep breath. But the air catches halfway, twisting the pain even tighter.

He forces himself to move anyway, staggering toward the neutral corner. His stride is uneven, shoulders pitched forward, the world tilting around him.

The metallic taste of blood in his mouth confirms what he fears: something inside has torn open. His ribs could have been broken.

He glances toward his corner. Junji’s eyes are already locked on him, reading everything; the stiffness, the pallor, the hand pressed too long to one spot.

Junpei wants to signal him, to confess that it’s bad, but he can’t risk it. If Aramaki catches even a hint of weakness, it’ll be blood in the water.

***

Meanwhile, Aramaki hasn’t moved. He’s down on folded knees, slouched over, both gloves limp against the mat.

His head hangs low, sweat and blood dripping onto the white canvas. The sound of his breathing is ragged, like a saw dragging through wood.

Then his mouthpiece slips free and hits the floor with a small clatter, an oddly delicate sound that slices through the din.

And it startles him back into the moment.

“Three!” the referee calls, voice echoing over the arena.

Aramaki doesn’t rise. He stares at the blurred scuffs on the mat beneath him, almost entranced.

And somehow, the quiet inside that exhaustion feels…good. It’s cool, and peaceful. For the first time tonight, he feels still, feels comfort.

If possible, he just wants to sit there forever, being in peace with his exhaustion.

But then, the sour expression in his older brother’s face resurfaces in his mind, disrupting his current comfort.

The disgust, contempt, it burns the calm away in an instant.

“Five…!”

He feels the mountain anger, not entirely at his brother, but at the mistake he did in the past with Kaori. The sin that made them casted out of the family, that’s now affecting their baby.

“Nanako…” he mutters, grabbing the fallen mouthpiece.

The thought alone slams into him harder than Junpei’s punch ever could.

“Seven…!”

The pain from Junpei blow is still there. But to him, it can’t be compared to everything he has endured so far, as a boxer, as a man, as husband and father.

That punch gave him chill, but he knows, there’s still cold back at home. And he doesn’t want to keep them live in that shack forever.

“Eight…!”

He rises, slow and furious, putting back the mouthpiece into his mouth.

“Nine!”

Aramaki lifts his gloves, and the ref steps forward, scanning his eyes.

“Are you okay? Can you still fight?”

“Yeah… I’m not done.”

The ref searches him, and it’s clear in his eyes, Aramaki isn’t finished yet. There’s anger in them, the kind that if he stops the fight now, Aramaki might explode.

Then there’s Nakahara’s voice beaming from the apron. “Don’t stop it now, Ref! That’s the first clean blow he’s taken all night. He’s endured worse, and you know it!”

The official hesitates, and then nods. He’s seen Aramaki fight before. The man’s built from punishment itself.

“Box!” he shouts, slicing a hand through the air.

Aramaki snaps his gloves up, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on Junpei. He’s breathing fire through pain, the stubborn kind that doesn’t fade even when the body begs to.

But his legs still feel like sandbags. He needs time, just a few seconds to gather them back beneath him, to weather what’s coming.

Across from him, Junpei hasn’t left the neutral corner. He knows Aramaki’s hurt, and the window is open. It’s the perfect chance to end it.

But he doesn’t move.

He’s trying, but his body refuses. His left arm is dead weight against his ribs.

His right arm hangs over the top rope outside the ring, the shoulder trembling uncontrollably. His breath comes short, each one thinner than the last.

Both men are damaged, but they stand their ground, stubbornly.

The crowd knows their story: both had fallen short in the rookie tournament, both had carried that same bitter scar into tonight. And now, neither intends to taste defeat again.

A few voices call out. They’re not cheering for one man or the other anymore. They’re cheering for both.

“There are not many rounds left. You can do it!”

“You did good coming back from that one, Aramaki. Don’t stop here!”

“You too, Junpei! You’ve done a great job. It’s such a waste to stop now.”

It’s rare, almost sacred, this kind of moment in a fight, when rivalry dissolves. The audience, without meaning to, begins to root for courage itself.

Thousands of strangers exhaling their respect in unison, acknowledging the worth and resolve of the two men still standing.

“Hang on, you two!”

“It’s not over yet!”

Then, there’s movement in the ring. Junpei leaves the cornerfirst, still thinking about to end it.

“One more punch…” he mutters under his breath. “Just one more punch.”

Aramaki just stands there, gloves high, guard tight, trying to survive at least until both of his feet come back to life.

Once Junpei steps into his range, he shifts his stance, raising his left, intending to send that snapping jab.

But he stops mid-motion, his face winched.

The pain in his ribs prevents him from snapping that left.

And Aramaki sees it, knows that Junpei is hurt too.