VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The hall hasn’t settled since the last fight ended. Even as the cleanup crew wipes the canvas and the announcer prepares for the next bout, people keep talking, restless exchanges that bounce around the seats.

Some journalists are still debating the stoppage. Then there’s Tanaka and Sato, sitting side by side like they always do, more animated than anyone else in their section.

“Now think about it,” Tanaka says, leaning closer, “Ryoma and Ayano used to share the same locker room, right? You think their rivalry started from there?”

Sato nods. “You remember when Ryoma won the East Block Final? Ayano wouldn’t let it go—claimed the judges got it wrong.”

Tanaka chuckles. “But he took the real MVP in the All Japan Final. So he had the right to talk about it.”

“That’s only because Ryoma forfeited,” Aki chimes in. “Or else, he would’ve also claimed it again.”

Sato smirks. “You are not the only one who thinks that way.”

Tanaka taps his finger against his drink cup, grinning. “So this isn’t just another fight. This is years of pride coming to settle the score.”

The air feels heavier now, not noisy, just expectant, like everyone’s waiting for something big to happen.

A few groups of Ayano’s supporters gather near the blue-corner aisle, leaning over the rails with mischievous grins.

“All right, so what’re we throwing when he comes out?” one asks, grinning. “Can’t waste the chance to rattle him.”

“’Go back to the gym, rookie!’ maybe?” another suggests, snickering.

“Nah, too tame. How about, ’Prodigy my ass!’ or ’crybaby’, ’mama boy’, ’a coward’”

“You guys suck at this. We should hit him where it hurts. Something like… ’Don’t choke again, pretty boy!’ That one’ll sting.”

“Ohhh, that’s good,” says another, eyes lighting up. “Or ’Ayano’s gonna humble you tonight!’”

They burst into laughter, feeding off each other’s energy.

Then the arena darkens, and a single spotlight snaps toward the blue-corner corridor.

Ryoma and his team finally emerge.

The Ayano fans ready themselves, grins wide, mouths opening to let loose their practiced mockery.

But before the first word can leave their lips, the air shakes. A deep, thundering rhythm rolls through the arena; drums, hundreds of voices, rising as one.

“RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA! RYO-MA!”

It’s not just loud; it’s overwhelming. From the upper stands, banners unfurl, stark white against the dark, painted with bold black letters:

“RYOMA — THE CRUEL KING.”

The jeering group freezes, wide-eyed.

“…What the hell is this?”

“Where did all these people come from?”

“Damn… Guess we’re outnumbered.”

Their laughter dies away, swallowed by the chant that rolls over the arena, a roar too big to fight with words.

***

The chant keeps swelling, shaking the air until the floor itself feels alive beneath everyone’s feet.

The cameras pan across the stands, flags waving, faces painted, flashes popping like lightning.

“Just listen to that crowd!” A commentator beams. “This place is absolutely electric! You can see now why the JBC decided to move this main event to Ota Gym. They knew this one would draw a storm.”

“And they were right,” the other one adds. “It’s a full house tonight. Not a single empty seat in sight!”

“What a moment for the Ota Gym, too. Hosting an atmosphere like this puts them right back on the national map.”

“This isn’t just another regional fight anymore. It feels like a championship night.”

This time, the officials do something different.

The ring announcer begins Ryoma’s introduction as he walks down the aisle, the kind of treatment usually reserved for main events or champions.

“Now making his way to the ring, representing the Nakahara Boxing Gym in Tokyo!

The MVP of the East Block Rookie Tournament in the Super Featherweight division…

Now stepping up to Lightweight!

At twenty years of age, standing one-hundred seventy-three centimeters tall.

Officially weighing in at sixty-one point two kilograms…”

The chant only grows louder as Ryoma steps forward under the spotlight, the drums syncing perfectly with each measured stride.

And the ring announcer continues:

“With a perfect professional record; five wins, no defeats, four of those wins by knockout!

The pride of Tokyo… Ryoma ’The Chameleon’ Takeda!”

Unlike in his previous fights, Ryoma doesn’t ignore the noise tonight. Still composed, still calm, he lifts one hand and makes a slow full wave around the arena, a silent gesture of gratitude to the thousands chanting his name.

“Look at that,” one commentator says, almost in awe. “For someone his age, that’s incredible composure.”

***

Then, the lights dim once more.

A single spotlight shifts toward the red-corner corridor. The sound system erupts with a grand cinematic cue, the kind reserved for legends walking into battle.

Ayano steps into the hall with his team, bathed in crimson light. His movements are confident, rehearsed, like a man certain of his place at the top.

He takes a slow look around, smiling with self-assurance. “Nice setup. Didn’t think they’d make it this grand.”

A few seconds later, his fans start chanting his name.

“AYA-NO! AYA-NO! AYA-NO!”

But compared to the roar earlier, it sounds thin, almost polite. But Ayano doesn’t notice, didn’t hear the previous cheer for Ryoma.

So he just plays it up, waving as he walks the aisle, even taking a picture with a girl who leans over the barricade.

Then he gives his trademark grin, a playful wink before he moves on.

Ryoma’s diehard fans notice, and they don’t take kindly to it. And suddenly, one voice cuts through the noise, deep and commanding:

“RYO—MA! RYO—MA! RYO—MA!”

Ayano glances up, a faint sneer tugging at his lips. “Heh… just one guy yelling his name?” he mutters, brushing it off.

Then the war drums ignite again, pounding in rhythm.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Ayano pauses mid-step, his chest lifting, eyes softening. For a moment, he thinks it’s for him.

But slowly, his smile falters, confusion flickering across his face as he realizes…

“RYO–MA! RYO–MA! RYO–MA!”

…the drums aren’t beating for him. They’re keeping time with Ryoma’s name.

The sound hits harder this time, spreading from the upper stands to every corner of the hall. Ayano’s eyes dart around, trying to make sense of it.

The proud swagger from seconds ago fades into a puzzled stare. And the commentators can’t help but react, their voices carrying that mix of amusement and restraint.

“Haha… looks like Ayano might’ve thought that one was for him.”

“Well, you can’t blame him. With that kind of entrance, anyone would think the drums were part of his fanfare.”

Their laughter slips through the mics, polite but undeniable, matching the awkward irony playing out in the ring aisle.

Ayano turns slightly, looking toward the blue corner, where Ryoma stands calm under the lights.

The commentary picks up the tension.

“He doesn’t look so happy, it seems.”

“He has the reason to. Ayano’s the All-Japan MVP, the headliner of tonight’s show. But you wouldn’t know it from that sound. Right now, this feels like Ryoma’s house.”

Ayano forces a smile again, trying to play it off as he walks toward the ring. But his shoulders are stiff, his grin tighter now.

Inside, he can’t help but feel the jealousy building up once more.

“Fine. Let them cheer,” he mutters. “I’ll tear you down before your own crowd and prove who’s the real MVP.”