VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Even after that perfect finish and clean knockout, they still won’t let Ryoma rest. The reporters have him cornered, recorders and camera flashes aimed straight at his face.

“Takeda-san! What’s your impression of the All Japan Rookie MVP?”

“He’s famous for his destructive punches, and you actually took some of them yourself. But you still look fine!”

“It’s your first fight since moving up a weight class. How does it feel compared to Super Featherweight? Easier to prepare?”

Coach Nakahara steps in, half-joking, half-serious. “Hey, give my fighter a break. You’re throwing more punches than his opponent! You expect him to counter every one of you?”

The room bursts into laughter. Ryoma laughs too, though it twists into a wince; the cut on the corner of his mouth stings.

No one else can tell how much that third-round exchange really hurt. Only he knows how deep those punches landed.

Then Aki cuts in. “So, Ryoma-kun… what do you think of Kobayashi Ayano?”

Ryoma keeps his tone polite. “He’s a good fighter.”

“Yet you beat him in just three rounds,” Aki presses. “A lot of people said it was too one-sided. Did he really meet your expectations?”

Ryoma’s smile flickers, the kind that tries to hide discomfort. “Please, I was the challenger. He was the Rookie MVP. I didn’t make any expectation, just doing my best.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, boy!” a veteran journalist calls from the back. “We heard you were counting numbers during the fight. Sounded like you were toying with him, huh?”

Ryoma waves both hands quickly. “No, no… it wasn’t like that. It was strategy. I came up with it mid-fight. His guard was too tight, impossible to break. I figured I needed to provoke him, get him to open up. So I gave little cues, to make him react.”

The laughter dies. The scratching of pens begins. Cameras refocus, and the air shifts. They realize it wasn’t arrogance. It was calculation.

But they aren’t satisfied with just that.

Question after question, flash after flash, voice after voice, an hour crawls by. The locker room becomes a cage of light and sound. Every time he thinks it’s over, another hand goes up, another recorder pushes toward his mouth.

They even bring up the breakup between Ayano and his cornermen. It’s not Ryoma’s story to tell, but they keep pressing, hungry for another quote.

By the time the last question ends, the night outside is already deep and sharp with winter cold. The locker room smells of tape and sweat and exhaustion. And Ryoma’s face aches from smiling.

Still, when they finally leave, Ryoma turns to Nakahara with a grin.

“Coach, you promised the after-party, remember?”

Nakahara’s smile falters. “Ah… right. Where should we go?”

“Let’s do it at Shimizu’s soba shop,” Ryoma says. “I want to invite my mom, and Kaede too. Might as well help Shimizu-san’s business while we’re at it.”

***

It’s the first after-party Nakahara Gym has ever thrown. And they don’t hold back.

The soba shop is packed wall to wall, fighters, trainers, friends, and half the neighborhood crowding in for warmth and celebration. Even Aki and the two veterans, Tanaka and Sato, are still there with them.

Ryoma even breaks his vow and takes a few cups of sake. Nobody dares stop him now.

He stands on a chair, holding his cup high. “Our first big win of the year! Enjoy yourselves! Shimizu-san! Tell everyone outside to come in! Coach Nakahara’s paying for everything!”

“Hey, kid! You trying to bankrupt me?” the coach shouts, laughing.

Ryoma winks. “Then take it from my fight purse! Everyone… kampai!”

The shout echoes through the shop.

“KAMPAI!!!”

The windows tremble from their voices. Outside, snow starts to fall, soft, silent, and indifferent.

It’s a long winter night worth remembering.

But a night Ryoma will regret when the morning comes.

***

The next morning, the echo of “Kampai” still rings somewhere in his skull. It bounces inside his head, like someone tapping a spoon against the inside of a pot.

The room is dim. The thin winter light leaking through the curtain looks gray, not white. His bed feels like a swamp of heat and regret. The air smells faintly of sake and winter medicine.

Ryoma groans. His whole body is still protesting, every muscle itching, sore, as if someone replaced his blood with static.

“Man… my head’s still heavy.”

>

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“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just shut up already. You’re making my head spin even more.”

When he tries to roll over, his ribs sting from where Ayano’s hooks landed. The bruises are deep now, purple spreading under the skin like spilled ink.

On the floor beside the bed sits a half-empty bottle of Pocari Sweat, a cold towel, and a small bowl of rice porridge that’s already gone lukewarm.

He hears footsteps, soft ones, and the door slides open.

“Still can’t get up?” his mother says, voice calm but carrying that quiet edge of worry.

“Mom… you are still here? what about the shop?

“I’ll open the shop later. Customers can wait a day.”

“You don’t have to,” Ryoma croaks. His voice is rough, foreign. “It’s just a hangover.”

“Hangover doesn’t give you a fever.” She places the back of her hand against his forehead. “You’re burning.”

He blinks at the ceiling. The plaster above him looks like it’s slowly rotating.

“I’ll bring the doctor if it gets worse,” she says. “You shouldn’t have drunk that much, Ryoma.”

He gives a short laugh that immediately turns into a cough. “First time I broke my vow… figures I’d pay for it.”

She lets out a small laugh at the word “vow,” amused by how dramatic it sounds.

To her, it’s just a harmless promise from a good boy, never realizing that, in another life, her son had been a true drunkard.

She adjusts the blanket, tucking it around his shoulders, her touch brisk but careful, as if afraid of hurting him.

Down the hall, the kettle whistles. The sound mixes with the wind outside, a dry rattling whistle slipping through the window gaps.

Ryoma closes his eyes. Every sound feels magnified; the ringing in his ears, the faint crackle of his mother’s winter coat as she moves.

He’s not sure if he’s sweating or freezing. Both, maybe. The body can’t decide.

***

While Ryoma battles his fever at home, his name refuses to rest.

Magazines, newspapers, and late-night sports shows keep replaying his fight; slow-motion breakdowns, headline debates, endless replays of that third-round finish.

Even the boxing forums are alive with chatter, fans spinning theories about the future of Japanese boxing and whether Ryoma is its next big hope.

Both his fever and the fever from the fight itself linger for a week. And while he’s confined to bed, the boxing world outside keeps turning.

The national spotlight shifts to a new storm, the upcoming title bout between Yanagimoto Shinichi and Naegi Jurobei, the top two ranked lightweights in Japan, battling for the championship left vacant by Renji Kuroiwa. Their fight is set for April 18th 2016.

In the same month, Renji himself is scheduled to face Elliot Graves, an English contender ranked 9th in the WBA Lightweight Division.

The news sends waves through the scene, stirring excitement and speculation about the new balance of power in Japanese boxing.