VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The crowd holds its breath. The noise that filled Korakuen Hall moments ago collapses into a heavy silence, as if the entire building senses something dreadful about to happen.

Kobo cocks his right hand, twisting his shoulder, his gloves trembling slightly under the lights. He wants to prove he’s still in this fight, that exchange before wasn’t the end of his pride.

Across from him, Ryohei mirrors the motion. He sees a punch coming but he doesn’t raise his guard. He doesn’t even flinch.

His own right hand coils back like a loaded spring, veins bulging beneath the light, teeth clenched through the blood still running from the corner of his lip.

The commentators catch it at the same moment, voices cracking with disbelief.

“Oh no… they’re doing it again!”

“They’re both swinging for it!”

People in the front rows gasp, hands flying to their mouths.

The hall becomes a vacuum, a single shared pulse stretched tight between two men about to collide.

But Kobo hesitates for just a heartbeat, caught by the sheer madness twisting Ryohei’s bloodied face; those wide eyes, wild, almost smiling through the pain.

The sight freezes him mid-swing, his punch losing its snap, his timing breaking by a fraction. And that moment of fear is all it takes for Ryohei’s strike to land harder and sharper.

Dhuak!

Two fists land flush, exploding sweat and spit into the air.

But the recoil isn’t equal. Kobo’s head jerks violently to the side, his legs folding beneath him like a marionette with its strings cut.

Dug!

He drops to one knee, his right glove touching the canvas, his breath torn from his lungs.

“Down goes Maruyama!” one commentator bellows. “Barely two minutes into the first round, and they’re trading like madmen!”

His partner almost shouts over him, half horrified, half thrilled. “Another brutal exchange! Ryohei takes it clean and he’s still standing. What the hell is this man made of!?”

Kobo lifts his head slowly, the edges of his vision pulsing in and out of focus. And then, through the haze, he sees him, Ryohei, still standing in front of him, unmoving, looming like a shadow that refuses to fall.

Once his vision clears, he sees it again, Ryohei’s face. The same face that once smiled easily, now twisted into something so ugly.

Blood drips from his lip, his jaw twitching, eyes wide with something unholy as he stares down at him like an angry god.

It isn’t pain that Kobo sees there.

It’s fury. It’s hunger. It’s joy twisted into cruelty.

It’s the madness born by contempt and suppressed hatred, of a man whose pride has been hurt by a cocky brat.

“Welcome to the world of men, kid,” Ryohei growls.

***

The referee quickly steps between them, waving Ryohei toward the neutral corner.

“Back to your corner! Neutral corner!”

Ryohei obeys without a word. His steps are measured, deliberate, even as his head rings and his vision tilts for half a heartbeat.

The blood still glistens at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t wipe it away. He simply turns his back, the picture of cold composure.

Behind him, Kobo remains on one knee, frozen, still staring at Ryohei’s retreating figure. His breathing comes shallow, uneven, and in his ears, the referee’s voice fades beneath another…

“Welcome to the world of men, kid.”

Ryohei’s words echo, circling his mind like a curse.

He doesn’t even hear the referee’s count.

Far in the red corner, Shiki’s voice also cuts through the noise, hoarse and desperate.

“Kobo! Get up! Damn it, Kobo! Stand up! This is too early to give up.”

He’s shouting so loud his voice cracks, more furious than worried, as if rage alone could drag Kobo off the floor.

The crowd, though, doesn’t care for the drama of the red corner. They’re still roaring for Ryohei, their chant rolling like thunder

“Ryo–hei! Ryo–hei! Ryo–hei!”

At the journalist row, Tanaka exhales, half in awe, half disbelief. “What the hell was that exchange? He dropped him with pure spite.”

Sato nods slowly, eyes still fixed on Ryohei’s back. “This isn’t just about pride or tickets anymore. You can feel it. There’s history bleeding into this fight.”

Kobo still doesn’t hear the referee’s count until somewhere past “six.”

“…seven!”

Then he blinks, finally hearing the count. His hand scrambles for the rope, pulling himself up.

“…eight!”

He lifts his guard weakly, swaying but standing. The referee steps close, eyes sharp, searching his expression.

“You good to continue?”

Kobo doesn’t speak. His nose is bloody red, but he just growls, glaring past the referee at Ryohei, defiance written across his bruised face.

“Don’t stop it,” he says. “I’m fine. This is nothing.”

The ref hesitates, then nods and steps back, raising his hand.

“Box!”

The bell hasn’t rung, but something in Kobo has changed.

The fear is gone. What fills him now isn’t composure.

It’s rage.

***

The fight resumes.

Ryohei steps out from the neutral corner with quiet composure, his face still streaked with sweat and blood.

Across the ring, Kobo raises his guard high, tight and disciplined, almost desperate. But there’s focus in his eyes now.

He pushes himself off the ropes, one cautious step forward, then another, just enough to reclaim space.

And then Ryohei moves in. Like a tide breaking against a wall, he starts pouring in the pressure again, measured, relentless, heavy.

Bug! Bug! Bug!

Each thud crashes into Kobo’s arms and ribs, shaking his frame, echoing in the air like the beat of war drums.

From the commentator’s table, voices rise in excitement.

“Ryohei Yamada picking up right where he left off!”

“Those punches sound like cannon fire! Can Kobo even survive this?”

Kobo backs up by the pressure, and another voice cuts in, half shouting, half in awe.

“He’s cornered again! Is Ryohei going for a one-round finish here at Korakuen Hall?!”

The Cruel King’s Army chants louder, their rhythm syncing with every strike. Each punch, each roar, blurs into one massive pulse that shakes the ring.

But inside that storm, Kobo isn’t lost anymore.

This isn’t the trembling boy from a minute ago. The fear is gone, burned away by humiliation. What’s left is pure calculation, a man clinging to pride.

He tightens his guard not from panic, but from understanding. His elbows lock against his ribs, his gloves seal every gap around his face.

The body blows land hard, but he doesn’t flinch. He knows he can’t win this exchange, not yet.

His thoughts burn like a whisper in the dark.

Endure it…

Wait…

Just wait…

A left hook slams into his ribs. His knees bend and trembling.

His vision flashes white. But he bites down, breathing through his nose, refusing to give Ryohei the satisfaction of a reaction.

“You’re stronger now, huh? Fine…”

“I’ll outlast you.”

“When the time comes… I’ll pay you back.”

Another thud to the body, then a cross that crashes against his guard.

But Kobo grits his teeth, the sound of blood rushing in his ears louder than the crowd.

And then…

Ding!

The bell finally rings, preventing the fight end too early.

Kobo exhales sharply, still crouched, chest heaving, eyes burning holes through his gloves as he glares across the ring.

Ryohei lowers his hands, staring back.

For a moment that feels like an hour, neither man moves, neither blinks. Their gazes lock, two magnetic poles drawn together yet refusing to touch, bound by tension so sharp it almost sparks a blitz of lightning.

Round one ends, but the story that began tonight is far from over.