VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Now that Aramaki’s fight has ended, Kenta rolls his shoulders as he starts to warm up. His body answers, but sluggishly, every movement weighed down by a faint unwelcome laziness he can’t quite shake.

When Aramaki finally steps back into the locker room with the rest of the team, Coach Murakami and his camp greet him with polite applause and warm nods.

“Congratulations,” Murakami says, pride steady in his voice. “You’ve improved a lot, Aramaki.”

Aramaki accepts it with a humble smile. “It’s thanks to everyone at the gym. And of course you too, Coach Murakami. I wouldn’t be here without all of you.”

And then, a staffer peeks inside. “Kenta Moriyama, you’re up in about ten minutes.”

Kenta nods and returns to his shadowboxing. Noticing it, Nakahara steps toward him, sliding on the mitts as he approaches.

“Alright,” he says quietly, lifting his hands. “Let’s loosen you up.”

He starts guiding Kenta through light, easy combinations, just enough to ease the tightness without forcing anything.

But Nakahara soon catches the tension in Kenta’s shoulders, the stiffness in his timing. He assumes it’s the natural tightness of a fighter who hasn’t been under the lights for over a year.

“It’ll feel strange at first,” Nakahara says calmly. “Don’t rush it. Use the first round to settle in, feel the ring, feel the crowd. Let the fight come to you. There’s a big crowd out there. But you don’t have to fight them. Your opponent is still one boxer only.”

Kenta nods, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah… I’ve never fought in front of this many people before.”

They continue the session, gloves tapping, breath steady, Kenta focusing on each movement, trying to ignore the heaviness lingering in his muscles.

The dull fatigue from hauling crates all morning still lingers, not enough to worry him, but enough to make every movement feel a little less eager than usual.

Moments later, the same staffer returns, leaning in through the doorway.

“It’s time.”

Kenta exhales slowly, a long breath meant to sweep away the doubt still clinging to his chest. He nods once, firm but quiet, pushes the uncertainty aside, and steps toward the door.

Ryoma, sitting on the bench, watches Kenta pass by. His eyes narrow slightly, not out of concern, but because something in Kenta’s steps catches his attention.

There’s a faint sluggishness, barely noticeable to anyone else. Even his Vision Grid doesn’t show anything dramatic, just small inconsistencies in balance and timing, the sort that could vanish with adrenaline…or it could just get worse with strain.

“Kenta,” Ryoma calls out.

Kenta pauses, glancing back.

“Yes?”

Ryoma opens his mouth as if to say something, but doubt flickers across his expression. Whatever he sensed feels too vague to bring up.

Instead, he leans back and lets out a casual sigh. “I’m getting bored sitting here. Just end it quick, will you?”

Kenta huffs a small laugh. “I’ll try,” he says, waving it off as if it’s nothing.

But once he steps into the hallway, away from Ryoma’s eyes, his thoughts drift in a direction he doesn’t entirely like.

He isn’t excited, not the way he should be before a fight. All he really wants is for this match to be over quickly so he can go home, lie down, and sleep.

Just a quick finish. That’s all he hopes for.

***

Kenta stands at the doorway to the aisle, the metal frame cold against his shoulder. The moment the staffer swings it open, a harsh spotlight floods over him, washing out everything else in blinding white.

At the far end of the walkway, past the light and the haze, Park Hyun-seok is already inside the ring, bouncing lightly on his toes, waiting.

The commentators jump in immediately:

“Here he is… Kenta Moriyama, back after more than a year away from the ring!”

“He hasn’t fought in ages, but he’s been in every corner for the past season, helping Nakahara’s fighters. Let’s see what he brings tonight!”

But Kenta barely hears them. Their voices reach him thinly, muffled, like drifting through water.

And the ring, it feels farther away than usual. Too far.

When he steps out, the silence hits him harder than the spotlight. There are no cheers, only a wash of indifference from thousands of strangers who don’t know his name.

Maybe a handful recognizes him, but if so, they’ve already forgotten his last fight.

Even Ryoma’s diehard Cruel King Army doesn’t react, because they don’t really know him.

They’d watched Aramaki’s exhibition match against Junpei before, and that single fight had left a mark deep enough to remember him by.

But Kenta? To them, he’s just another undercard fighter.

“Not many cheers, huh?” Nakahara murmurs beside him, almost amused. “Good. Less pressure this way.”

Kenta nods faintly and begins walking down the aisle.

But then…

“Ni-chaan! Kenta ni-chaaan! Over here!”

The voice cuts through the hall like a thrown pebble in still water.

Izumi, standing with his mother in the middle rows, waves both arms wildly. His mother tries to mirror the excitement, though her voice is softer, anxious.

“I… I hope his opponent isn’t too strong…”

“He’s fine! Kenta’s strong!” Izumi fires back.

And then he shouts again, louder, brighter:

“Kenta ni-chaaan!! Here!!”

The entire hall hears it, because the hall is quiet enough to let the boy’s voice rise like a spark.

Kenta turns at the shout and lifts a hand. Izumi answers with an excited, frantic wave. Then Kenta spots his father; arms crossed, face sour, offering nothing. The sight stills Kenta’s hand, uncertainty creeping in.

But still, the simple gesture softens the atmosphere in the hall. A ripple of warmth spreads, some people start clapping.

A couple of spectators call out teasing encouragement:

“Hey, big brother! Give your little bro a good fight to brag about!”

“He came all the way here to see you. Don’t embarrass him!”

Finally, someone from the Cruel King Army reacts. Kenji Matsuda, their leader, lifts both fists toward the sky, and roars out the nickname he just crafts in seconds.

“ONI-ANIKI! Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap!”

“ONI-ANIKI! Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap!”

“KENTA! KENTA! KENTA! Clap-clap, clap-clap, clap!

“ONI-KENTA-ANIKI!!!”

A low, rhythmic clap follows, building into a proper chant as more fans join in, curious, amused, then genuinely fired up.

Kenta freezes for a heartbeat, genuinely bewildered. The chant swells as more spectators join in, the weight of their voices crashes onto his shoulders.

He places his foot on the ring steps but lingers on the mat longer than he should. The pause is small, yet enough for Nakahara to notice.

The old coach exhales with a weary groan as Kenta finally climbs into the ring.

“This isn’t good… no good at all.”

Inside the ropes, the ring announcer finishes calling Kenta’s name.

Kenta hears it and lifts his glove in a polite wave, doing his best to appear composed. But every eye in the hall presses down on him at once; his family, the unexpected chant, and the pressure he didn’t think he would feel tonight.

***

When the bell finally rings…

Ding!

It hits Kenta harder than it should.

He walks to the center, but the movement feels off; slow, stiff, as though his body reacts half a second behind his intentions.

A commentator picks it up immediately. “Kenta steps out, but he looks a little tight… let’s see how he settles.”

Kenta starts reminding himself that his family is watching, that he needs to look sharp, that ending the fight quickly would make everything easier.

I need to show them something.

Izumi’s watching.

End it quick. Don’t embarrass them.

Just finish it fast.

Those thoughts push him forward, but they only tighten his muscles further. He forces the pace, bringing his guard high and throwing jabs with more speed than control.

They come out heavy and rigid, as if he’s trying to punch through his own nerves.

Across from him, Park Hyun-seok reads him almost immediately. He sees the tension in Kenta’s shoulders, the slight delay in his balance, the openings that shouldn’t be there.

Kenta throws another hard jab, trying to break the distance.

But Park calmly knocks it aside and commits fully to a straight right.

Kenta sees the motion too late. And the cross crashes into his face with a sharp, echoing crack…

Dhuack!

His head jerks sideways, and his footing gives way in an instant.