VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Up in the VIP section, Marcus Hale slowly turns toward Logan Rhodes, face twisted in baffled disgust.

“…What the hell is this?”

Logan tries to force a smile. “Don’t look at me. The kid insisted on planning his own entrance.”

When Ryoma finally reaches the mat at ringside, the drumbeat halts. The arena falls into absolute silence, unnatural, suffocating. Even Masuda’s supporters can’t find their voices.

Just before Ryoma steps onto the ladder, he pauses at the foot of the ring steps.

Hiroshi moves in behind him without needing a word.

With the quiet precision of a king’s attendant, he lifts the robe from Ryoma’s shoulders, peeling it away and folding it carefully against his arm.

Ryoma doesn’t look back. He simply inclines his head, the smallest acknowledgment of trust. Only after he steps through the ropes does the eruptive roar begin.

The Cruel King Army, over a thousand die-hard fans, nearly half the entire venue, ignite into their thunderous chant:

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

“Long live the Chameleon King… crown of the cruel, rule of the ring!”

The note vibrates through the hall, even the lights seeming to quiver. Then it ends, clean and final, like a signal that the king has taken his place… and silence is the proper tribute.

Frank Donovan watches it, expression shifting with genuine surprise. “…Kid knows how to pull gravity,” he mutters. “If he really planned this and they follow him like it’s gospel? Logan, that’s money on legs.”

Logan exhales, relieved at the approval. “Let’s hope he can fight as well as he enters.”

***

The lights brighten again as the ring announcer steps through the ropes, suit shimmering under the spotlights.

He lifts the microphone, waits for the noise to taper into anticipation, and then his voice booms across the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen…The following bout is the main event of the evening!”

The arena swells, Masuda’s fans erupt in raw, thunderous cheers.

The Cruel King Army, however, remains silent. They do not try to compete. Their hush is deliberate, a disciplined act of reverence, the quiet reserved for their king.

“In the blue corner… fighting out of Okayama, Japan!”

A spotlight drops sharply onto Masuda Kokushi, still as stone, gloves resting on the top rope.

“He stands at 174,2 centimeters, weighing in officially at 61.1 kilograms…

At twenty-six years old, he brings to the ring a professional record of…

Twenty-six fights, twenty-one victories, and eighteen big wins by way of knockout!”

The cheers erupt like cannon fire from his supporters.

“And tonight… he carries the name bestowed upon him by fans and fighters alike…

’Hakai-no-Kami’—the God of Destruction!

MASUDA… KOKUSHIIIIIIIII!”

Masuda raises one glove, not cocky, just acknowledging his faithful. Even now, even with the air thick with tension, he looks every bit the destructive machine they say he is.

And then the noise rolls through the arena like a wave, before silence begins to fall again, all eyes shifting toward the red corner.

“And in the red corner…

Record: six fights, six wins, four by knockout…

Standing at 173.6 centimeters, officially weighing in at 61.2 kilograms…

Twenty years old…

The man they call the Cruel King of Korakuen Hall.

Ryoma ’the Chameleon’ Takeda!!!”

The arena quakes as the Cruel King Army explodes, this time with permission of course. Thousands rise, banners shaking and flapping, voices merging into a single roar that hits the air like a physical force.

Ryoma doesn’t play to them. He simply loosens his arms with a slow exhale, rolls his shoulders once, and throws a short burst of shadowboxing.

Wsht, wsht!

Wsht, wsht, wsht, wsht!!!

Only a handful of punches, compact and efficient.

But it’s enough for Frank Donovan to make his initial assessment.

“…Sharp,” he mutters. “Sharper than in the replay.”

His gaze drifts, first to the ridges of Ryoma’s obliques as the boy pivots, then down to the calves that tighten with each shift of weight.

When Ryoma walks toward the center at the referee’s signal, Frank studies the back muscles rippling under the arena lights, smooth, balanced, and cleanly sculpted.

“This ain’t the same frame he had last fight,” Frank says, turning to Logan. “In the video you sent, he was built for flow, for slipperiness. That made sense for his style.”

He tilts his head, observing Ryoma as he walks back to the corner.

“But this…” Frank continues. “Clean muscle. Added mass. And the kid still moves like his feet are on ball bearings… but more weight usually means slower steps.”

And then he scoffs. “It doesn’t add up.”

Marcus Hale shrugs. Logan Rhodes stays silent, trying not to smile.

Frank continues, half to them, half to himself.

“Talent and discipline. You almost never get both in one fighter. And whoever’s molding him, built him to this… that’s real coaching. Real structure.”

He looks at Logan again, genuinely perplexed.

“You sure this kid’s training under some low-class management?”

Logan lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug. “Good trainer doesn’t equal good management. And good management doesn’t mean good business. Or good politics.”

He then nods toward the ring.

“In this sport, talent and coaching alone don’t guarantee anything. You know that as well as I do.”

Frank doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue either. His eyes just slide to Nakahara’s team, and then back to Ryoma, who stands perfectly still, breathing slow, gaze fixed ahead.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” one commentator beams. This is your main event! Masuda Kokushi, the God of Destruction… and Ryoma Takeda, hailed as the Cruel King. One destroys everything standing in front of him. The other tries to defy fate itself.”

“This…” the second commentator says, voice lifting with excitement. “This is the kind of fight that decides whose era begins tonight.”

The bell rings.

Ding!

The two men step forward.

And the commentator drops the line that seals the mood:

“God’s destruction and the King’s defiance… Let the judgment begin.”

***

The bell has barely finished ringing when Masuda storms out of his corner, claiming the center of the ring with the authority of a man used to dictating the pace.

His stance lowers, orthodox, coiled tight, movements sharp and rigid like a compressed spring waiting to snap.

He expects Ryoma to circle away, to glide along the perimeter like he did in his previous fights.

But Ryoma steps in instead, meets Masuda right at the center.

They stand close enough that the red arc of Ryoma’s range, projected by the system, almost grazes Masuda’s lead foot.

Masuda smirks. “You think you are safe there?” Then he fires a crisp one-two.

Ryoma reacts in time, and…

Dsh! Bom!

The impact rattles his guard, forcing Ryoma back one step. Even through the gloves, the destructive force tells its story, and so does the reach.

>

The voice of the Vision Grid System flickers through Ryoma’s head like a dry joke.

>

Ryoma absorbs the data, and shifts his stance. He squares slightly, lowers his center of gravity, left hand floating a bit forward, right hand tucked neatly by the chin.

Then his new rhythm begins, not a wide dance, no sweeping steps. It’s just the slightest bounce of his lead foot, while the rear foot stays on the spot. His weight rocks forward and back in tight, economical pulses.

Masuda narrows his eyes, reading, measuring the subtle sway, the deceptive stillness, the shifting pocket of range Ryoma creates without moving his back foot at all.

He knows even that subtle shift could ruin his read. So he tests it again, dropping his left glove just a touch, preparing a probing jab.

But before he can even let it go, Ryoma’s lead foot glides a fraction farther forward and…

Dhuak!

A stiff jab cracks straight into Masuda’s face.

His head snaps back, momentum cut clean. And by the time he blinks the sting out of his eyes, Ryoma is already sliding into a Philly Shell.

And another left flicks out, fast and sharp…

Dsh!

…whipping across Masuda’s cheek.

He tries to fire back, snapping a jab of his own. But suddenly Ryoma feels miles away again, already drifting back into that tiny pendulum rhythm from his squared stance.

Masuda pulls his right glove back mid-swing, blinking in doubt.