VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The old man keeps bowing anyway, offering sympathy before shifting to gratitude for the crowd. It was his first event at this scale, and undeniably a success. But he knows he didn’t achieve it alone.

He approaches the referee, the ring announcer now climbing in with a ring girl behind him, thanking them one by one. Then to the commentators, to the judges, to the staffers around the ring.

As he circles around, he reaches the side where Logan stands, still clapping with practiced smile.

“Congratulations, Nakahara-san!” Logan calls out.

That draws Nakahara’s attention. But immediately, his gaze shifts past Logan, to the man standing beside him.

His eyes narrow. Recognition spreads slowly across his face.

“…Frank Donovan? What is he doing here?”

Nakahara’s smile wavers, the muscles in his face stiffening as his thoughts race ahead of him. Logan’s words from two months ago return like a cold wind behind his ears:

“You should consider letting Ryoma go.”

Back then, Nakahara brushed it off, clinging to hope and optimism. But now, with Frank Donovan standing beside Logan like some silent shadow, there is no mistaking the truth.

Logan brought him here for one reason: to scout Ryoma.

Logan catches the shift in Nakahara’s expression. A strange, almost mischievous smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, far too knowing to be innocent.

“You’ve done a great job, Coach,” Logan says, gesturing subtly around them. “Look at this crowd. Not just sold out… but look at their faces. Ryoma ended it early, very early, and yet they’re still losing their minds.”

Nakahara doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t need to. The thunder of approval is all around him, and he’s lived long enough to recognize satisfaction in the air even without seeing it.

This crowd is feeding on the spectacle Ryoma created. The kid delivered again, another monstrous, unforgettable win. And Logan, with his foreign eyes and polished smile, is here to steal him away.

Nakahara doesn’t like the idea. He doesn’t like how casually Logan acts as if Ryoma’s future is his to decide.

And he definitely doesn’t like the second foreigner standing beside him, Frank Donovan, tall as a wall, watching everything with an unreadable smirk.

Still, Nakahara must acknowledge Logan’s role in making this event possible.

“No, no…” he waves his hands, letting an awkward smile break through. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without NSN’s help. Truly, thank you, Logan-san.”

He gives a small bow, polite but quick, then excuses himself and moves on, offering the same gratitude to the rest of the ringside staff.

***

Masuda is gone, wheeled out on a stretcher. And with his exit, the standing ovations begin. Not from everyone, of course. Masuda’s loyal fans stay rooted in their seats, arms crossed, refusing to clap.

The contenders Ryoma humiliated during the press conference? They stay stiff as statues. They do not applaud. They simply stare, eyes filled with contempt.

Hatred still burns in them, but something else now simmers beneath it: recognition. An acknowledgment that Ryoma is no longer someone to dismiss.

“What now, Hisashi?” Harada murmurs to the first contender beside him. “Masuda failed miserably. Think you can handle that kid?”

Hisashi gives him a side glance, scoffs, and turns away. “Why don’t you try? I’ve got my hands full with my fight against the Champion.”

Meanwhile, the ring announcer finishes his closing remarks. The microphone passes into the ring girl’s hands as she approaches Ryoma with cheeks flushed and nervous excitement in every blink.

“Congratulations, Ryoma-kun! You won again,” she says, voice sweetened. “You ended the fight so early, yet your fans haven’t stopped calling your name. Any words for them?”

She offers the mic, eyes blinking rapidly, clearly smitten.

Ryoma’s Vision Grid flickers.

>

Ryoma, still wrapped in his emotionless shell, takes the mic without acknowledging the tease in his ear. He addresses the camera immediately.

“I know my fans have been amazing,” he says. “But first… let me say hi to my mom. Though honestly, I doubt she’s watching. She’s probably talking bad about me at the shop with my girlfriend.”

He cracks a faint smile.

“But anyway… thank you, Mom. And thank you, Kaede.”

The ring girl stiffens, her shoulders jerking as she forces her expression back to professional. The crowd catches the shift and erupts in whistles and teasing laughter.

Ryoma clears his throat, turning his attention to the Cruel King Army.

“To Kenji-san, and all the people behind him… Guys! We won the war! This wasn’t my fight alone! We did it together, exactly as planned!”

The Army responds not with a roar, but with their synchronized chant, loud and united.

“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 commentators pick up the rhythm between amused chuckles.

“Just as we planned? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Probably the theatrics. The way they set up his entrance. The atmosphere they created.”

“Oh… so it’s all psychological warfare?”

“Come on, we all know that’s how Ryoma Takeda wins. Mind games. And it works every time, doesn’t it?”

Ryoma raises his left hand. Instantly, the Army falls into silence, disciplined as a legion. But before he can speak, Kenji Masuda, still in the stands, calls out:

“It’s time to conquer Japan!!!”

Another voice joins from the opposite side. “Challenge the Champion next!”

Then another: “If he runs away again, beat all the contenders!”

Ryoma waves his hand downward, ordering calm. They obey immediately, like trained soldiers.

“Hey, hey… you guys,” he says lightly, “don’t say that. You’ll offend them.”

He strolls along the edge of the ring, letting his eyes sweep across the arena.

With the Vision Grid feeding him subtle data, he picks out each contender sitting stiffly in their seats, each one glaring daggers at him.

“They’re all here,” he says. “Look at their faces. They clearly don’t appreciate it.”

Then he stops. His gaze hooks onto a single figure in the crowd, at a man wearing a mask, half his face obscured. But his posture, his hair, his eyes, Ryoma has already processed it.

“And clearly not you, Champ!”

A ripple of confusion shoots through the arena. Heads turn. Conversations freeze. Every camera in the building searches for the masked man.

The commentators lean closer to their monitors.

“Who’s he talking to?”

“Did he say ’the Champ’?”

“No way… is that…?”

The man stiffens, glancing at the curious crowd around him. He clearly wants to leave. But there’s no escape now. Every aisle is clogged by spectators craning their necks.

At last, cornered by attention, he exhales and pulls down the mask. And a wave rolls through the entire arena, first a gasp, then a storm of murmurs.

“Oh my God…” the commentator breathes. “It is really him. Sinichi Yanagimoto. The Japan Lightweight Champion.”

“Hold on, hold on,” the other commentator jumps in. “Ryoma recognized him through the mask? From that distance? Just from his eyebrows and eye color?”

“But… he guessed it right, didn’t he?”

“And now that he’s been exposed, the Champ can’t just walk out. He has to respond.”

The moment stretches, thick with tension.

The Cruel King stands in the ring. The Champion stands in the crowd. And between them, the arena holds its breath, waiting for the next spectacle.