VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The red corner locker room is filled with noise, celebrate down the hall, laughing and shouting, the hollow thud of gloves slapped together.

Leonardo Serrano, who is going to fight for Super Featherweight final, is already shadowboxing, loose and confident, as if the night has only just begun.

But inside the blue corner locker room, the air is heavy.

Okabe sits first, collapsing onto the bench with his shoulders sagging forward, hands dangling uselessly on his sides. Blood still crusts at the edge of his mouth.

No one rushes him. No one knows what to say yet.

Ryohei stands near the lockers with Kenta and Aramaki, still wrapped in warmups. Both Kenta and Aramaki have no fight tonight. But they look like they just did.

“That was yours,” Kenta mutters finally, breaking the silence. “Everyone saw it.”

Aramaki nods once. “You dragged him into hell. You lost. But you have to be proud of yourself. No one believed you’d go that far.”

Okabe doesn’t answer. He just stares at the floor, his breathing finally slowing enough to feel the ache settle in.

Ryohei steps closer at last. He crouches in front of Okabe, meeting his eyes.

“You did enough,” he says quietly. “More than enough. You’ll get another shot.”

For a moment, Okabe’s face doesn’t change. Then something cracks, not loud, not dramatic, but only a small defeated exhale.

“They took it,” he says.

Then Okabe lifts his head. His eyes are red, not from tears, but from holding them back too long.

“They took it from me. I felt it. The low blow that never existed. The slip. The cards. It was already decided.”

He swallows hard, then adds, almost like an afterthought, “And they’ll do it to you too.”

The room stills, every movement pausing as if no one wants to be the next to speak. Ryoma narrows his eyes, having the same suspicions, but hasn’t voiced it out until now.

“You’re reading ghosts,” Ryohei says gently. “Bad calls happen.”

Okabe shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “You know how it is. They’ve never liked us. Not after how far we’ve pushed things.”

Nakahara doesn’t argue. He just exhales through his nose, eyes dropping for a moment before lifting again. Sera glances at him, then back at Okabe. No denial there, only a tight set to his mouth.

Kenta shifts his weight, arms crossing. Aramaki meets his eyes, and they share a brief look that says enough before both look away.

No one confirms it out loud. But no one laughs it off either.

But across the room, a few fighters from other gyms glance over. No one speaks, but their silence leans toward Ryohei’s words. Boxing’s unfair, sure. But rigged? Targeting one gym? That’s a step too far.

But Okabe keeps going on with his excuse. “They don’t want us winning. They don’t want Nakahara’s gym going any further than this.”

Before any of his gym mates can answer, a dry laugh cuts through the room.

“Well, that’s one way to cope.”

Kobayashi Ayano leans against the doorway, arms crossed, right eyebrow lifted slightly. Coach Takashiro stands behind him, casting a brief, disdainful glance in their direction.

“Lose a fight and suddenly it’s a conspiracy,” Ayano continues, his smile thin and mean. “Guess that’s easier than admitting you weren’t good enough.”

His gaze lingers on Ryoma, cold and contemptuous, carrying an old defeat that never healed.

“And what kind of gym lets a kid play coach in a Class-A final anyway?” Ayano adds.

“Small gym habits, I guess,” Takashiro says with a dry chuckle. “Desperation.”

Ryoma stays still, jaw tight, eyes forward. He knows better than to answer now. Nakahara shifts as if to speak, but restrains.

As the side that lost, they have no ground to stand on. They just swallow their pride, lets the words pass, and says nothing.

***

Moments later, the next bout plays out on the flat screen mounted high on the wall.

Ryoma watches it closely, noting the different referee in the ring. It follows protocol, clean and uneventful, offering nothing for him to judge one way or the other.

Serrano of Kirizume Boxing Gym controls the ring with an odd hypnotic rhythm; hands low, angles strange, footwork dancing between discipline and chaos.

He toys with Funai Mabuchi of Suruga Seaside Boxing Gym, slipping shots, countering from impossible positions, grinning like he’s enjoying himself.

It’s a one-sided fight, Mabuchi looking lost from the opening bell, always a step behind and never finding his rhythm.

Aramaki clicks his tongue softly. “Serrano’s gotten really good lately. He finally figured it out. Mixing solid fundamentals with that weird, unorthodox stuff.”

Nakahara answers without looking away from the screen. “Study him if you want. But don’t admire him too much. Believe in your own boxing first.”

By round seven, it’s over. A sharp, unexpected combination drops Mabuchi, and the referee waves it off without hesitation.

No controversy. Just fine boxing from Serrano, a dominating win.

**

Then comes Lightweight.

Kobayashi Ayano versus Iwata Yoshiki of Kawagoe Central Boxing Club.

Ayano walks through fire to get there, eating shots early, his guard loose, almost careless.

“Bold approach from Ayano,” one commentator notes. “He’s giving ground early, maybe too much.”

Iwata doesn’t waste the invitation. From the opening bell, sharp flicking lefts snap out again and again, quick and accurate, never overcommitted.

Cheekbone. Brow. Temple.

The same lane, over and over.

“Nice jabs,” the second commentator adds. “Iwata’s touching him up.”

Ayano feels every one of them, but he doesn’t chase. He watches instead, letting the rhythm repeat.

Step in, flick. Step out. Reset. He nods once, as if filing it away.

By the second round, the jab keeps landing clean, tapping just above the eye.

“That eye’s starting to color,” the first voice observes. “Ayano’s paying for this patience.”

The third round sharpens it. The flicks come faster, snapping into the same swelling patch of skin.

“And there it is,” the commentator says as Ayano blinks, vision narrowing. “Right eye swelling up now.”

By the fifth, it’s nearly shut, the cost of waiting, and a price Ayano seems willing to pay.

By the sixth, Iwata starts to believe it. He presses harder, jabbing toward Ayano’s blind side, stepping in with growing confidence.

“Looks like Iwata’s found something,” a commentator notes. “That right eye has to be an issue.”

Iwata dips in again, a fraction too close this time. And Ayano fires on instinct, a short compact punch he barely sees land.

Dsh!

It snaps Iwata’s head back. His feet falter. Ayano turns and sees it clearly now: Iwata rattled, balance gone.

“There it is!” the commentator shouts.

That’s when Ayano steps inside, the patience finally breaking loose, and takes the opening before it disappears.

“Die you fucker!”

His left hand surges up from low to high, a smashing rise that jolts Iwata’s guard open, and his right arm comes down immediately after, chopping through from above.

BUGH-BOOM!!!

It’s a single rush, two blows colliding from opposite angles in the same breath.

And Iwata drops flat to the canvas.

“That’s it!” a commentator shouts. “The Crushing Double Strike!”

“Ayano finishes it with his trademark… sending a message,” the other commentator says.

The knockout is brutal. Clean. Undeniable.

Iwata lies still as the referee waves it off, and Ayano is already on the ropes, arms thrown wide, chest heaving. He roars into the lights, into the noise, demanding the moment as the crowd surges to meet him.

***

When he comes back to the locker room through the door, his face looks battered, eye nearly closed.

But he throws his arms wide like a king returning from war. He roars, loud, deliberately aims his glaring eyes onto Ryoma.

“That’s the ticket,” he says, voice hoarse, satisfied. “Sinichi Yanagimoto is next. You’re already behind now. Catch up if you can.”

Ryoma doesn’t a word, but something tightens in his chest.

With that win, Ayano has secured a title shot, one he should have earned long ago but the champion kept sidestepping him.

And a quiet regret coils in Ryoma’s gut. He should have entered this tournament too. Not because it was an easier path, but because a tournament win leaves no room to dodge.

It’s a title shot the commission guarantees, a ticket the champion can’t deny.