VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The inside of the arena still feels loose, unfinished. Rows of empty seats stretch upward, ushers standing with their hands folded, more hopeful than busy.

Okabe cranes his neck, scanning. “We can basically sit anywhere, right?”

Ryohei nods, already stepping sideways into a better angle. “Front is too obvious. Back’s pointless. Somewhere with a clean view, but not dead center.”

Meanwhile, Kenta’s eye move more carefully than the rest, gauging sightlines, exits, habits drilled into him by years of corners and waiting rooms.

And that’s when he spots it. Aki, two sections down, waving her arm just a little too enthusiastically for someone who’s supposed to be working. When Kenta notices her, she doesn’t stop, just switches to a subtler motion, fingers beckoning.

Kenta exhales. “…Of course.”

Ryohei follows his line of sight. Then his eyes widen. “Wait.”

Okabe squints. “Is that…?”

With cap pulled low, collar turned up, sits Nakahara, very focused on not being noticed.

Ryohei’s grin spreads instantly. “Oh. This is too good.”

Okabe is already moving. “He said he wasn’t watching.”

They peel off without warning, leaving Kenta mid-step. Ryohei cups his hands, stage-whispering as they approach.

“Coach! Fancy seeing you here!”

Nakahara stiffens. Slowly, painfully, he lowers his collar just enough to glare at them.

“…Sit down.”

Okabe beams. “So you are watching.”

“I am sitting,” Nakahara snaps.

“Watching very intensely,” Ryohei adds.

Meanwhile, Aramaki is still standing, eyes locked on the ring, barely registering what just happened. It takes a firm nudge from Kenta to pull him back.

“…Huh?” Aramaki blinks.

“Let’s take a seat,” Kenta mutters, steering him along.

By the time they reach the row, Aki is already smiling like she orchestrated this from the start. Tanaka and Sato shift to make room, amused rather than surprised.

“Well,” Aki says lightly, “looks like we’ve got a full table.”

Nakahara sighs, long and tired, staring straight ahead. “…I hate crowded divisions.”

Ryohei grins. “But you love crowded seats.”

The opening bell cuts him off.

Ding!

Nakahara’s head snaps up. “Quiet,” he says flatly. “Or go talk somewhere else.”

“Okay, okay,” Ryohei mutters, dropping into the seat on Nakahara’s right.

Okabe slides in on the other side—, nly to be stopped mid-motion by a firm hand on his arm.

“Move,” Nakahara says.

Okabe freezes. “What?”

Nakahara points without looking. “You. Over there.”

He gestures at Aramaki.

Aramaki blinks. “Me?”

“Yes. Sit here.”

Okabe’s mouth falls open. “Hey! That’s favoritism!”

Nakahara finally turns his head. “This is his division.”

“So?”

“So he watches it properly.” Nakahara pats the seat. “Here, right beside me.”

Aramaki hesitates, then sits, eyes already drawn back to the ring.

Okabe slumps into the next seat over, arms crossed. “Unbelievable.”

Nakahara doesn’t bother lowering his voice. “If you don’t like it, go sit somewhere else.”

Okabe clicks his tongue, but stays put as the fighters step forward, gloves touching, the fight already unfolding in front of them.

Nakahara clears his throat, straightening slightly. “For the record,” he says, eyes fixed on the ring, “I didn’t come here for Shimamura’s fight. I came for this. It’s important for Aramaki’s future.”

Aki, Tanaka, and Sato exchange a glance, and then promptly look away, shoulders tightening as they struggle not to laugh out loud.

***

Back in the ring, the fight starts with slow pace. Takata Eisaku, the top ranker, glides to center ring with small precise steps, shoulders loose, guard high but relaxed. From the opening second, the distance belongs to him.

Sonoda Eizan tries to claim ground immediately, edging forward behind a tight guard, chin tucked. He’s compact, coiled, the posture of a man who wants to shorten the fight and turn it into pressure. But every step he takes is met with Takata’s jab, long, probing, not thrown for damage, but for ownership.

Dug. Dug.

Dug. Dug. Bug. Dug.

The jab snaps Sonoda’s head just enough to disrupt his rhythm.

“Good control early by Takata,” the commentator notes. “He’s establishing range right away.”

Takata circles clockwise, never crossing his feet, never letting Sonoda set his stance. When Sonoda finally commits, dipping his shoulders, trying to slip inside, Takata slides half a step back and threads a straight right down the middle.

It lands clean, sharp enough to draw a murmur from the crowd.

Sonoda grunts, presses forward again.

But Takata doesn’t retreat in a straight line. He angles out, pivots, taps the body with a flicking jab, and then resets. Every exchange ends on his terms. One punch, sometimes two, and then gone.

“Textbook out-boxing,” the second commentator adds. “Takata’s not giving him anything to counter.”

Midway through the round, Sonoda attempts to cut off the ring, stepping laterally instead of forward.

For a moment, Takata is near the ropes, and the crowd stirs.

But Takata answers calmly like what a veteran would; jab to the chest, quick hook upstairs, then a smooth pivot that leaves Sonoda swinging at air.

The distance reappears like a pulled curtain. Sonoda exhales sharply, frustration creeping in.

In the final seconds, Takata steps in just enough to score with a crisp one-two, then slides away as the bell rings.

Ding!

“A clear opening round for Takata Eisaku,” the commentator declares. “He’s showing exactly why he’s ranked number one.”

Sonoda returns to his corner tight-lipped. And Takata walks back smoothly, already in control.

Aramaki doesn’t clap, doesn’t breathe out. He just sits there, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the ring as if the canvas might suddenly open and swallow him whole.

Nakahara watches him from the corner of his eye. “Well?” he asks. “What do you think?”

There’s no answer. Aramaki’s still trapped inside his own thoughts. Nakahara then clicks his tongue and nudges Aramaki’s arm with his elbow.

“Hey.”

Aramaki jolts. “Ah, yes?”

“You look like you’re about to fight a ghost,” Nakahara says. “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing…” Aramaki hesitates, eyes still on the ring. “It’s just… the level…”

“It’s too high,” Nakahara finishes for him.

Aramaki swallows. “Y-yeah. I feel like… if I were in there, I don’t think I could land a single punch.”

Nakahara nods once, as if that answer was expected. “Takata looks dominant because he is, for right now,” he says. “Longer frame. Longer reach. He doesn’t need to force anything. Sonoda has to cross the river just to touch him.”

Aramaki’s hands curl slightly on his knees. His reach is shorter than Sonoda’s. And he knows what that means.

Nakahara continues, unkind but precise. “Against someone like you? That gap looks even worse.”

Aramaki nods silently, the weight settling heavier.

Then Nakahara speaks again. “But don’t get drunk on first impressions,” he says. “Super featherweight doesn’t keep kings for long. Rankings change because no one’s untouchable.”

Aramaki looks up, eyes searching Nakahara’s profile, clinging to the unspoken hope that a door still exists, somewhere he just hasn’t learned to see yet.

“Even Takata,” Nakahara adds. “Especially veterans. They all have habits. And weaknesses.”

His gaze shifts back to the ring. “And don’t you dare take your eyes off Sonoda. That man is good. He’s still in this.”

Aramaki nods again, this time sharper, more focused, his tension no longer just fear, but something closer to hunger.

***

Round two only deepens the gap.

Takata Eisaku settles into complete command, the kind that doesn’t look flashy unless you know what you’re watching. He drifts laterally, heels barely touching the canvas, eyes fixed on Sonoda’s chest rather than his head.

The jab snaps out again and again, not heavy, not reckless, but precise. Each one lands with a dull thud that halts Sonoda’s advance by half a step.

“Beautiful distance control,” the commentator says, voice rising with admiration. “This is what a top-ranked out-boxer looks like.”

Sonoda tries to adjust. He dips, throws a probing hook to the body, attempts to angle in. Takata responds immediately, one step back, a straight right down the middle, and then gone.

Aramaki’s throat tightens. This isn’t just defense. It’s a complete denial.

Takata varies the rhythm, double jabs followed by sudden pauses that freeze Sonoda mid-step. When Sonoda lunges, frustrated, Takata meets him with a check hook and spins out, leaving Sonoda punching air.

“Ohhh, that’s experience!” the other commentator exclaims. “Sonoda can’t find the door. Every time he thinks it’s open, Takata shuts it in his face.”

Round three brings more urgency from Sonoda, and more composure from Takata. He leans on Sonoda in the clinch, steals seconds, and then resumes picking him apart at range. A clean right hand snaps Sonoda’s head back, drawing a ripple of noise from the crowd.

“Takata Eisaku is putting on a clinic,” comes the call. “This is championship-level control.”

And Aramaki feels smaller with every exchange.

He imagines himself in Sonoda’s place, trying to slip the jab, trying to step in with a spear to the body, trying to force close range.

In his mind, none of it works.

And if this is the man guarding the rankings, standing on the gate…

Then what kind of monster waits at the top?

The bell ends the third round, but the pressure doesn’t lift. It settles heavier on Aramaki’s chest, a silent reminder of how far the climb still is.