VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

As the JBC representative steps forward, the gold-plated Super Lightweight belt catches the arena lights, shimmering with a prestige that feels out of place amidst the carnage.

“The winner, by way of Technical Knockout… and the NEW JBC Super Lightweight Champion… RYOHEI YAMADA!”

The official drapes the heavy leather over Ryohei’s shoulder. But Ryohei’s body is so depleted he can barely keep it from sliding off.

He doesn’t raise his arms. He just stands there, a ghost of a man, his face a roadmap of purple hematomas and dried blood.

“And listen to that crowd!” the lead commentator shouts, his voice vibrating with the tension of the room. “I’ve seen upsets before, but never one that felt this… surgical. The Osaka fans are not just disappointed; they are insulted. To them, Umemoto was the king, and Yamada is just the man who happened to be standing when the king’s legs failed him.”

“Lucky bastard!” a voice screams from the front row.

Shouting and boos are followed by a shower of crumpled programs thrown toward the ring.

“Look at him!”

“He can’t even stand!”

“You’re not a champion, Yamada! You’re a thief!”

The resentment is palpable. The narrative Umemoto spun during the weigh-ins, that Ryohei was a fluke who rode a wave of luck through the Class-A tournament, has now become gospel in the EDION Arena.

Even as the referee raises Ryohei’s hand, the boos only grow louder, a toxic tide meant to drown out the reality of the result.

Yet, in small quiet pockets of the arena, a few spectators and journalists stand in silence, their hands clapping together in a slow respectful rhythm. They are the ones who saw the subtler war, the endurance required to stay in the pocket until the ’glitch’ could be forced.

But Shoji Hamakawa remains standing long after the others have begun to funnel out. His face is a mask of clinical detachment, his eyes never leaving Ryohei’s trembling form.

“What a waste of time,” Wakabayashi mutters as he stands up beside him. “There goes your big rematch, Hamakawa-san.”

He adjusts his jacket, looking at the ring with blatant disgust. “All that preparation for Umemoto, and now you’re stuck defending your status against… that.”

Then he shrugs. “At least your next title fight will be a walk in the park. Snatching that belt from a fluke like Ryohei Yamada will be like taking candy from a sick child.”

Hamakawa doesn’t respond immediately. He turns and begins to walk toward the exit, his movements fluid and relaxed.

“If I enter the ring with a mindset as shallow as yours,” he says casually, “I’ll find myself hiding my face like Umemoto is doing right now.”

Wakabayashi blinks, scurrying to keep pace with Hamakawa’s long strides. “Come on, Hamakawa-san. You can’t be serious. You saw it… Yamada was a punching bag for six rounds. He only won because of another lucky punch, just like in December. The guy is a fluke machine.”

Hamakawa stops at the top of the concrete stairs, the exit sign casting a green glow over his sharp features. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and looks back at Ryohei down in the ring.

“In this sport, there is no such thing as luck,” Hamakawa says, his voice low and chillingly calm. “Luck doesn’t land a hook in the nerve pocket under the ear while your ribs are being turned into dust. Umemoto lost because he was arrogant enough to eat too many ’weak’ counters. He let the cumulative damage build until his brain said enough.”

But then, a thin predatory smile slowly spreads across Hamakawa’s lips. It isn’t a smile of respect, but of cold supreme confidence.

“But of course,” he continues, his eyes glinting with a dark intelligence, “the same won’t happen to me. I’m not a simpleton who relies on brute force and pride. I’ll dismantle him before he even gets a chance to be lucky.”

He turns his back on the ring, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor, leaving a confused Wakabayashi to follow.

***

The heavy door of the locker room swings shut, instantly stifling the toxic roar of the EDION Arena. Inside, the silence is medicinal and heavy.

Ryohei sits slumped on the edge of the examination table. The championship belt, won at such a devastating cost, lies discarded on a bench nearby, entirely disconnected from the agony radiating through his body.

Nakahara paces the cramped space. His eyes dart nervously toward Sera, who stands motionless in the corner, arms folded tight across his chest.

Both men are haunted by a single date: August 24th, the massive event at Yoyogi National Gymnasium. Ryoma is already waiting there, and Ryohei is scheduled to be a centerpiece of the most prestigious undercard of the year.

But looking at Ryohei now; battered, pale, and struggling to stay upright, that date feels like an impossible distance away.

“Deep breath, Yamada-kun,” the doctor commands.

Ryohei draws air in, slow, shaky, and shallow. It burns, but it doesn’t click. There is no sharp stabbing sensation of a broken bone piercing a lung.

The doctor finally leans back, stripping off his latex gloves. “You’re a lucky man. Or perhaps just incredibly durable. The bruising is extensive. The intercostal muscles are badly traumatized, but I don’t feel any displacement. It’s a severe contusion, nothing more. No internal bleeding, no punctured organs.”

Nakahara’s shoulders drop as he exhales a breath he’s been holding since the seventh round. “So… he’s cleared? For August?”

“Pending tomorrow’s scans, yes,” the doctor says, packing his bag. “But don’t mistake not broken for uninjured. He’ll be pissing blood for a day or two, and he won’t be able to twist his torso for at least three weeks. He needs absolute rest before he even thinks about hitting a heavy bag.”

Sera checks the calendar on his phone, calculating the gap from May 18th to August 24th.

“Ninety-eight days,” Sera says. “Four weeks for the inflammation to subside, six weeks for a full-throttle camp. We’re cutting it close, but the window is open.”

Sera steps closer to Ryohei, looming over him. He doesn’t offer a hand of comfort. Instead, he points toward the door where the muffled sound of camera shutters and shouting journalists can be heard.

“The doctor says your body isn’t broken,” he says. “Now we go out there and prove to Japan that your spirit isn’t broken either. They’re going to call you a fluke. They’re going to say Umemoto gave you that belt. You have ninety-eight days to prepare for the man who wants to take it back, but you only have ten minutes to win over this room.”

Ryohei nods, wincing as he reaches for his shirt. The pain is a dull, throbbing roar, but the fear of losing the Yoyogi spot has vanished, replaced by a cold, quiet resolve.

“I’m ready,” Ryohei says, his voice raspy but firm. “Let’s give them their interview.”

***

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the press room is suffocating. Umemoto sits at the center of the raised platform, his posture unnervingly upright.

He doesn’t look like a man who just lost his crown. He looks like a king who has been momentarily inconvenienced by a technicality.

“Umemoto-san!” a reporter from Osaka Sports shouts. “The replay shows you were dominating every exchange. Then, one punch lands, and your legs simply… evaporate. Was it a hidden injury? Or did Yamada find a weakness no one else saw?”

Umemoto stares at the journalist, his eyes cold and unblinking. He waits for the silence to stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.

“A weakness?” Umemoto’s voice is a low, predatory growl. “I was fighting a punching bag for seven rounds. You saw the punch. It wasn’t a power shot. It wasn’t a tactical masterclass. It was a freak occurrence, a biological glitch. My brain sent a signal to my legs, and the signal was intercepted by a freak impact on a nerve.”

“So, you don’t credit Yamada for the victory?” another voice pipes up from the back.

Umemoto leans into the microphone, an evasive smile curling his lip. “Credit him for what? For surviving? For being the recipient of a miracle? If a lightning bolt hits the ring and knocks me out, do you crown the lightning bolt as the champion too?”

A ripple of murmurs travels through the room. The journalists are eating it up. This is the narrative they want: The Tragic King versus The Lucky Ghost.

“I didn’t lose to Yamada tonight,” Umemoto continues, his tone dismissive as he stands up, signaling the end of his session. “I lost to my own nervous system. He’s holding a belt that doesn’t belong to him. He knows it. I know it. And looking at the state he’s in right now… I doubt he’ll even be able to carry it out of the arena.”

He storms off the stage, only to collide with the incoming procession. The doorway becomes a choke point. Umemoto stands his ground, looming over Ryohei with visible contempt.

“Don’t get too comfortable in that seat,” Umemoto hisses, his voice a low bitter venom. “I’m coming back for what’s mine. That is, if you can even hold that belt until I get there.”

Ryohei doesn’t blink. Despite the agony in his ribs, he keeps his chest high and walks past the former king with a stoic, silent face.

Trailing at the back, Ryoma pauses. He catches Umemoto’s gaze, and then stops, offering a short indifferent smile.

“You should watch your step on the way home, Umemoto-san,” Ryoma’s voice is smooth, almost helpful. “Keep your eyes on the ground. It would be a shame to stumble over another small pebble and lose your dignity twice in one night.”

Umemoto’s jaw twitches in mounting silent fury. And the cameras flash, immortalizing the moment his pride cracked under the weight of Ryoma’s mocking grin.