VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The fifth round sees little change at first. Wakabayashi grows even more pragmatic, sticking to light jabs that only graze Okabe’s hard forehead.

There are no big openings appear, no shifts in momentum. Wakabayashi’s scoring, yes, but nothing dramatic.

Meanwhile in the locker room, Ryoma, Aramaki, Kenta, and Coach Nakahara watch the fight live on a flat screen mounted on the wall.

The air is thick with tension. Every jab, every slip, every feint on the screen seems to ripple through the room, unspoken judgments passing between them. The mood is taut, a mix of anticipation, doubt, and cautious hope.

“The gap between them…” Aramaki frowns. “It’s just too big. I don’t know if Okabe can keep up.”

Kenta nudges Ryoma, half-joking. “With all the dirty tricks you taught him, he’s landed… what? One so far? If this keeps up, Okabe’s going to lose on points, badly, embarrassingly.”

Coach Nakahara watches silently for a beat, then speaks. “Is that really what you see?”

Aramaki and Kenta immediately turn to face Coach Nakahara, their expressions flickering between defensiveness and curiosity.

At first, they had expected a critique, maybe even a reprimand. But Nakahara’s calm and measured gaze is not dismissive. It’s analytical, precise, like he’s reading every nuance of Wakabayashi’s movements and Okabe’s reactions.

Both men shift slightly in their seats, suddenly aware that Nakahara isn’t just commenting on what he sees on the screen. He’s dissecting it, predicting outcomes, and weighing possibilities.

The room feels heavier now, their earlier casual judgments replaced by a quiet, tense respect for the insight they’re witnessing.

“Look at Wakabayashi’s face,” Nakahara continues. “He’s uncomfortable. I’m certain he’s struggling to keep his control under these circumstances. Okabe’s really got under his skin so far.”

“But just making him irritated won’t win the match,” Aramaki argues.

“True,” Nakahara says. “But there’s a thin line here, one that can make this fight truly punishing for him.”

Kenta blinks. “A thin line?”

Nakahara nods. “Wakabayashi has grown in a world that spoils him. He’s faced opponents who let him fight at his ideal form. This is the first time he’s encountering something like this. And this will be his toughest test yet.”

The two fall silent, eyes glued to the screen. They realize that Okabe has changed a lot, no more reckless wild attacks, no visible emotion. But without openings, and if he can’t cut distance, he won’t turn the fight.

“So the outcome is entirely up to Wakabayashi now,” Kenta says. “If he survives this challenge, he’ll take it on points. And Okabe only has a chance if Wakabayashi makes a mistake.”

“That’s the underdog’s scenario,” Nakahara remarks.

“Not exactly,” Ryoma says for the first time. “From where I’m looking, Okabe is on the same level… or maybe even one step above Wakabayashi.”

Aramaki scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. No doubt about it,” Ryoma insists. “Right now, Wakabayashi controls the fight, but he’s dancing on Okabe’s footing.”

He exhales and shrugs. “Still… if this fight matures Wakabayashi, Okabe could fall behind again.”

***

Minutes later, in the final stretch of round five, Wakabayashi’s composure begins to crack. The discomfort of never returning to his ideal form tightens around him.

His focus narrows, frustration seeping into every movement. His gaze locks onto Okabe’s head, and the hard forehead he’s already hit so many times.

Finally, Okabe closes the distance, simply because Wakabayashi can no longer map the space around him.

Back against the ropes, Wakabayashi blinks, confused.

“The hell…”

And Okabe strikes first: two compact hooks to either side.

Dug. Dug.

Both hit the base of Wakabayashi’s arms. And immediately Wakabayashi swings a left hook.

Instead of blocking or dodging, Okabe counters with two more compact hooks, ignoring the incoming punch.

“He’s not even defending! He’s going straight in!”

“This is insane… pure audacity!”

It leads to a dual exchange; Wakabayashi’s glove smacking Okabe’s cheek, whil Okabe’f first hook only slams the upper arm.

Dsh! Dug.

But the second hook lands flush on the Wakabayashi’s ear…

BAM!

…snapping his head to the opposite side, making his ear ringing for a moment.

“Oh! Right on the ear!”

“His head snaps! That has to rattle him!”

And the fight grows ugly. Wakabayashi tries to match Okabe, landing one more punch to the right side of the body, but Okabe’s intensity forces him to be defensive, tightening his guard.

“Ooooh… The crowd loves this back-and-forth!”

“Each punch telling a story!”

Okabe keeps pounding, indiscriminate, mixing high and low, ignoring counters.

Bugh! Dug. Dug.

Dsh! Dug. Dug. Thud! Bugh!

The neutral crowd begins cheering, caught up in the intensity. Punches thud against guard and upper arms, occasionally hitting ribs.

Ding! Ding!

The bell rings. The referee immediately steps in, separating the fighters and halting Okabe’s assault.

The intense exchange lasted just seventeen seconds, but it feels like an eternity for Wakabayashi. He remains at the ropes, face untouched. Yet he looks completely exhausted and spent.

Okabe tilts one shoulder to the right, but his grin widens, teeth bared, showing a genuine ugly thug’s smile.

“That’s more like it,” he taunts, voice low and deliberate. “That’s how you should box, kid.”

Wakabayashi’s patience snaps. His jaw clenches, chest heaving, breath ragged. His eyes burn with mounting fury.

“You fucker…” he growls, shoving both of his gloves forward.

One crashes into Okabe’s chest, the other slams onto his right shoulder.

“Whoa! He’s had enough! Look at that rage!”

Okabe staggers back slightly, shoulder cocked, but the grin doesn’t fade. It’s a predator’s satisfaction, enjoying every second.

“Look… Okabe’s smiling through it!”

“That grin… he’s getting under Wakabayashi’s skin like nothing else!”

The crowd erupts, a mixture of shock and excitement, shouting, whistling, egging the tension higher.

The referee spins around, stepping between them. His face is sharp, firm, and professional. His hands are raised in a warning.

“Hey, you! Keep it clean!” he snaps, voice cutting through the chaos.

From the corner, Coach Narisawa leans forward, voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.

“Wakabayashi! Get your ass back here! Control yourself!”

Wakabayashi freezes mid-motion, chest heaving, glare locked on Okabe. He realizes the referee is watching him.

The cage of his own frustration tightens further, every muscle taut with barely restrained rage. But he can’t help but reins himself in, and walks back to his corner.

***

Back in the locker room, Aramaki chuckles, shaking his head with a stupid grin. He can’t believe what Okabe’s doing on the screen.

Kenta leans back, smirking. “Looks like the prank you all pulled on him worked pretty well. The kid who used to blow up like a Yakuza over every little thing… now he’s learned to use his villain side. And damn, he’s actually unbearable when he wants to be.”

Ryoma only smiles quietly, calm and measured. “If things keep going this way, it won’t be long before Okabe drags Wakabayashi through the mud. When that happens, points and scorecards won’t mean a thing.”

But the light mood lingers only briefly. A staffer, Tetsu, steps in, drawing their attention.

“Nakahara-san… sorry to bother you, but there’s something you need to know,” Tetsu says.

“What is it?” Nakahara asks, straightening immediately.

“It’s about Arman Sargsyan,” Tetsu continues, stepping fully into the room. “Up until now, he and his team haven’t shown up. Their locker… still empty.”

The air shifts instantly. Nakahara frowns, tension replacing the earlier amusement. He gestures for Tetsu to lead him to the locker.

When they arrive, it’s true that the locker is completely empty.

“What the hell…” Nakahara mutters. “If they don’t show, this event could fall apart.”

“Do you have a number to reach them?” Tetsu asks.

Nakahara nods, hurrying back to his own locker. He grabs his phone, searches for Sugiarto’s number, and hands it to Ryoma.

“Call this guy. You handle it. I can’t speak English.”

Ryoma receives the phone and dials. But the line doesn’t connect. He tries again, and still nothing.

None of them know that Sugiarto’s phone was left behind the previous night at the brothel, after that explosive argument.

The housekeeping picked it up in the morning, but the battery had already died. The phone ended up on the brothel manager’s desk, left there quietly, waiting for the customer to return and claim it.

Right now, as Ryoma lowers the phone from his ear, none of them know that.

“It’s not connecting,” he says.

And the tension in the room tightens another notch.