VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After delaying it for more than twenty-five minutes, the arena lights finally dim. The lingering replays vanish from the giant screen.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the first commentator announces, voice swelling with renewed energy, “we move to the next bout of the evening.”

A brief pause settles over the arena, anticipation tightening visibly across the crowd.

“This is the JBC Super Featherweight Title Eliminator. Ten rounds. Tatsuki Aramaki, currently ranked fifth, takes on the former champion, Rikiya Miyamoto, who lost his belt just four months ago and now stands at number three.”

The second commentator follows seamlessly. “A pivotal fight for both men. The winner moves within immediate reach of a title shot. The stakes tonight could not be clearer.”

When Aramaki emerges from the corridor and steps into view, a wave of recognition ripples through the audience.

Near the barricade, Kenji Matsuda raises one arm high, commanding attention like a field general about to signal the charge.

“Make way for the Cruel King’s vanguard!” he shouts.

Then, with sharp clarity: “Aramaki! Aramaki! Aramaki!”

The response is immediate. The nickname ignites the air. Over 2,500 voices answer in unison as the Cruel King’s Army takes over the soundscape. Drums pound in synchronized rhythm, deep and resonant, echoing against the arena walls.

ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum… dudum… dum!

ARA-MAKI! Dum-dum… dudum… dum!

The cadence rolls down the aisle in disciplined waves.

Spectators from overseas stare openly, momentarily stunned by the coordination. Some exchange incredulous smiles, unsure whether they are watching a sporting event or a ceremonial procession.

Local fans, by contrast, are already prepared. Cameras are up before the second chant lands. They know this spectacle. They have seen the Army transform ordinary ring walks into something closer to ritual.

“They really made us wait tonight.”

“But it’s Aramaki. He never disappoints.”

“That’s true. Every one of his fights feels dangerous.”

At ringside, the commentators acknowledge the phenomenon.

“There it is,” the first says with a faint chuckle. “The Cruel King’s Army in full force.”

“They’ve become a signature presence whenever this gym is involved,” the second adds. “It’s more than support. That rhythm, that volume… it creates pressure before a single punch is thrown.”

The drums continue to thunder. And Aramaki walks between walls of noise as if passing through steady rain, aware of it, but untouched.

His breathing remains even. His expression unchanged. Inside, however, his focus lies elsewhere.

Arman Sargsyan is still nowhere to be seen, and that uncertainty gnawed at Aramaki. Even as he steps into the ring, his focus splinters. His body is ready for war, but his mind is miles away, searching for a ghost.

They’ve stretched the broadcast as far as professionalism allows, all of it calculated to buy minutes. One of the most practical outcomes now would be for this fight to last the full ten rounds.

No one told him to prolong the fight, but the thought lingers. He’s acutely aware of how much Kenta needs this. Still, the idea is reckless because he’s never been the kind of fighter who feels at home gambling on a decision.

And Aramaki’s opponent isn’t the kind of fighter to afford him that luxury.

When Rikiya Miyamoto steps into the aisle, the reaction is immediate and substantial. Nearly a quarter of the arena rises to its feet.

Applause spreads in widening circles, not as synchronized as the Cruel King’s Army, but heavy, heartfelt, and persistent.

He may have lost the belt four months ago, but he has not lost the crowd.

RI-KI-YA! RI-KI-YA! RI-KI-YA!

The chant begins from the lower bowl and climbs upward. A group near the aisle cups their hands around their mouths.

“Take it back, Rikiya!”

“Show them you’re still the king!”

“You’re still our champion!”

A former champion. Technically disciplined. Comfortable under scrutiny. Though he dropped to third in the rankings after losing his belt, his pedigree remains intact.

***

From his corner, Aramaki watches Rikiya Miyamoto shadowbox in the red corner. The movements are economical and precise. His shoulders remain loose, yet every action is structurally sound.

Seeing that, the idea of deliberately extending the fight to buy time begins to feel unrealistic.

The ring announcer begins Aramaki’s introduction. The audience responds with applause. But Aramaki barely registers the sound.

When Rikiya’s name is announced, the former champion lifts a glove in calm recognition, turning slightly to each side of the arena.

And Aramaki is still caught in an unresolved calculation. By the time the announcer finishes and the applause fades, he realizes he has missed his own introduction entirely.

“Eh? What about me?”

He glances around, his face blank, almost comically confused.

From behind the blue corner, Sera studies him with a frown. “Don’t tell me he’s getting stage fright again,” he murmurs, though he quickly senses that this is something else.

The referee calls both men to the center. They step forward and listen to the instructions. Rikiya’s gaze remains steady and direct. Aramaki nods at the appropriate moments, but his thoughts continue circling the same dilemma.

Then, the bell rings for the first round.

Ding!

Aramaki moves toward the center without having fully committed to a tactical approach.

“Okay… what should I do now?”

The strategy had been prepared weeks in advance. In this moment, however, those plans feel distant.

At ringside, the commentators frame the matchup.

“And here we go. Aramaki, one of the fastest-rising contenders in the division, faces Miyamoto, a former champion determined to reassert himself.”

“The key question is how Aramaki approaches this version of Miyamoto. We’ve seen him evolve significantly in the last two years. Is there another adjustment waiting tonight?”

Rikiya initiates contact first, stepping in behind a firm jab aimed straight down the center to measure distance and reaction.

Aramaki responds by stepping back decisively, allowing the punch to fall short. He establishes space immediately and begins to move in a measured pendulum rhythm at long range, shifting his weight fluidly from heel to toe.

“That’s interesting,” the first commentator notes. “Aramaki isn’t engaging at mid-range the way he usually does.”

“He’s choosing to operate from the outside,” the second adds. “Look at that rhythm. He’s not planting to trade. He’s probing distance.”

Rikiya edges forward again, testing with another small step, make a short lateral movement to change angle, and sends another probing jab.

“You have to wonder,” the first continues, “is this a tactical adjustment for Miyamoto specifically, or are we seeing another evolution in Aramaki’s style?”

“If he can control range like this,” the analyst replies, “he forces Miyamoto to reset his timing. And that’s dangerous, because Miyamoto’s best work comes when he establishes clean, straight lines.”

Rikiya studies Aramaki as he circles, realizing this is not the same rhythm he reviewed on tape.

Aramaki has used a pendulum step before. But it was typically confined to tight mid-range exchanges, with small lead-foot adjustments from a crouched stance. His movement had been compact and contained.

Now the motion is broader. He drifts laterally with greater ease, shoulders angled. The spacing is wider, and the bounce carries him in and out of range more like an out-boxer than a mid-range pressure fighter.

Rikiya narrows his eyes and recalibrates.

“He’s taking another new form?”

Still unsure, he fires another jab, stepping slightly deeper this time to test the new distance.

Aramaki slides away again, maintaining the pendulum rhythm and preserving the gap between them. From a technical standpoint, it looks deliberate. From a visual standpoint, it borders on awkward.

The bounce is slightly exaggerated. The spacing is wide enough to feel almost excessive. Instead of cutting angles to threaten entry, he hovers just outside realistic striking range.

Then he tries to answer. He sets his feet briefly and throws a textbook jab from long distance.

Jab.

It falls short.

Then he throws another.

Jab.

Still short, the glove stopping more than an inch from Rikiya’s guard.

A third follows.

Jab.

Rikiya doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t parry. He doesn’t counter. He simply watches the glove extend and retract in empty air.

“What is he trying to do now?”

At ringside, the commentators hesitate.

“Aramaki is… very cautious early,” the first says carefully.

“He’s throwing, but he’s not committing to range,” the second observes. “Those jabs are technically clean, but they’re landing nowhere.”

In the blue corner, Coach Murakami frowns. “Since when did you teach him to fight like this?” he asks quietly.

Sera blinks, as if pulled out of his own thoughts. “What?”

Murakami gestures subtly, “Aramaki. He’s moving like an out-boxer now. I didn’t realize he’d developed that much since the last fight.”

Sera turns his full attention back to the action. He watches another long jab fall short, followed by a hurried step back.

“No,” Sera says slowly, shaking his head. “We never taught him this. He’s never fought like this in the gym.”

Murakami’s eyes narrow. “Then why is he doing it?”

Sera swallows. “I… don’t know. This wasn’t even part of the strategy.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Murakami replies under his breath. “Look at him. He looks ridiculous fighting like that.”