VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The noise inside the arena refuses to settle even after the official announcement. Boos linger beneath the ceiling like trapped smoke, and scattered complaints continue to echo between sections.

Maria does not waste a second, and signals to the stage manager. “Music up. Promotional reel, now.”

The lights dim slightly, and the giant screens flare to life with a sharp, polished highlight package. Gloves colliding in slow motion. Sweat spraying under spotlights. Title belts lifted high.

The ring announcer steps forward again, voice amplified with renewed energy. “Ladies and gentlemen, we understand your disappointment. But tonight is a double title event. In just moments, we bring you the Super Lightweight JBC title defense, Ryohei Yamahada versus the number one contender, Shoji Hamakawa.”

A mixed reaction rolls through the crowd, some still irritated, others slowly refocusing.

“And later tonight,” the announcer continues, pushing harder, “the main event. The OPBF Lightweight Championship. Ryoma Takeda defends his title against the number one challenger, Thanid Kouthai.”

The screens flash images of Ryoma drilling combinations, Thanid standing stoic during a weigh-in stare-down.

“These are two championship fights,” the analyst adds over the broadcast. “Whatever just happened in that semifinal, the night is far from over.”

The promotional music swells louder, drowning out the remaining jeers. Bit by bit, the arena energy begins shifting from outrage to anticipation.

***

Kenta and his cornermen step out of the ring immediately, not waiting for the noise to settle or for the cameras to linger. They move fast, heads down, cutting straight for the aisle without acknowledging the crowd.

They push straight toward the corridor, urged forward by security who clearly want them off the floor before frustration in the stands turns into something worse.

As soon as they step into the corridor, they see Kurogane rounding the corner, tie loosened, phone still in hand.

“Boss,” he says sharply. “What the hell just happened?”

Nakahara does not slow down. “You tell me.”

“He just walked out like that?”

“He walked,” Nakahara replies coldly. “And took $30.000 worth of fight purse with him.”

Kurogane exhales through his teeth and falls into step beside him as they move down the narrow hallway.

“This is going to spread fast,” Kurogane says. “Thailand, Australia, everyone’s watching.”

“I saw them watching,” Nakahara grunts. “And they were laughing at me.”

They reach a junction in the hallway, and that is when they see him; Arman already in his gray sweater now, bag slung over one shoulder. He looks as if he had planned this departure long before the bell rang.

For a second, both sides freeze. Then Nakahara steps forward, fury rising without restraint.

“No fucking way,” he spits in Japanese. “You think this is a playground? You disgrace the ring and walk away?”

Arman does not understand the words, but he understands the tone. His eyes harden slightly. He knows exactly why Nakahara is angry.

Before he can say a word, footsteps slap against concrete behind him.

“Arman, wait!” Sugiarto calls, breathless. “You can’t just leave!”

Arman turns, and before Sugiarto can reach him, Arman grabs him first by the collar and yanks him forward, gripping the back of his neck firmly. Sugiarto gasps as he’s dragged a step closer to Nakahara’s group.

Then Arman looks directly at Nakahara. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nakahara,” he says in English, voice steady but edged. “For ruining your event.”

Nakahara blinks, not understanding a word except the part he said sorry.

Arman tightens his hold on Sugiarto’s neck. “But I need to know first,” he continues. “Did you really give us US$30.000 for this fight?”

Nakahara turns to Koragane, frowning. “What is he saying?”

Kurogane steps forward immediately, his English smooth and controlled. “We agreed to a fixed ten thousand for the fighter,” Kurogane says, eyes boring into Sugiarto. “And twenty thousand for three weeks’ accommodation, medical checks, and travel. Paid upfront.”

Arman’s jaw flexes. “And this motherfucker told me four thousand,” Arman says flatly. “Five days’ accommodation.”

He glances at Kenta briefly, then back at Kurogane. “I only got to that ring to bring people’s attention to him,” Arman says, shoving Sugiarto toward them. “To expose his scheme. So you deal with him. I’m done with this.”

He gives a nod and takes his leave, walking toward the exit without another word. Sugiarto stumbles, regains his balance, and immediately pushes past Kurogane before rushing after his fighter.

“Hey, Arman! You can’t just say you’re done!”

he shouts, chasing after him. “We can talk about this!”

But Arman does not look back. He just keeps walking as Sugiarto’s voice fades down the corridor.

Nakahara and his team stand there, watching until both figures disappear around the bend.

Moments later, Yohannes, Dedi, and Wahyu appear from the opposite direction, moving fast, glancing over their shoulders like men leaving a crime scene.

They slow briefly when they see Nakahara. The others hesitate only for a heartbeat, eyes darting away, but it is Wahyu alone who lingers for a fraction of a second, lowers his head slightly, and offers a quiet apology.

“Sorry,” he says, before hurrying off to catch up with the rest.

Silence returns to the hallway. Nakahara stares at the empty corridor, his anger no longer sharp but heavy.

“Don’t think that you can just walk away from this,” he mutters under his breath.

***

In the locker room, the sound from the arena pushes through the walls in uneven waves. A flat screen mounted high on the wall replays the aftermath with almost no delay.

Ryohei stands with gloves already on, staring at the screen without blinking. Sweat from his early warm-up cools against his skin. Across from him, Ryoma watches with arms folded, jaw set.

On the monitor, the announcer’s voice rises, trying to redirect attention to the upcoming title fights.

Ryoma finally exhales through his nose and turns to Ryohei. “You asked for this,” he says, voice calm but edged. “A double main event. You said there were two stars in Nakahara’s Gym. That you and I stand shoulder to shoulder on equal ground now.”

Ryohei does not answer immediately. He blinks once, visibly caught off guard by Ryoma’s sudden shift in tone, as if recalibrating to a version of him he rarely sees lately.

Ryoma steps closer. “Well, this is what it looks like. The event is shaking. You wanted equal ground with me? Then carry it. Act like it. Live up to what this night is supposed to be.”

For a brief second, the words land heavier than any punch. Ryohei feels it in his chest, the weight of expectation, the noise outside, the embarrassment hanging over the gym, and the intimidation Ryoma emits.

Then it comes back to him, the reality, the fact that Ryoma is just his kouhai, four years younger than him.

“Heh. You really know how to talk big, huh?” Ryohei scoffs, pushing himself to his feet.

Ryoma doesn’t flinch. “If you think you can act big,” he replies evenly, “then show me, Ryohei-senpai. Show me how to act when the gym’s future in on your back.”

The word senpai sounds deliberate. Aramaki and Okabe, standing near the lockers, watch the exchange with tight expressions. The arena is unsettled, the gym’s reputation teetering, yet here their two headliners are trading pride instead of reassurance.

Eventually, Sera steps forward, palms slightly raised. “Ryoma, that’s enough. We’re all under pressure right now. Adding more weight to Ryohei won’t…”

“It’s okay, Sera-san,” Ryohei cuts in, rolling his shoulders once. His eyes are clear now. “I’m up for this challenge. Now help me warm up. Those people out there won’t stay patient forever.”

***

Meanwhile, in the shared locker room assigned to Narisawa’s Boxing Gym and Chao Phraya Elite Boxing Promotion, the air is brimming with energy.

Hamakawa’s gloves snap forward in tight combinations, leather cracking sharply against Narisawa’s mitts. The tempo is relentless. Sweat sprays under the fluorescent lights as Narisawa pivots, catching each punch clean.

“Again,” Narisawa says calmly.

Hamakawa fires another sequence, faster this time.

Across the room, Thanid Kouthai stretches against the wall, rolling his shoulders loose, eyes half-lidded but attentive.

Kiet Anurak leans back in his chair, watching the mittwork with open amusement. “The crowd is already angry,” he says lightly in English. “They paid for violence. But they got theater.”

Preecha Lawson chuckles under his breath. “And normally… angry crowds want redemption.”

“If your Hamakawa beats Ryohei Yamahada,” Kiet continues, “and my Thanid takes Takeda’s belt… Then Nakahara is stripped clean.”

Preecha smiles thinly. “Two belts gone in one night. On his own stage. How beautiful is that?”

Hamakawa finishes a flurry and steps back, breathing controlled. For a moment, their words steal his attention, and he can’t simply hide it.

But Narisawa brings his focus back in. “Hey, focus on me,” Narisawa says, lowering the mitts just slightly. “You don’t need chaos. You need precision.”

Thanid pushes off the wall and steps closer, gaze drifting to the screen where boos still echo.

“Just thinking, if both of us win,” he says quietly, “what will happen to his fighters?”

Kiet answers without hesitation. “If they lose those belts tonight, this whole event becomes a failure. Not a setback. A failure.”

Preecha’s eyes gleam. “And when a big gamble fails, sponsors hesitate. Partners disappear. Sharks circle, and fighters start thinking about security.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not unusual, in situations like that, loyalty suddenly becomes negotiable.”

For the first time, the rhythm in front of them falters.

Narisawa is half a beat late with the mitt. A faint curve appears at the corner of his mouth at the thought of stealing Ryoma Takeda away from Nakahara.

It might be a naïve thought, but the opportunity undeniably exists. And in a night where everything is shifting, he cannot afford to ignore even the slightest opening.