VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

A knock comes, and a staff member steps in, calling for them to get ready. Salazar gives a brief nod, then turns back to his fighter.

“That’s enough,” he says. “Quit underestimating him and act like a professional.”

Cortez scoffs lightly. “It’s not me underestimating him. You’re the one who humiliated me by agreeing to this fight. That kid isn’t ready for this stage yet.”

“If you see him an easy opponent,” Salazar says, “then finish it quickly.”

“Of course,” Cortez says.

He brings his hands back up and steps in again, driving into the mitts with more force this time.

“I’ll drop him in the first round,” he says, the combination continuing without pause. “And if he gets back up, don’t blame me for what comes next.”

The combinations coming faster and harder, each strike carrying more weight than before. From the way he moves now, it is easy to see why that confidence never really leaves him.

***

Meanwhile, the arena settles into a steady noise as Aramaki walks down the aisle. A polite wave of applause rises, more out of courtesy than recognition, guided by the commentator’s voice as it carries through the speakers.

“Aramaki comes in with an impressive record,” the lead commentator says, “only one loss in his career so far, and that defeat came against Ryoma Takeda before he joined Nakahara Boxing Gym.”

“But since he joined Nakahara Boxing Gym,” the other one adds, “he’s looked like a completely different fighter. All his wins came only by knock out.”

A few scattered cheers rise from different sections, but most of the crowd remains in that same uncertain murmur, listening as the voice continues.

“This will be his first international fight, but don’t overlook him. He is currently ranked number two in the JBC, and he earned that spot by defeating former Japanese champion Rikiya Miyamoto.”

“And he did it with a single punch.”

This time the reaction is sharper. Some voices rise, surprised and intrigued, while others turn to each other, trying to make sense of it.

“What did he say? KO with just one punch?”

“Is he that kind of fighter? The one with heavy hands?”

“I don’t know… but that’s strange. They said fourth round, right? And he only landed one punch in four rounds of fight? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It must’ve been one-sided. He got dominated by the former champion, landed a lucky punch and won.”

“Yeah… and now he thinks he’s ready to face Nicola Cortez?”

The murmurs spread, curiosity mixing with doubt, the kind of attention that doesn’t fully believe, but doesn’t ignore either.

Aramaki catches parts of the commentary as he walks, the English coming in fragments, words he recognizes without fully understanding the meaning.

He knows they are talking about him, but not exactly what is being said, and that lack of clarity sits quietly as he approaches the steps.

He pauses briefly, rubbing the sole of his shoe against the mat, then takes a slow breath before stepping up, moving through the ropes and into the ring.

Behind him, Nakahara stops at the steps, watching quietly, with Hiroshi, Kurogane, and Okabe standing just behind.

***

Then the atmosphere shifts the moment Nicola Cortez appears. The reaction is louder, more unified, voices rising across the arena as recognition turns into full support.

Cortez steps out with a grin already on his face, bouncing lightly on his feet as he makes his way down the aisle, pumping his right glove toward the crowd, feeding off the energy as it builds around him.

“There he is, Nicola Cortez,” the lead commentator’s voice comes in. “Known for his aggressive style, always pressing forward, always giving the crowd something to react to. He’s not the kind of fighter who waits.”

“His record may not look as clean, three losses in nineteen fights,” the other commentator adds, “but make no mistake, he’s the more experienced man here. Currently ranked eighth in the WBO Asia Pacific, already fought four times at regional level, finishing every one of those fights by knockout.”

Cortez lets out a short laugh as he climbs up to the apron, glancing out toward the crowd again before stepping through the ropes. The reception doesn’t die down. If anything, it follows him inside.

He circles the ring slowly, shoulders loose, still bouncing, pointing toward a group in the stands.

“You came to see a knockout, right?” he calls out, grinning. “I won’t waste your time.”

Another wave of cheers answers him. He turns, walking along the ropes, raising his glove again.

“First round! Watch closely!”

As he makes his way past the neutral corner, his eyes shift, catching Aramaki across the ring. His grin sharpens. He steps closer, just enough to close the distance before the referee moves in, placing a hand between them.

Cortez leans slightly anyway, voice low but clear enough to carry. “You bring your mom with you, kid? Cause I’m afraid you might piss yourself later.”

Aramaki gives a small reaction, but it comes out more as confusion than anything else. He tries to follow Cortez’s English with strong accent, but the meaning doesn’t fully land.

Across from him, Cortez takes that reaction as a confusion from timid kid stepping into something too big for him.

He gives a slow nod, a smug smile forming as he convinces himself that the reaction in front of him matches what he expected from the start,

“First time away from home, right?” he adds with a smirk. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick.”

***

When the ring announcer steps into the center, the arena settles as the introductions begin.

“…introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner…”

This time, the words come clearer for Aramaki, familiar enough for him to follow.

“Wearing black trunks, he stands one hundred sixty-nine centimeters tall… weighing in at fifty-eight point nine kilograms. He holds a professional record of eight fights; one loss, all seven wins coming by knockout.”

The announcer directs his hand toward the blue corner, lifting his voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen… Tatsuki Aramaki!”

As the introduction ends, Aramaki raises his guard and lets his hands go, a quick burst of uppercuts snapping upward in tight, compact rhythm, before finishing with two sharp hooks from both sides.

He lifts his hands high as the motion stops. And the reaction follows immediately, louder this time, the crowd responding to the speed and the weight behind those short, efficient punches.

The announcer turns, shifting his stance toward the opposite side of the ring.

“And now… introducing his opponent, fighting out of the red corner…”

The reaction comes immediately, louder, more certain.

“Wearing white trunks… he stands one hundred seventy-one centimeters tall… weighing in at fifty-nine kilograms. He brings a professional record of nineteen fights; sixteen wins, three losses… with eleven wins coming by way of knockout…”

The announcer’s voice rises, sharper, feeding into the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen… Nicola Cortez!”

The crowd answers in full this time. But Cortez doesn’t play to it anymore. He just stands there, shoulders loose, head slightly tilted, eyes locked across the ring.

The grin is still there, thinner now, not for the crowd, but for Aramaki. Like he’s already decided how this ends, like he’s watching something smaller than him.

The referee finally steps in, motioning with both hands.

“Center. Both of you.”

Aramaki moves first, stepping forward without hesitation. Cortez follows a second later, unhurried, eyes never leaving him.

They meet at center ring. And the referee takes one glove from each of them, pulling them in just enough to hold their attention.

“I want a clean fight. Obey my commands at all times. Protect yourselves at all times. No hitting behind the head, no low blows. You understand?”

Aramaki nods once. Cortez doesn’t answer right away, then, after a beat, gives a small nod.

“Good. Touch gloves.”

Aramaki brings his glove forward, steady. Cortez looks at it for a split second, then slaps it down hard, the sound snapping sharp between them.

“You better run now while you still can,” he says, voice low.

As they turn away, the commentators jump back in immediately.

“Oh, we’ve got a bit of attitude early,” the lead commentator says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Cortez making it very clear how he sees this fight,” the other adds. “Not much respect shown there.”

“Well, if you’re Aramaki, you don’t want to get dragged into that kind of fight mentally. Stay composed, stick to the game plan.”

“Easier said than done when someone’s trying to take your head off in the first round.”

***

The crowd buzzes with anticipation, eyes locked on the two fighters. Aramaki stays tight in his corner, muscles coiled, watching Cortez. Across the ring, Cortez bounces lightly, grin sharp, eyes fixed.

And then…

Ding!

The first bell rings, clear and hard.

“And we’re underway! First round… Aramaki looks cautious, still finding his distance.”

“While Cortez…”

The second commentator opens to add something, but before a word escapes, Cortez lunges. He storms forward, cutting the space, pinning Aramaki in that dangerous zone between mid- and close-range.

Right cross snaps, left hook whips. And then, a furious combination drives Aramaki toward the ropes.

“Look at this! Cortez comes out swinging!”

“Every ounce of that bravado from the introductions… he’s making it count!”

Aramaki tightens his guard, elbows in, trying to survive.

He throws a quick jab to keep Cortez at bay, but Cortez ducks low and hammers a left-right into Aramaki’s ribs.

BUGH!

BUGH!

The guard takes some of the blows, but the rest land solid, forcing him to grind back against the ropes.

Cortez leans back slightly, smirk widening. “You coming, kid? Or just hiding back there?” he taunts, letting another right cross and left hook fly.

The lead commentator shouts again. “Unbelievable pressure! Aramaki’s forced onto the ropes already, trying to react, survive, think. Cortez is dictating everything!”

Cortez doesn’t pause. Another three-punch combination rattles Aramaki, pushing him deeper.

DUG. DUG. DUG.

“You’re slow, kid! Keep up, or I’ll put you down!”

Cortez keeps pressing, yet his voice still cuts through the chaos, each word punctuated with a heavy punch.

Aramaki’s breathing quickens.

“Strong… and fast.”

“This is… this is regional level?”

Ropes press against his back. Every instinct screams to move, to counter, but Cortez’s relentless assault leaves no room. His cocky, aggressive energy turns into a wall of force, each punch demanding submission.

The first round barely begins, and already Cortez’s domination, his mocking, his evil grin, sets the tone.