VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma heads straight across toward the blue corner, taking advantage of the moment to present a different side of himself than the Cruel King image he has always carried after a fight.

Right now, Villanueva is still on the stool, his team gathered close, working over his side. But the moment they notice the approach, one steps aside, then another, until a narrow path opens.

Ryoma steps in. “How’s it going, old man?” he asks, the words blunt, but his face carries an open, almost boyish smile. “I hope I didn’t hit you too hard.”

Villanueva looks up, caught off guard. His brows lift for a moment before a quiet chuckle slips out. He dips his head, shaking it once, then looks back at him.

“Is that concern?” he says. “Or are you here to make fun of me?”

“Come on,” Ryoma replies. “I’m worried. Seriously.”

“I’ll take that as an insult. Three shots and you think I need checking on?” Villanueva exhales through his nose, a faint smirk forming despite himself. “I could’ve kept going. But the damn referee just got impatient.”

Ryoma tilts his head slightly, then nods once. “Yeah. I get it.”

He steps closer and offers his hand. Villanueva raises and takes it. And Ryoma actually pulls him in, turning the handshake into a brief, firm embrace. When he lets go, he lifts Villanueva’s arm high, presenting him to the arena.

The crowd surges again, louder than before, the restraint finally giving way.

“RYOMA! RYOMA! RYOMA!”

The chant builds, spreading section by section until it fills the entire arena.

“Listen to that!” the lead commentator says, voice rising with the moment. “That’s respect, from both sides!”

“Absolutely,” the second adds. “Villanueva showing it in the ring, and the crowd following right behind him.”

“And Ryoma earns it the hard way,” the lead continues. “You might have heard he came to this fight with disrupted preparation. Gunshots. Dislocated right shoulder.”

“And you saw it how he rarely used his right hand in this fight.”

“But he still delivered it, putting our beloved champion into the canvas with a sequence of lefts.”

“And despite all that, he still shows respect toward the falling enemy.”

“That’s how you win people over. Not just with skill, but with moments like this.”

Then he lets Villanueva’s hand go and moves along the ring, clapping both hands high above his head, again and again, offering his gratitude to every side of the arena.

The shift is unmistakable. The Cruel King persona is gone, at least for now. In its place is something softer, the version of him from his high school days.

His face, untouched the entire night, looks clean under the lights. The smile he wears is easy, almost disarming, and it spreads through the crowd faster than anything he’s done so far.

But it doesn’t last unchanged. As he reaches the side closest to Jackson Rhodes and Hugo Ramirez, something tightens beneath it. The smile stays, but his eyes lose their warmth, turning sharper, colder for just a moment.

He leans into the ropes, raising a hand slightly. “So how was it?” he asks, voice light with a teasing edge. “Did you enjoy our sparring?”

Jackson rises smoothly, already applauding, that theatrical charm slipping into place without effort.

“Congratulations!” he says brightly. “That was an interesting fight. You never fail to meet expectations.”

“Heh?!” Ryoma lets out a short scoff, a quiet chuckle following as he tilts his head toward Hugo Ramirez. “But it looks like this old man didn’t enjoy it.”

Ramirez finally stands. He doesn’t clap, doesn’t smile. His expression is all sharp edges, his disdain plain as he looks down at Ryoma.

“Already proud of yourself for beating small fries on a small stage?” he says. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. You haven’t seen the real world yet.”

“Oh?” Ryoma lifts a brow, playing the part, then his smile returns, thinner now, edged. “Then send your best fighter to me. Stop running away like you’ve done so far.”

Ramirez says nothing. His jaw tightens, the contempt sitting heavy in his stare. Ryoma doesn’t wait for any response. He turns away, scanning the ringside until he spots a camera.

“Which one’s live?” he asks.

A cameraman steps forward, raising the lens toward him. Ryoma leans in, close enough that his face fills the frame.

“Hey, Cabello,” he says, voice carrying a directness that cuts through the lingering noise. “I know you’re watching.”

For a split second, the arena falters. The applause softens, not gone, but uneven now, as if something just shifted without warning.

“…Cabello?”

“Who’s he talking to?”

“Wait… he’s calling someone out?”

The curiosity spreads fast, pulling the crowd in tighter than before. Whatever celebration was left starts to give way to anticipation, eyes locking back onto Ryoma, waiting to see where he takes it next.

Ryoma steps down from the apron, motioning for the camera to follow, guiding it toward Ramirez.

“And look who I found here… Hugo Ramirez.”

He gestures casually, like he’s introducing a guest. The camera catches him, and Ramirez’s expression hardens immediately.

His eyes narrow, jaw tight with clear irritation. He lifts a hand and pushes the camera aside, breaking the shot without a word.

But Ryoma simply continues the antics. “And guess what? He’s challenging me for the world stage.”

The noise surges, louder and sharper than before, confusion, excitement, and curiosity crashing together at once. People rise again, voices overlapping as they try to piece together what that means.

“Wait… did he just call someone out?”

“Cabello? Did he say Cabello?”

“No way… It must be Miguel Cabello!”

“Is he serious right now?”

“He’s already looking past this fight?”

The energy shifts from celebration into anticipation, something restless and electric spreading through the crowd.

“Oh, listen to this place!” the lead commentator bursts out. “He’s not just celebrating, he’s making a statement!”

“And a bold one,” the second adds quickly. “Calling out a name like that, and dragging Hugo Ramirez into it right here, right now… this is turning into something bigger!”

“He just unified titles tonight,” the lead continues, voice rising, “and he’s already pointing at the next level!”

“That’s confidence,” the second says. “Or something even more dangerous. Because he’s not easing into it. He’s kicking the door open.”

Ryoma climbs back into the ring and gestures for the announcer’s microphone, taking it without hesitation as the camera stays fixed on him, his gaze locked straight into the lens.

“Wherever you are, Cabello, I know you’re watching this,” he says, his voice steady as it carries across the arena. “I heard you’ve got a world title fight coming up, and I’m sure you’re going to win it. So make sure you’re ready, and don’t get yourself hurt too much. I’m coming after you soon enough.”

His eyes sharpen, the smile still there but colder now.

“You can’t run from me forever.”

The arena erupts the moment the words leave his mouth, the reaction crashing in all at once as voices rise in shock and excitement, the earlier applause transforming into something louder and far more charged.

“He just called him out!”

“No way, that’s a world title fight!”

“He’s already looking ahead!”

The energy spreads through the stands as people push to their feet again, drawn in by the sheer boldness of it, the anticipation building almost instantly.

“Oh, listen to this place!” the lead commentator shouts, his voice lifting with the noise. “Ryoma Takeda has just thrown down a challenge on the world stage!”

“And not to just anyone,” the second adds quickly. “He’s calling out Miguel Cabello before the title fight even happens. That’s a statement!”

“He’s not waiting his turn,” the lead continues. “He’s putting himself right into that picture!”

“And if Cabello wins,” the second says, “then this becomes one of the biggest fights you can make!”

“A unification tonight,” the lead says, the excitement still climbing, “and now he’s aiming straight for the world title next. That’s how fast this is moving!”

The crowd feeds into it, the noise continuing to rise as the possibility takes shape, turning the end of the night into the beginning of something even bigger.