VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For Okabe, it is not even about personal hatred toward Higuchi. From the very beginning, his goal has always been straightforward; reaching the throne.

Now Higuchi sits at third rank after losing to the champion, which means, beating him tonight changes everything. And if he does it by knockout, like Ryoma told him before this, there is a strong chance he could jump all the way to second rank.

For someone constantly labeled talentless, this fight feels like one final attempt to prove his place in the sport. Because if even this still means nothing, then maybe staying in boxing any longer really would be meaningless.

That pressure keeps replaying itself inside Okabe’s head before Nakahara’s voice cuts through the room, standing behind him with the mitt pads raised.

“Okabe. Get ready.”

Okabe turns around, nods, and the moment they start working, the atmosphere inside the locker room changes.

Pak!

Pak-pak!

Nakahara swings one mitt sideways like a hook instead of simply receiving punches, and again. Okabe rolls underneath it with a low crouching posture before slipping inside at close range.

Pak-pak!

A short left hook crashes into the mitt, followed instantly by a compact right hand with violent shoulder rotation.

Nakahara fires another mitt downward. Okabe slips again, and sends another combination.

Pak!

Pak-pak!

Pak!

Unlike the old Okabe who used to lose control once adrenaline took over, his rotation now stays compact, disciplined, and efficient even while the intensity keeps rising.

Nakahara then lowers the mitts for a moment, breathing steady while watching Okabe closely.

“I know part of you still wants to settle the score,” he says. “But don’t stay trapped in the past. You’re not the same fighter from that Class-A final anymore. You’ve improved. A lot more than you realize. So stop treating tonight like some chance to rewrite old history.”

He taps one mitt lightly against Okabe’s chest. “See Higuchi as just another obstacle between you and the title.”

Okabe gives a small nod. Nakahara raises both mitts again, and immediately, the locker room fills once more with the constant rhythm of impact.

Pak!

Pak-pak!

Pak!

Pak-pak-pak!

***

Back inside the arena, the commentators are still trying to keep the momentum from the previous fight alive before the energy has any chance to cool down.

“And somehow, tonight just keeps escalating! The Night of Revenge is turning into exactly what it promised!”

“Let’s not forget, both of tonight’s featured bouts carry unfinished business from last year’s Class-A Tournament!”

“And trust me, a lot of people inside this arena still haven’t forgotten what happened back then!”

Almost as if timed perfectly with those words, the arena lights suddenly shift toward the entrance tunnel. Okabe emerges from the darkness. Nakahara walks behind him together with Hiroshi, Kurogane, and Kenta, while the crowd instantly erupts at the sight of him.

“Let’s go, Okabe!”

“It’s your time tonight.”

A large portion of the people screaming for him look rough enough to belong in the middle of a street fight themselves; bleached hair, tattoos peeking from beneath jackets, crooked postures slumped over the barricades, cigarette voices tearing through the arena with zero restraint.

Some look like construction workers straight off a night shift. Others resemble delinquent gangs who wandered into Ota Gymnasium looking for violence instead of boxing. And somehow, all of them fit perfectly with Okabe’s image.

“Oi, Okabe! Don’t let that pretty-boy runner escape tonight! You hear me?!”

“You’ve been chewing on that loss long enough! Go cave his face in already!”

“Come on, praying mantis! I wanna see you rip his face apart!”

“I want a slugfest!”

“Yeah! I wanna see blood!”

The reaction becomes so loud that even the commentators sound briefly caught off guard.

“…Alright, hold on, isn’t this getting a little excessive?!” the lead commentator blurts out with a half-laugh.

But the other commentator immediately answers, still sounding entertained by the atmosphere himself.

“Honestly, with the history between these two? This reaction is completely understandable. And if you understand the kind of fighter Okabe is… then yeah, people are obviously expecting something dangerous tonight.”

***

Unlike Okabe, the atmosphere surrounding Higuchi’s entrance feels completely different. The cheers are louder in number, but far more polished, cleaner, almost organized instead of chaotic.

“Higuchi-kun! Good luck tonight!”

“You’re definitely winning this!”

And unlike Okabe’s rough crowd of delinquents and fight addicts, a large portion of Higuchi’s supporters are women.

The moment the earlier crowd steals their attention, they scream with the kind of excitement usually reserved for pop idols stepping onto a concert stage.

“Kyaaaah! Higuchi-kun!”

“LOOK OVER HERE!”

“YOU’RE SO COOL TONIGHT!”

“HIGUCHI-KUN! PLEASE WIN!”

Some of them rise from their seats just to wave towels and signs toward him while Higuchi himself continues walking forward with cool composure, barely reacting to any of it.

Instantly, loud boos explode from Okabe’s side of the arena.

“Ain’t nobody here to watch an idol concert!”

“Get that pretty-boy crap outta here!”

“Higuchi! Better start running early!”

Higuchi’s supporters fire back immediately, offended by the hostility.

“Oh please, your guy only knows how to swing!”

“At least Higuchi can actually box!”

“Maybe Okabe should learn technique instead of fighting like a drunk thug!”

And just like that, the atmosphere inside Ota Gymnasium completely splits into two opposing sides.

The verbal assaults continue flying across the arena nonstop while both fighters slowly approach center ring from opposite corners.

Even the commentators start laughing nervously at how heated the crowd has become before the fight has properly begun.

And the tension only finally stops escalating once both fighters stand face-to-face before the referee and touch gloves at center ring.

“And here we go,” the lead commentator says. “Months of tension finally lead to this moment!”

“One side wants revenge. The other wants validation,” the second commentator adds. “And honestly? I don’t think either man is willing to back down tonight.”

“Two completely different styles. Two completely different personalities.”

“But after everything surrounding that Class-A final… this was always going to explode sooner or later.”

The referee steps backward. And the first round finally begins.

Ding!

Several of Okabe’s supporters immediately scream for him to start brawling from the opening second.

“GET IN THERE, OKABE!”

“DON’T LET HIM BREATHE!”

“TURN IT INTO A STREET FIGHT!”

But to their surprise, Okabe does not rush forward recklessly. There is no exaggerated shoulder roll anymore. No rocking head movement in a stance resembling a praying mantis preparing to strike.

Instead, Okabe calmly plants himself near center ring with a disciplined guard and balanced stance, his posture squared like a proper mid-range fighter.

Even Higuchi looks faintly caught off guard by the difference, not only by the stance itself, but by the composure sitting underneath it.

“So you finally decided to box properly?” Higuchi says with a faint scoff. “Let’s see if that loss actually taught you anything.”

He steps in immediately afterward and fires two piston-like jabs straight toward Okabe’s guard.

DUGH! DUGH!

They are not light probing shots either. Each jab carries stiffness and weight behind it, deliberately testing Okabe’s balance and reactions.

Then Higuchi bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, pivots to the side, and opens fire again.

DUGH! DUGH!

The left hand keeps working like a machine piston while Higuchi circles around him, trying to keep Okabe planted near center ring.

DUGH! DUGH!

DUGH! DUGH!

None of the punches land cleanly. Okabe reads them well enough and keeps his guard high and disciplined instead of reacting recklessly.

More importantly, he never rushes to answer back. In fact, part of his focus now is not even on Higuchi, but on controlling the violent impulse slowly building inside himself.

Over the past year, one lesson has settled deeply into him: before controlling the opponent or the ring, he first has to control himself.

“Calm down, Okabe…”

“Breathe slowly…”

“And watch…”

The pounding sound keeps reverberating through Okabe’s guard every time Higuchi’s jab crashes into it.

DUGH! DUGH!

DUGH! DUGH! DUGH!

But inside Okabe’s head, his own breathing feels louder than any of it. Not because he is exhausted, but because of how intensely he keeps checking his own composure with every second that passes.

Finally, Higuchi changes the pattern, firing two stiff jabs again while stepping deeper into range before driving a hard cross straight toward Okabe’s guard to keep both hands occupied.

Dug-dug! DUGH!

Then the left hand immediately drops downstairs.

THUD!

The body shot lands cleanly against Okabe’s side, forcing his right guard to dip slightly. Higuchi moves instantly and whips a lead hook upstairs toward the opening.

But Okabe dips his head immediately, while bringing the right arm back up to cover the side of his head, catching the punch against the forearm.

Dug.

Then his posture changes, not at the waist, but at the knees. His level slightly lowers, compactly, like something tightening underneath the surface.

Higuchi feels it, and immediately, his feet carry him backward almost on instinct, quickly steps himself back out of range.

“Okabe still does not throw anything,” the lead commentator says.

“But somehow,” the second adds, “that restraint only makes Higuchi more cautious.”

“Yeah, for a reason, Okabe looks entirely different tonight.”

Higuchi notices the different too. Back during the Class-A final, Okabe always reacted violently once he got hit, used to explode into reckless exchanges without caring what came back at him.

Tonight feels different. More than a minute has already passed. And Okabe still has not thrown a single punch.

“Let him throw that left…”

“Isn’t that it, old man?”

“Let him help me get used to his rhythm first.”

And indeed, the longer Higuchi keeps throwing that left hand from range, the more naturally Okabe starts reacting to it.

At first, he only blocks.

Dug.

Dug. Dugh.

Dug.

Then he begins reading the timing, dodging punches after blocking a few.

Swssh!

Dug. Dug.

Swssh! Swssh!

Dug.

Swsh! Swsh!

And the more Higuchi adds variation to his strikes, the calmer Okabe becomes in dealing with it. The unpredictability slowly stops feeling unpredictable.

Even those that lack talent, given enough time and the right guidance, can still grow into something.

“Higuchi’s looking very sharp in this opening round. That left hand is controlling everything right now.”

“But Okabe’s reacting better than expected. He’s blocking well, slipping cleanly, and not giving Higuchi many clean targets to work with.”

“Yeah! Who would’ve thought Okabe could fight this clean?”