VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara can only offer an awkward smile. As usual, once the conversation drifts too far into English, all he can do is wait and hope someone explains it to him afterward.

Ryoma, meanwhile, has already gone quiet. His eyes remain on Elliot and Sergei, but his thoughts are elsewhere, rapidly assembling one hypothetical after another.

”I know what it’s like to get cheated,” Elliot says. ”When I fought Shimamura Suzuki, I’m convinced they tried to do the same thing.”

He gives Ryoma’s shoulder a firm pat before offering a faint smile. Without waiting for Ryoma’s response, he then turns toward the door, raising a hand without looking back.

”Good luck, Ryoma. I’ll be rooting for you.”

Sergei inclines his head respectfully toward Nakahara before following after his fighter. ”We’ll finish this conversation another time. Preferably after you’ve become a world champion.”

As the door slides shut behind them, the awkward smile lingering on Nakahara’s face finally disappears.

”So? What were they talking about?” he asks. ”Don’t tell me they were already trying to line up a unification fight if you win tonight. If that’s what they...”

Ryoma shakes his head. ”No. They only stopped by to wish me luck... and to tell me Vaughan and Bowman were just seen entering Cabello’s locker room.”

The answer instantly changes the atmosphere inside the locker room. Nakahara’s expression hardens, while Kenta, Okabe, and Aramaki exchange uneasy looks.

”If that’s true,” Kenta says, ”they could try pulling the same stunt they did in my fight against Della Cruz. Use the ringside doctor to stop the fight... or maybe they’ve already gotten to the referee too.”

”Or the judges,” Okabe adds with a snort. ”That’s exactly how I lost the Class A Tournament final.”

Nakahara lets out a long breath before tightening his folded arms. ”We may be hosting this event, but we’ve never tried to influence the officials. That’s why we left every appointment entirely to the commission. We never requested a particular referee or judge. But that also means...”

He pauses, his expression growing even grimmer. ”…if someone else approached them first, there’s every chance one or two of them have already been bought.”

”This really complicates things,” Aramaki mutters. ”Against Cabello, you have to stay calm. You can’t rush him. The whole idea is to drag him into an endurance fight, and there’s a good chance it goes all twelve rounds. But if the judges can’t be trusted, you can’t afford to leave it to the scorecards... and at the same time, you can’t force a knockout in the early rounds.”

Ryoma gives a slow nod before walking back to the bench. He sits down, rests both elbows on his knees, using the minutes he has left to tear apart the strategy he had spent weeks building and reconstruct it around every new possibility.

No one interrupts him. The others understand that once Ryoma disappears into his own thoughts, the best thing they can do is leave him there.

But moments later, a muffled roar from the live broadcast playing across the wall-mounted television pulls everyone’s attention.

”Yoshitomo comes charging forward again!” the commentator bellows. ”This isn’t the composed counterpuncher we’ve grown used to seeing! He’s taking the fight straight to Murota!”

On the screen, Satoru crashes forward behind a stiff jab before a looping right hand that whistles past Murota’s temple.

The veteran slips outside the punch and answers with a compact left hook that snaps Satoru’s head sideways.

Yet the younger fighter barely seems to notice, planting his feet and firing back with another furious combination.

”He’s fighting with incredible urgency!” the commentator exclaims. ”Usually Yoshitomo is patient, disciplined... but tonight he’s throwing caution aside and trying to overwhelm Murota with sheer aggression!”

Another exchange erupts near the ropes. Satoru continues pressing forward with the determination of a man desperate to prove something.

”What the hell’s gotten into that kid?” Okabe mutters. ”That’s not the Satoru I know.”

”Maybe it’s the crowd,” Aramaki says quietly. ”Fighting on a stage this huge isn’t something you can prepare for.”

”Or maybe...” Kenta murmurs, ”he’s still trying to make up for losing to Kazuya Tojo. He failed to get his A-License. And today he’s trying too hard to prove he belongs here.”

Round after round, the same pattern repeats itself. Every time the bell sends Satoru back to his corner, the broadcast captures Sera speaking calmly, reminding him to slow everything down.

Satoru nods every single time, yet the moment the next round begins, he storms forward again, throwing combinations that grow wider and more desperate with every exchange.

”What the hell are you doing?” Okabe snaps. ”Are you deaf or what? Your second’s practically spelling it out for you!”

To the average spectator, Satoru appears to be dictating the pace from start to finish, constantly marching Murota backward and forcing him into exchanges.

But beneath the chaos lies a completely different fight. While Satoru throws nearly twice as many punches, Murota remains disciplined, answering only when the openings present themselves and landing cleaner, more decisive scoring blows with remarkable efficiency.

The pattern holds through six rounds. And by then, even Murota finally starts showing the effects of the constant pressure.

The final two rounds become the strongest of Satoru’s night as he finally begins landing clean damaging shots.

More than once, the crowd rises to its feet, convinced Murota is on the verge of breaking. But the knockdown never comes until the final bell echoes through Tokyo Dome.

Standing at center ring for the scorecards, Satoru wears the look of a man convinced he has done enough. When the decision is announced, however, his expression freezes.

”...your winner, by unanimous decision... Wakasuhi Murota!”

The broadcast catches Satoru turning immediately toward Sera, frustration written plainly across his face as he argues his case.

But Sera simply shakes his head, silently accepting the verdict before guiding him away from center ring.

”Unbelievable!” Okabe throws both hands into the air. ”Fighting so ugly like that, and kid still thinking he won it? He fought like an idiot.”

***

The moment Satoru steps back into the locker room, Okabe is already waiting for him with both arms folded.

”What the hell was that?” he scoffs. ”Tokyo Dome gets into your head once, and suddenly you think throwing more punches makes you a better fighter. Pathetic.”

Satoru lowers his head without offering a single excuse while Sera calmly unwraps the towel from around his neck and looks toward Okabe.

”Then don’t make the same mistake,” Sera says.

Okabe merely scoffs with an almost offended look. ”I’m not some nervous rookie. Don’t compare me to an amateur like him.”

Ironically, the first person to dismiss Tokyo Dome’s pressure becomes the very next man forced to face it.

The instant Okabe steps through the entrance, his feet come to an abrupt stop. For a brief moment, he simply stands beneath the floodlights, staring at the enormous sea of faces stretching across Tokyo Dome.

Compared to Satoru’s bout just minutes earlier, thousands more spectators have poured into the arena, transforming an already intimidating atmosphere into something far heavier.

Before Okabe can even gather himself, another wave crashes over him. Thousands of Umemoto supporters from Osaka erupt into deafening jeers the moment they recognize the Ronin logo across his robe.

”YOU DON’T BELONG HERE! STUPID PRAYING MANTIS”

”KIRYU’S GONNA DESTROY YOU!”

”RONIN’S GOING HOME EMPTY-HANDED TODAY!”

The effect is immediate. Determined to silence the jeers as quickly as possible, Okabe follows the very path he had mocked Satoru for taking only minutes earlier.

Every successful exchange tempts him to force another, every opening convinces him to chase something bigger, until one mistake quietly turns into two, then three.

”This is absolute chaos, and the fans are loving every second of it!”

”Okabe keeps marching forward, but Kiryu is making him pay for every gamble!”

”Kiryu is landing the cleaner shots, but Okabe just won’t stop coming!”

”What a tremendous battle of wills here in Tokyo Dome!”

By the fifth round, those mistakes have already cost Okabe two knockdowns.

Okabe refuses to stay on the canvas, but everyone watching from Ronin’s locker room can see the truth; the man fighting inside the ring is running on little more than pride and wounded ego.

Kenta can only bury his face in one hand, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. ”Unbelievable... He spent five minutes lecturing Satoru... then went out there and did the exact same thing.”

Nakahara watches the broadcast in silence, his expression carrying none of the surprise shown by the others. If anything, he looks defeated.

”I knew it,” Nakahara says at last. ”The moment he started lecturing Satoru, I already had a feeling he might lose too.”

”Two losses out of two...” Aramaki mutters.

The pressure waiting outside has quietly found its way into the locker room, and now it rests squarely on Aramaki’s shoulders.

Nakahara exhales heavily before reaching for the mitts beside the bench. ”It’ll be even uglier if you make the same mistake they did.”

”Aramaki, remember what we trained for,” Ryoma says. ”Everyone prepares their body for an endurance war. Very few prepare their mind.”

Aramaki meets his gaze and gives a slow nod. He has heard those words countless times throughout training camp, but they have never sounded more important than they do now.

He steps toward Nakahara, raising his guard as the coach lifts the mitts in front of him.