VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The moment Ryoma settles onto the stool, Hiroshi and Sera move into their routine with far steadier hands than before. There is no trace of the earlier panic. As far as the blue corner is concerned, everything is still unfolding according to the plan Ryoma had laid out.

Nakahara crouches in front of him and offers a bottle of water, speaking a little faster than usual, determined to make every second of the one-minute break count.

”Good work, kid,” he says. ”You made him work far harder than he wanted. And despite all that, you still managed to keep the accumulated damage to a minimum. Keep this up, and he’ll be yours soon.”

Ryoma rinses his mouth, spits into the bucket, then slowly shakes his head.

”No... this isn’t working.”

Nakahara’s brow furrows. ”Hm? What is it? Did you notice something I failed to see?”

”Something’s fishy about that guy,” Ryoma says, still steadying his breathing. ”He’s been fighting at a high pace since the opening bell. Instead of slowing down, he’s only becoming more aggressive.”

Nakahara exchanges a glance with Sera. Both still wear the same optimistic expressions, seeing an entirely different picture.

”Isn’t that exactly what we want?” Sera says. ”Miguel Cabello loves fighting safely, yet now he’s trying to finish this early. Let him burn himself out a little longer, then punish him in the final minute of the next round.”

Ryoma shakes his head. ”I’m not comfortable betting on that. At this rate, I might fall apart before his performance ever does.”

Nakahara studies him quietly. ”That doesn’t sound like you… doubting yourself like this. You’ve been extremely frugal with your output, and I know he hasn’t hurt you all that much.”

Ryoma takes a slow breath, weighing whether he should voice the suspicion that has been nagging at him. His eyes move from Nakahara to Sera, to Coach Murakami, and then to Hiroshi.

Finally, he speaks. ”I think he’s juiced.”

For a brief moment, the entire blue corner falls into stunned, uneasy silence, before Sera lets out a quiet chuckle.

”What’s gotten into you?” Sera says. ”Just because you’re having a hard time out there, now you’re accusing him of being juiced? Ryoma, I’m not trying to belittle you... but right now, you sound like you’re making excuses.”

Ryoma blinks, momentarily caught off guard. For an instant, the same doubt creeps into his own mind. Maybe, from the outside, he really does sound like a fighter searching for excuses after running into an opponent he can’t solve.

But then again, the rational part of him refuses to let the thought go.

”I know it sounds like an excuse,” Ryoma says. ”And I know I’d only waste this one-minute break trying to walk all of you through every deduction I’ve made. But remember, the cornerstone of my game plan was stamina management. I studied Cabello carefully in that area, and everything he’s shown tonight has been anomaly after anomaly.”

Without hearing the full reasoning, the corner gradually begins replaying the fight in their own minds. Their thoughts linger on the last two rounds, especially after Ryoma adopted the same approach Aramaki had once used against Rikiya Miyamoto.

The entire strategy had been built around dragging the fight into the closing thirty seconds, expecting Cabello’s output to decline. Yet it never had.

”Could it be...” Hiroshi says slowly. ”Cabello specifically prepared for this. Maybe he built his conditioning around countering our strategy.”

”I doubt it,” Ryoma replies. ”His physique hasn’t changed in any meaningful way. And even if he’d improved his conditioning, that still wouldn’t explain this. Better stamina doesn’t give you permission to fight this recklessly without managing your output. But that’s exactly what he’s doing. He’s fighting like he’s completely certain he won’t gas out until the end.”

As the team’s conditioning specialist, Hiroshi struggles to dismiss the possibility that the opponent might have used prohibited substance. He glances toward the red corner, and the color gradually drains from his face.

”Should we report this to the officials?” he mutters without much thought. ”He has to be juiced, and…”

”Hold on,” Coach Murakami says. ”That’s an extremely serious accusation. And there’s still every possibility that Ryoma’s suspicion is simply wrong.”

Nakahara nods. ”Coach Murakami’s right. Even if we report him, then what? What if they find nothing after we’ve already forced the fight to be stopped?”

”I’ve considered that,” Ryoma says. ”Expecting the officials to find something right now would be wishful thinking. My priority is still this fight… find another way to beat him while assuming his pace won’t drop before the final bell.”

Nakahara now understands where Ryoma is coming from. This isn’t about forcing a baseless accusation. Ryoma is simply reevaluating the fight under the assumption that the champion’s pace will never meaningfully decline.

”Have you found another way?” Nakahara asks. ”Because, to be honest... this is beyond anything I prepared for. The only reliable answer to Cabello’s Cuban Boxing is relentless pressure. But if he truly has the stamina to sustain that style, then it’s as if the one weakness that should exist... simply doesn’t.”

Ryoma reluctantly shakes his head. ”Sadly... I can’t think of a convincing way.”

A heavy silence settles over the blue corner. One of Ryoma’s greatest strengths has always been his ability to solve problems in the middle of a fight. Yet now, even Ryoma has run out of answers.

Hiroshi clenches his jaw, frustration finally spilling over. ”I’m telling you, we should…”

”But there is one,” Ryoma suddenly says.

The words stop Hiroshi cold. Everyone now turns toward Ryoma, hope and unease mixing across their faces. Yet Ryoma doesn’t immediately continue.

His eyes drift toward the red corner, where Cabello is still resting, while his mind quietly weighs consequences, calculating risks and probabilities one last time.

”The only thing that truly makes him difficult to fight is his random flair,” Ryoma says at last. ”I’ll admit it... I’ve been completely outclassed in that regard. But boxing isn’t always about becoming the better fighter. Sometimes... you win by taking your opponent away from the conditions that let him fight at his best.”

”Fair enough,” Nakahara says. ”But how are you going to do that?”

Ryoma already has the answer, but he simply keeps it to himself. The others mistake his silence for uncertainty, yet Ryoma’s expression has turned unusually dark, carrying the quiet resolve of a man prepared to stake everything on the lowest-percentage decision of his career.

The silence lingers until the official’s voice cuts through the arena.

”Seconds out!”

Nakahara exhales and motions for the others to move.

The team gathers their equipment and slips through the ropes one by one.

Nakahara is the last to leave, still standing on the apron outside the ring, when Ryoma suddenly calls out.

”Coach...”

Nakahara looks back. ”Yes?”

”Promise me something,” Ryoma says. ”Whatever happens this round... don’t panic. And don’t even think about throwing in the towel.”

Nakahara’s expression hardens. ”What the...?”

”No, don’t get the wrong idea,” Ryoma says calmly. ”What I’m about to do will probably look dangerous.”

He holds Nakahara’s gaze for a brief moment. ”But trust me... it’s nowhere near as dangerous as it’s going to look.”

The official calls for the corners to clear one final time. After a brief hesitation, Nakahara gives Ryoma a reluctant nod and steps down from the apron, leaving the young challenger alone with the decision he has already made.

”The atmosphere has changed again,” one commentator says, his voice noticeably lower than before. ”Ryoma still hasn’t found a way to take control of this fight, and for the first time tonight, even the Ronin corner looks unusually tense.”

”It does,” his partner agrees. ”Up until now, they’ve always looked like a team working through a problem. But this time... they look different.”

The unease doesn’t go unnoticed among Ryoma’s supporters, either. Across one section of the Tokyo Dome, the members of the Cruel King Army wear the same anxious expressions, sensing the shift in momentum as clearly as everyone else.

Then, without warning, their leader, Kenji Matsuda, waves the massive Cruel King Army banner high above the crowd and begins singing at the top of his lungs.

♪ Cruel King! Rule our ring!

Rule forever, make us sing! ♪

♪ Three bullets couldn’t bring you down!

Now go and take another crown! ♪

For several moments, his voice echoes alone through the arena.

Then one general joins.

Another follows.

Soon all twenty generals are singing in unison.

Within seconds, more than fifty thousand official members of the Cruel King Army rise to their feet, their voices merging into a single thunderous chorus that rolls across the Tokyo Dome.

And it doesn’t stop there. The ordinary spectators scattered throughout the arena gradually catch the lyrics as the chant repeats again and again.

♪ Cruel King! Rule our ring!

Rule forever, make us sing! ♪

♪ Three bullets couldn’t bring you down!

Now go and take another crown! ♪

Both commentators fall silent for a moment, visibly taken aback by the wave of voices sweeping through the Tokyo Dome.

”Listen to that...”

”That’s no longer just a group of supporters. The entire arena is singing for Ryoma Takeda.”

”The question now is... how does a champion respond when fifty thousand voices are trying to carry his opponent?”

Cabello, however, only looks more amused, a playful smile lingering across his face as though the deafening chorus exists solely for his entertainment.

”Heh... now this is getting fun.”

A heartbeat later, the bell rings for the sixth round.

Ding!

Cabello strolls out of the red corner with the same effortless swagger as before, his shoulders loose while his feet drift into that familiar half-dance, half-walk, moving to the Eurodance rhythm echoing inside his head.

”This is my kind of party...”

But then, the chorus around the arena begins to falter. Puzzled murmurs quietly spread through the Tokyo Dome.

Within moments, the singing disappears altogether as every eye turns toward the blue corner. Because apparently, after five rounds of trying to beat Miguel Cabello, Ryoma has decided to try becoming him instead.

He walks forward with the very same lazy swagger, his steps falling into the same rhythm, his shoulders swaying with the same cadence.

But there is one final detail almost everyone misses. As Cabello quietly mutters to himself, Ryoma does exactly the same, almost matching even the timing of the words.

”Let’s keep dancing, baby…”