VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma finally turns away and walks back toward his corner. As he reaches it, Nakahara gives a small scoff, the kind that sounds almost like a congratulation delivered with a complaint already attached.

”Two rounds,” he says with a dead pan look in his face. ”You managed to finish the fight before we even had time to get comfortable. But that was reckless.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. ”Reckless?”

”You kept forcing those dual exchanges when you could have avoided it,” Nakahara says. ”You knew exactly what he was trying to do, and you still chose to meet him head-on.”

”Give the guy some credit,” Ryoma says simply. ”He was good enough to make it worth trying.”

Nakahara no longer argues with him, but he does not really accept Ryoma’s argument either. He just studies him in silence, his expression growing increasingly concerned as he begins to sense that something is wrong with Ryoma lately.

Ryoma simply ignores him and lets his gaze drift toward Umemoto, who is still seated at ringside near the corner.

Umemoto has been watching him too, his intense gaze fixed firmly on Ryoma. But there is no hatred in his eyes, despite all the hostility he has displayed toward Ryoma in public.

Instead, he looks challenged, his intensity almost absurdly fierce, like an orange cat suddenly spotting a rival cat from the neighboring block and deciding this is now a matter of territorial honor.

Truthfully, Umemoto has never had much of a personal grudge against Ryoma. He just sees Ryoma as an a fellow Japanese boxer worth defeating. And after watching Ryoma dismantle Nikolai with such a brutal and almost unnecessarily vicious approach, that territorial instinct only grows stronger.

For several moments, their gazes remain locked until several local journalists notice the exchange and, naturally, begin doing what journalists do best: speculating.

”I know Ryoma’s been itching to beat the hell out of Umemoto too.”

”Well, after everything Umemoto has said about him, Ryoma wouldn’t exactly be much of a man if he didn’t take that personally.”

”Sure, but it’s not like Ryoma actually wants to avoid Umemoto. He’s made his intention to become undisputed pretty damn clear. Fighting Umemoto doesn’t get him any closer to that.”

”But if Umemoto beats Liam O’Connel, then Ryoma won’t be able to avoid him anymore.”

”And if that happens, we might finally get the hottest fight in Japan. Maybe even hotter than the tension that was building between Umemoto and Ryohei before that fight fell apart.”

***

With the important fight finally out of the way, Ryoma no longer has any excuse to keep avoiding the media.

So he sits behind the long press-conference table with a microphone in front of him, a bottle of water within reach, and considerably less interest in playing the charming media darling he has been cultivating ever since he stepped into the boxing promotion business.

There is no practiced smile tonight. No easy jokes delivered with carefully measured warmth. No polished little remarks designed to make reporters feel as though they have been granted a glimpse behind the curtain.

Ryoma simply looks tired of them. Still, he has no intention of shutting them out. When the moderator opens the floor for questions, Ryoma gestures casually toward the room.

”Anything.”

The invitation should have been enough to send the journalists scrambling. Instead, the local reporters sit remarkably still, apparently united by that peculiar love-hate relationship they have with Ryoma.

They don’t want to corner him too aggressively and risk making Japan look bad in front of the international press. But they certainly aren’t interested in handing the man another free advertisement for his already enormous reputation, either.

A few stare down at their notebooks. Others exchange brief glances, as if the question of who gets to speak first has somehow become a matter of national security.

The foreign journalists, however, have no such hesitation. And within seconds, microphones begin rising from the opposite side of the room.

The first few questions concern the fight itself, his strategy, and the surprisingly short duration of the bout. Ryoma answers without much enthusiasm, though he remains perfectly composed.

Then someone brings up the referee. ”You deliberately ignored the referee’s instruction to move to the neutral corner after the second knockdown. Do you have absolutely no respect for the rules and referee’s authority?”

Ryoma’s expression barely changes. ”The referee deducted a point for it. But I never really cared about points.”

The journalist does not let it go. ”So does that mean you are willing to ignore the rules and the referee’s warnings whenever you believe it will help you secure a victory?”

Ryoma tilts his head slightly. ”Did I cheat?”

The journalist hesitates, and Ryoma simply waits. When no immediate answer comes, the corner of his mouth lifts by the smallest amount.

”Actually, you should be thanking me,” he says. ”I did everything I could to keep the fight from ending too quickly. Unfortunately, Nikolai the Sharingan turned out to have a reputation much bigger than his actual ability.”

Several reporters react at once, some laugh, some wince. But a few of the local journalists look as though Ryoma has just insulted their grandmother.

Then another reporter raises his microphone. ”You seem to hate him quite a lot.”

Ryoma looks over. ”Do I?”

”Many people believe you weren’t fighting like you normally do tonight. Nikolai spent a considerable amount of time trying to get under your skin. Was his psychological warfare effective?”

”He was doing what I usually do.” Ryoma’s answer comes without heat. ”So how could I hate him for that?”

The room settles down again. And Ryoma leans back in his chair, one arm resting loosely against the table.

”He just made one mistake.”

”What mistake?”

”He thought he could beat me by imitating me. But you people just don’t know, I spend more time fighting myself than I do fighting other people.”

That answer leaves the room unusually quiet, not because it is particularly profound, but because nobody can quite tell whether Ryoma is joking or has accidentally stumbled into sounding profound.

Before anyone can decide, another journalist takes the opportunity to jump in.

”But many people think what you did tonight was cruel and excessive. After the second knockdown, Nikolai might not have been able to beat the referee’s count anyway. Yet you deliberately refused to go to the neutral corner and appeared to provoke him into getting back up.”

The journalist’s tone becomes more pointed. ”Weren’t you concerned that this would damage your image as the face of Japanese boxing?”

Ryoma stares at him. For the first time, something resembling amusement appears in his eyes.

”The face of Japanese boxing?”

He repeats the phrase slowly, as though testing it for defects. Then he gives a short, condescending chuckle.

”What an irritating title.”

The room goes still, as though someone has just said something terribly inconvenient.

”Honestly, I never asked for it.” Ryoma glances across the local press section. ”You people decided to stick that label on me yourselves. And now, suddenly, I’m supposed to have some additional responsibility because of it? That I have to speak sweetly. Smile like an angel. Feel sorry for the guy trying to knock my head off. Come on.”

Several journalists shift uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging uneasy glances as Ryoma’s words hang over the room.

”Did you forget what my loyal fans call me?” Ryoma adds.

Nobody answers, and somehow, that silence feels so much different from the one before.

”Come on,” Ryoma says again, leaning slightly toward the microphone. ”Answer me. What do they call me?”

A reporter finally speaks, almost reluctantly.

”The Cruel King?”

Ryoma simply holds the reporter’s gaze, his face completely still.

”You goddamn right.”

Somehow, the answer only makes the room more uncomfortable. The journalists exchange uneasy glances, suddenly looking at Ryoma less like a controversial fighter and more like someone they are no longer entirely sure they understand.

He shows no embarrassment or hesitation, as though being called the Cruel King is simply an accurate title he has long since accepted without needing anyone’s approval.

Perhaps that is what unsettles them most. Ryoma has never lost, and almost every one of his victories has ended with his opponent being brutally knocked out, making his growing detachment feel less like an act and more like something that is becoming ingrained in him.