VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Callahan immediately tries to clinch, but before he can secure his hold, Aramaki digs another left hook into his right side.

Thud!

Callahan’s face contorts in pain.

”Urgh…”

At last, he manages to end the punishment with a clinch, his breathing ragged as he desperately wraps both arms around Aramaki.

Before the referee can separate them, the bell sounds to end the second round.

Ding!

”What a finish to the round!” one commentator shouts, struggling to be heard over the crowd. ”Callahan was trying everything to survive that barrage, but Aramaki just wouldn’t give him a moment to breathe!”

”Absolutely! This is not what we expected from Aramaki tonight. We thought this fight would be a major test of his readiness for world-level boxing, but look at how calmly he’s applying relentless pressure against the American Continental Champion!”

”I have to agree. I didn’t expect this kind of development either. But we’ve only seen two rounds so far, and I’m convinced Marcus Callahan hasn’t even shown half of what he can do tonight.”

Korakuen Hall erupts with cheers and applauses. The noise swells until it nearly drowns out everything else.

Meanwhile, Callahan walks back to his corner, still haunted by Aramaki’s relentless pressure, seemingly indifferent to the expectations placed upon him as the WBC Continental Americas Champion.

He has always taken pride in his boxing, in the ability to hit without getting hit, in the sweet science that helped him earn his title. Yet now, he finds himself struggling to make sense of what is happening inside the ring.

Every principle he has relied upon seems useless against Aramaki, whose relentless pursuit appears to be driven by little more than madness and stubborn determination.

His mind still insists that there is no real boxing theory behind Aramaki’s style, nothing sophisticated enough to explain the way he fights.

Yet his heart continues to race at the thought of the relentless danger Aramaki brings with every advance.

The moment Callahan drops onto his stool, Collins launches into a sharp lecture, his expression making it clear that he is far from satisfied with him.

”What the hell is wrong with you, Marcus?! You’re fighting like a scared little bitch! Look at you, backing away from every exchange like you’re terrified of getting touched! Is this what I trained you for?!”

”I’m just trying to avoid unnecessary exchanges,” Callahan says. ”He is clearly stronger on the inside. So I keep my distance and control the fight with the style you taught me.”

”That’s not what you’re doing!” Collins snaps. ”I taught you to use your goddamn mind, to fight smart! Not fucking running away because you’re scared! There’s a huge difference between creating distance with a purpose and running away in fear. You’ve been reacting blindly to every fucking thing he does, as if he’s some kind of ticking bomb that could explode at any second! Look at him, Marcus! Look how small he is! Is that really the kind of fighter you’re afraid of?”

Meanwhile, the blue corner remains far calmer. Aramaki’s team continues tending to the marks left by Callahan’s counters, but there is no sign of panic among them.

”So, you’ve taken a few shots to the head already,” Nakahara says. ”How bad was it?”

”I’m not trying to underestimate him,” Aramaki replies, ”but even Okabe can hit me harder than that. I can take his counters if I have to and keep forcing exchanges.”

Nakahara nods. ”That’s the thing about a coiling counter. The punch comes while the body is tilting away, so it loses some of the force you’d get from driving forward. As long as you don’t lunge too far into it, you can take the hit without suffering too much damage. It’s mostly arm strength, not power generated from the legs and hips.”

He tilts his head slightly toward the opposite corner before continuing. ”His jabs are similar. They’re good for scoring points, but we never planned to rely on the judges from the start. You’re falling behind on the scorecards, but don’t let that discourage you.”

Aramaki nods. ”I know. I just need to keep the pressure on him. Wear down his legs, and destroy his footwork until he can’t run anymore. Whatever happens after that, I don’t give a damn.”

A small smile appears on Nakahara’s face, accompanied by a quiet sense of gratitude for having an athlete as professional as Aramaki under his guidance.

”Good,” Nakahara says, shaking Aramki’s shoulder firmly. ”Stay active. Keep hunting. But keep your head cool, too.”

”Yes,” Aramaki says.

Aramaki has always been this way. He does not burden himself with the weight of winning or losing, nor does he waste time worrying about whether he will leave the ring battered and bruised.

He only focuses on what he can do, carry out his job as a boxer, and leave the strategic decisions to the team in his corner.

He’s is always ready to face any danger without letting the outcome distract him from the work that needs to be done.

***

At Ronin, Ryoma is the only one who constantly carries the weight of expectations, endlessly calculating the possible outcomes of every fight and thinking through every scenario that could lead to victory or defeat.

But tonight, he is nowhere near Aramaki’s corner. Instead, Ryoma sits at ringside among the sponsors, fulfilling his role as the promoter.

He looks carefree, chatting cheerfully with the people around him with a childishly innocent smile on his face. Unlike his usual self, he pays little attention to the finer details of the fight.

”So, Ryoma, why aren’t you in Aramaki’s corner tonight?”

A middle-aged sponsor representing a company in the travel and aviation industry asks from Ryoma’s right in a gentle tone.

”Do you think his opponent isn’t much of a challenge? Is that why you don’t feel the need to get involved?”

”What are you talking about, Masahiko-san?” another middle-aged man, the president of a sporting goods company, interjects from Ryoma’s left. ”Aramaki’s opponent is the WBC Continental Americas Champion. That’s a step above a national champion, isn’t it? And he’s currently ranked seventh in the world.”

”No,” Ryoma replies with a cheerful smile. ”He is ranked fifth now?”

”Huh? I thought he was only seventh.”

”Rankings keep changing,” Ryoma says amiably, ”and the WBC moved him up to fifth at the beginning of this month.”

Both company presidents nod in admiration, while the other sponsors lean closer to join the conversation.

”Still, Aramaki is putting on quite a show tonight,” one of the sponsors remarks. ”Against the world’s fifth-ranked fighter, he looks as though he’s dominating the match.”

Ryoma tilts his head slightly. ”Does he? I think he’s having a pretty hard time, actually. Callahan’s good at keeping his distance.”

”You don’t seem worried,” says another sponsor.

”Should I be?” Ryoma asks, his expression bright with genuine curiosity. Then he chuckles slightly before adding, ”Aramaki’s still learning. That’s why we put him in fights like this. If he only fought people he could beat easily, he wouldn’t get any better. Of course, winning would be nice. But even if he loses, we’ll know what he needs to work on next time. Besides, if he wins too easily, the fight won’t be nearly as interesting, right?”

The sponsors laugh and nod along. Ryoma speaks with such open enthusiasm that they begin to feel like part of something exciting.

A few seats to Ryoma’s left, meanwhile, President Fujimoto watches him quietly, his expression carrying the gentle concern of a grandfather worrying about his grandchild’s health.

Ryoma wears the same naive, unguarded expression that first drew Fujimoto to him. Yet now, after learning more about Ryoma’s mental instability, that familiar innocence leaves the old man feeling strangely uneasy.

Ryoma looks like someone with not a single worry about tomorrow. But in Fujimoto’s eyes, he seems strangely vulnerable.