VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The streetlights around Korakuen Hall glows against the dusk sky. From the station exit, Shimizu leads the way, his banner rolls carefully under one arm like a sacred object.

Behind him, Shinzo carries a bundle of headbands, already sweating under the strap of his fishing cap.

"Feels like a pilgrimage," Shinzo mutters, panting. "If we're his fan club, then you're our chairman, Shimizu-san."

Shimizu straightens his shoulders, trying not to smile. "Chairman? Hah. Don't talk nonsense. We're just here so Ryoma knows who's behind him."

"Exactly," says another of the group, tightening the knot of his headband. "We're the ones closest to him. We've known him since he was a kid, not like the strangers who only cheer when it's convenient."

"Right, right," Shimizu agrees, puffing his chest. "He'll hear our voices above all others. He'll know his people are here."

They turn the corner and the hall comes into full view. Bright signs and posters cover the facade, and a stream of people pour through the entrance like it's a festival gate.

Shimizu's pace slows. He glances at the others, and his brows knitting.

"What a crowd, huh?" he mutters.

Shinzo whistles low, shifting the headbands under his arm. "Looks like more than just us, eh? Didn't expect…"

But his words drowned beneath a sudden chant that rolls across the crowd like thunder.

"Ryoma! Ryoma! Ryoma!"

"Come on, guys! Louder! Let the enemy's camp hear your voice!"

Shimizu's group stops in their tracks, swallowed by the sound.

The chant grows louder as they push closer. Everywhere they look, people wear Ryoma's name across their foreheads, their shirts, even painted across their cheeks.

Then the crowd parts as one voice rises above the rest. At the center stands a tall man gripping a massive pole banner. The cloth unfurled in the night air, bold letters screaming 'Ryoma, Certain Victory'.

He holds it like a battlefield commander raising a war standard, face grim, chest bare beneath an open jacket. His followers around him clap in rhythm, stomping the ground as if summoning an army.

Shimizu's group freezes, their little banner suddenly pathetic by comparison.

Shinzo blinks. "...Oi. Did we walk into the wrong event?"

Just then, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Oi! You guys! Finally made it, eh?"

They turn to see Ennosuke, the old taxi driver, weaving toward them through the crowd.

Shimizu's face lit up. "Ennosuke! You're here too?"

"Wouldn't miss it," the old man says, grinning as he claps Shimizu's shoulder. "You think Ryoma's going in there without his own neighbors cheering him on? Hah! Not a chance."

The group chuckles, relief softening the tension for a moment. Still, as the pole banner snaps in the wind and the chants thunders around them, their pride wavers beneath the sheer scale of it all.

***

Inside the hall, the air is different, tighter, and electric. The stage is surrounded by rows upon rows of seats packed with shouting voices.

Shimizu's group finally finds a spot in the middle stands, planting themselves together, banner resting across their knees. They sit stiffly, eyes darting around at the scale of it all.

Suddenly, the announcer's voice thunders through the speakers, followed by cheers as a fighter makes his walk down the aisle.

"Who's fighting now?" Shinzo asks, craning his neck.

"Who knows," another shrugs.

The third pulls the folded brochure from his pocket, squinting under the lights. "No idea who these guys are… but look, Ryoma's match is the third one."

That settles them for the moment. They lean back, trying to take in the scene.

The opening bout is already chaotic, the fighters throwing wild punches, but the crowd lukewarm until one lands clean and the other folded.

The second match picks up faster, sharper exchanges, the thud of gloves snapping heads back, sweat flying under the spotlights.

Shimizu's group leans forward, a little more drawn in.

"Not bad," Ennosuke mutters. "But nothing compared to Ryoma."

Ennosuke leans back with the calm of someone who knows the rhythm. He's been following the rookie tournament from its opening match.

Then finally, the lights dim, and music blasts from the speakers. A new face comes out.

Down the aisle swaggers a man in a glittering robe, chin high, every step measured like he is dancing. His dark skin glistened under the lights, his grin wide and taunting.

He slaps at fans' hands but never looked at them, his attention fixed on the ring as if it already belongs to him.

Immediately, the hall erupted in boos and jeers.

"Go back home!"

"Monkey!"

"You don't belong here!"

"Get out, gaijin!"

The insults come both in broken Japanese and in English curses, also in drunken roars spat with contempt.

But Serrano only spreads his arms wide, basking in it as if it were applause. His grin sharpens, his voice cutting through the chaos.

"Yeah! Louder!" he shouts, jabbing a finger at the crowd. "Hate me more! Because once I break your little hero, every one of you will bow down and worship me!"

The crowd's fury doubles, a storm of rage hammering down on him. And Serrano drinks it in, laughing, strutting toward the ring as if he owned it already.

Above the din, the commentators' voices fill the arena, broadcast over the speakers and headsets:

"What a reception for Leonardo Serrano tonight, absolute hostility from the Korakuen crowd!"

"And yet look at him, not a flicker of doubt on his face. This youngster has been tested before, and each time he's shown he belongs here."

"Exactly. People forget, he didn't walk into this final by accident. He fought through every round, every obstacle, and proved his courage against all odds. He thrives under this kind of pressure."

As Serrano climbs through the ropes, posing in the corner, the boos only grows louder. But on the broadcast, the voices frame him not as a villain, but as a contender worthy of the stage.

Shimizu's group blinks in surprise.

"That's… Ryoma's opponent?" one stammers. "A black foreigner?"

Another snaps at him, irritated. "Idiot, it's in the brochure. Look… Leonardo 'Shishi" Serrano."

The first man fumbles for the paper, eyes darting between the glossy photo and the man dancing in the ring.

His jaw clenches. "Wait… this guy…"

Shimizu leans in. "What?"

The man's voice drops. "He's the same one. From the other day."

Shinzo frowns. "You met him before?"

"Not me. But… at Fumiko's barbershop. They ran into him on the street. And… and he beat Ryoma. Right in front of his mother."

The words suck the air from their lungs.

Shimizu's face goes pale. "What the… Are you fucking serious?"

No one answers. They all turn, almost as one, staring down at Serrano's smooth feet as he is still dancing in the ring. He raises his fists and taunts the crowd, soaking in their hatred with a cocky grin.

"Mark my words," Ennosuke says under his breath. "This guy's no pretender."

Shimizu swallows hard, throats dry, hearts pounding.

Shimizu swallows hard. They'd come to cheer Ryoma to victory. But now, staring at Serrano's frame, his swagger, one thought twists in their guts.

It is no longer about whether Ryoma would win anymore.

It's about whether he would make it back home alive.