VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The assistants glance at each other, at Junpei, then at Junji, looking for someone to fix what can't be fixed.

"But your legs still work," one says finally, his voice too hopeful.

"Yeah," another adds quickly. "Just move, keep your distance. Don't trade, just run the clock out."

"Even if he presses in, just touch him with the flickers," the third chimes in. "Keep him off. You've done it before."

"Stupid," Junji snaps, his voice sharper than he means it to be. He rubs a hand over his forehead, thinking, weighing everything at once.

"He can't use the flickers now," he says. "You saw how he moved last round. He can't twist his torso without flinching. And running for two more rounds? Against someone like Aramaki? With broken ribs?"

Junpei's still sitting there, eyes lowered, sweat running down his neck. He's listening, but he's not arguing. And that scares Junji more than anything.

After a long moment, Junji straightens. His voice is calm now, but heavy.

"This is too dangerous," he says. "I'm stopping the fight."

The assistants look up, wide-eyed.

"Coach, what are you saying?" one blurts. "He's winning! You can't stop it now."

"Are you just gonna steal it from him?" another protests. "Again? After everything? You're doing the same as that ref from before… just handing it away!"

Their words hang there, cutting deep.

Junji doesn't respond right away. His jaw flexes. He looks down at Junpei, really looks, at the way he's breathing, at the tremor running through his arm, at the faint grimace he's trying to hide.

"You call this winning?" Junji mutters finally, more to himself than anyone.

The assistants fall silent. The roar of the crowd outside the ropes feels distant.

Junpei lifts his gaze, meeting Junji's eyes. There's no plea in it, no protest, just a quiet resignation, and maybe a trace of shame.

He knows what Junji's thinking, acknowledges the risk, and realizes that one more solid shot to the ribs could puncture something, could end more than a fight.

But he also knows what it means to stop now. "Please, Coach… you know how much this fight means to me."

Junji looks back at him, caught between duty and guilt. He remembers the last time a ref robbed Junpei of victory, the months of bitterness that followed, the training, the hunger to erase that humiliation.

Stopping him now would mean taking it away from him again. Losing twice, both times in the same bitter way, would be too much to bear.

But still…

"You've already proved your worth tonight," he says quietly. "No one can take that from you. But if you go back out there like this, it won't be a fight. It'll be suicide."

Junpei's lip curls faintly, not in defiance, but in frustration. His voice comes out hoarse. "I can still move. Don't stop it now. If you do… I might never step into the ring again."

The reply catches Junji in his throat.

He can see it in Junpei's eyes, that stubborn spark, the same one that made him a fighter in the first place. But now it's flickering behind exhaustion and pain.

And beneath it all, there's fear, an anxious, quiet fear that he might not survive another loss like this.

Junpei's words aren't a threat. They're honest, the voice of a man admitting his doubt.

"I can accept it if Aramaki beats me in the ring," Junpei says. "He's earned that. But I need to keep fighting. Don't take that from me again."

Junji looks down at the towel in his hands, then back at his fighter. The bell hasn't rung yet, but in his gut, he knows: the next two rounds will be a nightmare he won't dare to watch.

***

Across the ring, Hiroshi finishes tending Aramaki's swollen eyelid. The bruise is the most obvious trace Junpei left on him, the rest of the damage has already settled into the hard familiar lines of a fighter who knows how to take a beating.

Aramaki breathes easy now. His legs feel steady; his hands are clear; there's no sign of cramping or dizziness. That knockdown from Junpei's counter already feels like a memory, almost like something that happened in another fight.

His eyes are hard, fixed on one thing: end it in the next round.

Kenta works on his thighs out of habit, rubbing the muscles as if coaxing life back into them, but Aramaki waves him off.

"It's okay, Kenta-san. My legs are fine," he says.

"Are you sure?" Kenta asks. "He landed a few of body shots earlier."

Aramaki offers a calm smile. "He hit me, yes. But there's no weight behind those punches. He's spent, exhausted. And I know, he's hurt his ribs too."

Nakahara leans in, patting Aramaki's thigh in agreement. "Exactly. You're not going to win this on points. He's ahead there, but he's exhausted, and injured. That double exchange dropped you, but he pays the cost. Next, just keep drilling the body, pile on the damage. Break him down, aim at his most vulnerable part. Don't show any pity."

He leans in closer, clenching his fist. "If he's back to that Philly Shell, break it apart piece by piece. Ribs, shoulders, arms, everything. Once he drops his guard, then you finish it. If it doesn't end next round, it will in the last. Believe in your fists."

Aramaki nods once, slow and certain. The corner's confidence settles around him like armor.

But then…

A sudden ripple of noise rolls through the crowd. It starts as murmurs, scattered and uncertain, but quickly swells into a confused roar.

Nakahara blinks, glancing up. "What's going on?"

He turns his head toward the ring, and his stomach drops.

The referee is standing in the center, both arms raised and crossed above his head, the unmistakable signal.

"Wait… what the…?" Kenta mutters beside him. "Did he just…?"

And the arena erupts.

On the opposite side, the red corner is chaos. Junpei's still on his stool, arguing with Junji, shaking his head violently.

His cornermen are trying to calm him, their voices drowned out by the uproar.

"No! Don't stop it! I can still fight!" Junpei's shout barely carries through the din.

But the referee has already turned to the officials' table, giving the confirmation.

And the commentators' voices cut through the confusion, crackling over the speakers.

"Wait a second… hold on! It looks like Junpei's corner has stopped the fight! The referee's signaling a technical knockout!"

Gasps ripple through the hall. Some spectators stand, trying to see better. Others boo, confused and restless.

Nakahara straightens, still processing what he's seeing. "They… they stopped it? Now?"

And then the ring announcer's voice booms over the uproar:

"Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has stopped the contest at the request of the red corner! Your winner, by technical knockout… Tatsuki Aramaki!"

The blue corner doesn't erupt in celebration. There's no raised fists, no wild cheers. For a few seconds, they're frozen, caught in the same confusion that sweeps through the crowd.

Nakahara and his team exchange uncertain glances, the noise around them blurring into a dull roar. The outcome has landed too suddenly, too strangely to feel like victory.

In the red corner, it doesn't look like defeat. It looks like something crueler, a man cut off before he could finish what he started.