VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 383: Was It Really Her?

Chapter 383: Was It Really Her?

The fight doesn’t end in the ring. It never does.

By morning, the noise has already multiplied. Headlines scatter across feeds and screens, competing for space, stacking over one another like fists thrown too fast to track.

NAKAHARA GYM HUMILIATES RAGING FOX — BOTH OPENING BOUTS LOST.

RAGING FOX DEMANDS REMATCH, CLAIMS “UNDERSTIMATION.”

RYOMA TAKEDA SHOCKS OPBF — UNDEFEATED PHILIPPINE CHAMPION STOPPED IN FOUR.

The first wave still hits Raging Fox Gym. Two opening bouts; Aramaki versus Hanazawa, Kenta versus Kuroda, both their fighters lost.

On paper, they were meant to be routine. Raging Fox, with its long history and established fighters, against Nakahara Boxing Gym; a small operation, still defined in the public eye almost entirely by Ryoma’s rise.

Instead, both fights go the other way.

And of course, Raging Fox moves quickly to control the damage. An official statement appears across sports sites, attributed directly to Masahiro Nishiyama, head of Raging Fox Gym.

“Last night’s results do not reflect the true gap between our fighters and Nakahara Boxing Gym,” the statement reads.

“Our athletes underestimated their opponents and paid the price. That is our responsibility.”

“We are formally requesting immediate rematches for both bouts, under proper preparation.”

The wording is careful, polite, defensive without sounding desperate.

But the subtext is obvious: they frame Nakahara as lucky, the wins as circumstantial,

and Nakahara’s gym as something that has grown loud too quickly, riding momentum rather than substance.

Analysts pick it apart within hours.

Underestimated?

Proper preparation?

Immediate rematch?

Some see it as damage control. Others read it as irritation thinly veiled as professionalism. What’s missing is just as noticeable:

There’s no congratulations, no acknowledgment of preparation, no credit given where it’s due. Only the insistence that next time will be different.

And Nakahara Boxing Gym says nothing in response, because while Raging Fox scrambles to control the narrative, the world’s attention has moved on.

Clips of the fourth round of Ryoma’s fight spread like wildfire. Ramos folding. The canvas rushing up. Ryoma standing over him, eyes cold, posture still. The very image itself becomes unavoidable.

Some recoil from it.

“He should’ve caught him.”

“You don’t just let a man collapse like that.”

“That wasn’t sportsmanlike.”

Others push back just as fiercely.

“Ramos should be thanking him.”

“He pulled his punch.”

“That restraint saved him.”

Pundits freeze the footage frame by frame, circling moments with digital pens. They argue about Ramos’ gloves still raised. About whether Ramos was already unconscious before his body gave out.

“If he was out,” one analyst says, “how was he still standing?”

Another counters, “Muscle memory doesn’t need consciousness.”

The debate spirals. And then come the darker whispers: staged, money fight, a deal behind the scenes.

They point to Ryoma’s rocky history in Japan. To the rejections. To the accusations of disrespect. To Nakahara’s desperation to keep his star active.

“He needed a win like this.”

“Too clean.”

“His win’s too convenient.”

Every explanation, no matter how absurd, finds an audience.

And Nakahara doesn’t help, because in the post-fight interviews, his words replay again and again.

Run away from us again.

That phrase cuts deep.

For months, Ryoma had accused Shinichi Yanagimoto of avoiding him. Those accusations had been dismissed as arrogance, youthful provocation.

Now Nakahara says it himself. The champion’s camp goes silent, and that silence becomes its own headline.

Speculation swells. If Yanagimoto refuses again, the narrative writes itself. If he accepts, the pressure shifts instantly.

Meanwhile, OPBF rankings become a battleground of prediction. Because it’s only Ryoma’s first international bout, only his seventh professional fight.

But he didn’t edge a decision. He didn’t scrape by. He dismantled an undefeated Philippine champion, the number four in the OPBF, in just four rounds.

Analysts begin floating the unthinkable.

Top five contender.

Fast-track title shot.

OPBF belt within reach.

Some call it premature. Others call it inevitable. What no one can deny is this:

One night has fractured the landscape.

Gyms feel smaller.

Champions feel closer.

And Ryoma Takeda, whether they like it or not, is no longer something they can talk around.

The noise keeps building. And it isn’t fading anytime soon.

***

While everyone else is busy arguing, breaking down footage, and chasing headlines, Ryoma is alone with a sound that won’t leave his head.

Aemi’s voice; clear, urgent, calling Kaede’s name. It keeps replaying, sharp enough to scrape.

He lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, counting nothing.

Was she really there?

It makes no sense. Kaede should be in Malaysia by now. She was supposed to be gone weeks ago. And yet, that was Aemi’s voice. He recognizes that voice.

<< Why are you still thinking about her? >>

<< Didn’t you end things already? Wasn’t that the right decision for both of you? >>

Ryoma turns onto his side, jaw tightening. He simply ignores it, sits up, and reaches for his phone.

The motion feels automatic, like his body already knows what it wants even if his mind refuses to catch up.

He opens his contacts, scrolls, pauses. Her name isn’t there anymore. Of course it isn’t; he’s deleted it.

He exhales through his nose. That part doesn’t matter. He remembers the number. Every break, every pause between digits. His thumb starts tapping it in.

Halfway through, it slows, and stops. He just stares at the screen, thumb hovering, mind reconsidering.

<< You’ve seen the news. Your name is everywhere. You’re finally moving forward. >>

<< This is the moment you were aiming for. Don’t sabotage it. >>

“Shut up,” Ryoma mutters.

He finishes the number anyway, and makes a call. However…

“The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

He tries again, but same result. Again, and again, each time, the silence hits faster.

The system doesn’t miss the opening.

<< That number was registered under a local carrier. >>

<< If it’s unreachable, the most likely explanation is relocation. >>

<< Malaysia. Exactly as planned. >>

Ryoma lets himself fall back onto the bed, arm flung over his eyes.

So that’s it, then.

He should let it go. Let the system talk about Yanagimoto again. About rankings, about bait finally taken, about the path forward opening at last.

He hears the system’s rambling, but barely listens.

Then his arm drops from his face.

“No,” he says quietly.

He sits up again, sudden, decisive, as if the thought has weight.

“I know what I heard. That was Aemi.”

“And Aemi doesn’t hallucinate people into arenas.”

“She must be there with Kaede, watching my fight.”

Ryoma grabs his sweater, shrugs it on, fingers moving faster now. He opens the door, already dialing another number.

“Hey,” he says when the call connects. “You still driving tonight?”

***

Minutes later, Tokyo slides past the window in streaks of light and shadow. Ryoma, inside a taxi, watches it without really seeing it, his mind circling the same questions.

“What are you doing here, Kaede?”

“Don’t tell me you turned down that promotion.”

Minutes later, the taxi slows to stop. He pays, steps out, and stands in front of a building he knows too well.

Her building.

The entryway looks the same; same scuffed tile, same faint smell of old concrete and someone’s cooking drifting down from above.

He walks down the corridor, and stop before a certain door.

Ding-dong!

Ryoma presses the bell, and waits.

But there’s nothing.

He checks the time, just past seven. She should be home by this hour. So he presses it again, and again. But there’s still no answer.

His hand curls into a fist, and knocks on the door, once, and then harder. The sound echoes too loud in the narrow hall.

Finally, someone greets him.

“Um… excuse me?” she says. “Is something wrong?”

A girl appears from his right, mid-twenties maybe, hair half-tied, confusion written plainly on her face.

Ryoma turns. And she freezes a second later, eyes widening.

“Eh… aren’t you… Ryoma Takeda?”

He squints. “Do I know you?”

“No, no! I mean… sorry, I just… I’ve seen you. On TV. And the news. Um, Do you… need something?”

Ryoma ignores her, and turns back to the door and presses the bell again, once, twice.

The girl hesitates, and then lifts a hand. “Uh… are you looking for someone in that unit?”

“Yes,” Ryoma says without turning. “She lives here.”

She blinks, then frowns. “Wait.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a key. The lock clicks, and the door opens.

Ryoma turns slowly, confusion settling in for real now.

She steps aside. “I… live here. Would you like to come in?”

The words don’t land at first.

“Are you Kaede’s friend?” Ryoma asks.

She tilts her head. “Kaede?”

“Yes. Kaede. She lives here.”

The girl’s expression shifts, apologetic. “Ah… that must be the previous tenant. I don’t know anyone by that name. I just moved in last month.”

The hallway seems to tilt.

Ryoma stands there, unmoving, staring past her into a room that no longer belongs to the person he was searching for.

The girl studies him for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she says again, gentler now. “If you want… you can come in. I can make some tea. We can talk inside.”

Ryoma shakes his head, a thin smile forming as something uncertain coils in his chest. “No… it’s fine.”

She hesitates, disappointment flickering across her face, then steps back. The door closes. The lock clicks.

He’s alone in the hallway again, the quiet pressing close.

If Kaede moved out a month ago…

Then what did he hear that night?

Was it really Aemi’s voice?

Or was it only what he wanted to hear?

Ryoma drops his gaze to the floor as doubt seeps in, soft and insistent, where certainty had lived just moments ago.

<< I told you. She’s in Malaysia now. >>