VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 561: Do Not Get Worked Up

Chapter 561: Do Not Get Worked Up

Maria is the first to step back, offering Nakahara another polite bow. “We’ll return to our seats now,” she says. “All of us at NSN are looking forward to seeing your gym succeed tonight.”

Nakahara inclines his head. “We won’t waste the opportunity you’ve given us.”

Maria turns slightly. “Reika.”

But Reika’s eyes remain on Ryoma, who is now speaking quietly with Aramaki near the lockers. The two men appear deep in final tactical discussion, their voices low and focused.

A few of the fighters exchange subtle glances. They understand more than either of them would openly admit.

Maria notices as well, but her expression does not change.

“Reika,” she repeats. “We should go.”

That finally breaks the moment. Reika turns back to Nakahara. “Good luck tonight,” she says. Then she faces Okabe. “Fight well, Okabe. Stay composed.”

Okabe nods respectfully. “I will.”

As Maria and Reika reach the doorway, Aramaki leans toward Ryoma and murmurs, “Aren’t you going to say something? We owe her for this stage, you know.”

Ryoma pauses for a brief second, weighing it, then raises his voice just enough.

“Reika.”

She stops at the threshold and turns.

“Thank you for your support,” he says.

For a moment she seems caught between emotions she cannot sort in public. Then she lowers her head slightly before stepping into the corridor.

Not long after they leave, a staffer appears again at the entrance.

“Okabe-san. It’s time.”

***

Reika and Maria make their way back toward the arena floor. The lights are beginning to dim in preparation for the next entrance.

As they approach their section, they pass President Hirotaka Fujimoto and the Aqualis executives. Both women pause to bow politely, exchanging brief greetings.

Then suddenly, the music swells through the arena.

“And now,” the commentator announces, his voice filling every corner of Yoyogi, “the first official bout from Nakahara’s Gym tonight!”

Okabe steps out from the corridor into the aisle, the spotlight catching him as the crowd reacts.

“Nakahara’s gym is taking a bold approach this evening,” the commentator continues. “Five top fighters under one banner, two champions and three contenders… and they are staking their reputation on a single event!”

The southern stands erupt in jeers almost immediately.

“Clown!”

“Stupid brawler!”

“Wakabayashi will expose you!”

The boos grow louder as Okabe walks forward. His jaw tightens and his posture shifts slightly, the old street-fighter edge surfacing in the way he turns his head toward the noise.

“Keep talking,” he says. “You’ll have to watch me for ten rounds anyway.”

Then, from the northern block, a powerful chant begins to rise.

“OKA-BE! OKA-BE! OKA-BE!”

Kenji Matsuda stands at the front of the section, raising his fist as more than two thousand members of the Cruel King’s Army rise together.

The unified chant rolls across the arena, loud enough to counter the jeers from the southern stands and reclaim the soundscape of Yoyogi for a moment.

“Well, listen to that response,” the commentator says, his voice rising over the swelling noise. “The Cruel King’s Army making themselves heard tonight! They may be known for their loyalty to Ryoma Takeda, but they’re standing firmly behind Okabe!”

Emotion flickers across Okabe’s face at the unexpected backing. “Kenji-san… You are really something else.”

Sera steps close beside him and speaks quietly. “Focus, Okabe. Don’t let the crowd control your rhythm.”

Okabe nods once and turns toward the ring steps, the noise of Yoyogi swelling around him as he prepares to climb through the ropes.

“And this isn’t just about one fight,” the second commentator adds. “This is about pride between two of Tokyo’s most respected gyms. Nakahara versus Narisawa. Both camps have produced elite contenders, and tonight they meet on the same stage.”

The camera pans briefly across the arena screens, capturing Wakabayashi’s supporters waving banners from the southern section.

“You can feel the division in this building,” the first commentator continues. “This is more than rankings. For many fans, this is about who truly represents Tokyo boxing right now.”

***

The music shifts the moment Wakabayashi’s entrance theme begins, and the reaction inside Yoyogi changes with it. From the southern stands, a wall of applause rises immediately, joined by sharp whistles and rhythmic clapping that spreads toward the lower bowl.

“Yasuhide! Show him the difference!”

“Tokyo belongs to Narisawa!”

Wakabayashi walks with measured steps. When he reaches the ring, he raises one glove in acknowledgment, accepting their faith without exaggeration.

Across the arena, the Cruel King’s Army remains seated. The northern block that had roared moments ago now falls into deliberate silence, as though attending a funeral rather than an entrance.

The ring announcer steps to center ring, microphone in hand, and waits for the noise to settle.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, “this is a JBC-ranked featherweight bout scheduled for ten rounds.”

He gestures toward the blue corner first. “Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner. Representing Nakahara Boxing Gym. Currently ranked 9th in the division. 25 years old, 165 centimeters tall, official weight, 57 kilograms. His professional record: 13 bouts, 8 victories, 7 of those by knockout, against 5 defeats. Please welcome… Shuji Okabe!”

A mixture of cheers and boos answers the introduction. And then the announcer turns toward the red corner.

“And his opponent, fighting out of the red corner. Representing Narisawa Boxing Gym. Currently ranked 5th in the division. 22 years old, 167 centimeters tall, official weight 57.1 kilograms. His professional record: 13 bouts, 12 victories, 4 by knockout, with one draw. Please welcome… Yasuhide Wakabayashi!”

The southern stands erupt once more as Wakabayashi steps forward from his corner, calm and focused, the rivalry between the two Tokyo gyms now fully embodied inside the ropes.

***

As both fighters return to their corners, the commentators resume their analysis, their voices settling into a more measured tone now that the formalities are complete.

“It’s an interesting comparison,” the first commentator begins. “Wakabayashi is three years younger, yet he has the exact same number of professional fights as Okabe. Thirteen bouts each, but very different trajectories.”

His partner nods. “That tells you something about where these gyms were just a few years ago. Before the recent surge of momentum at Nakahara Boxing Gym, it wasn’t easy for them to secure consistent matchups. Fighters like Okabe often had long gaps between bouts. Limited opportunities mean slower development on paper.”

He gestures subtly toward the bright arena around them.

“But look at how far they’ve come. Nakahara Promotion Firm is now hosting a night of this scale. People have started calling this place the Oriental Vegas. That kind of stage simply wasn’t available to them before.”

Not far from ringside, Coach Yoshizawa hears the commentary and lets out a quiet scoff. He folds his arms, his expression hardening with faint irritation.

“Enough with the hype,” he mutters under his breath. “Crowds and lights mean nothing if you can’t win the fight.”

Leonardo Serrano, seated only a few chairs away, catches the remark and turns slightly with a faint grin. “You should learn from them,” he says lightly. “Imagine if you marketed Shinichi’s next title defense like this. You might fill every seat.”

Yoshizawa’s jaw tightens, but before he answers, his eyes drift to the two empty seats nearby that remain conspicuously unclaimed. Recognition flickers across his face, followed by a thin smile.

“What’s with the empty chairs?” he replies coolly. “Was Kirizume so embarrassed by Renji’s defeat that he decided not to show up tonight?”

Serrano gives a casual shrug. “Seems that way,” he answers, without much concern.

***

Inside the ring, the referee finishes his instructions and steps aside. The bell sounds, sharp and metallic, and both fighters move at once.

Okabe advances with measured steps, guard high and compact, chin tucked behind his gloves.

Across from him, Wakabayashi glides lightly on the balls of his feet, his movement smooth and economical. He extends a probing jab that taps against Okabe’s raised glove before circling to his left.

“Let’s call that their first touch of gloves,” one commentator remarks. “Now the question is how Okabe chooses to answer.”

Okabe continues stalking in his familiar upright shell. However, the moment Wakabayashi settles into range and begins flicking sharper jabs, Okabe drops abruptly into that unusual crouch he has practiced backstage.

His knees bend deeply, torso angled forward, head slipping off the center line as he begins a steady rhythm of dips and rolls.

The first three jabs slice through air. Wakabayashi adjusts his timing and aims lower, and finally…

Dug.

The fourth connects against Okabe’s guard, thudding into leather rather than flesh, but it is enough to confirm distance.

Wakabayashi’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly as he resumes circling, pumping his left hand from varying angles, occasionally hinting at a cross to establish authority.

Okabe does not answer. He keeps the low posture, rocking his head side to side while edging forward inch by inch.

Thirty seconds pass with no clean scoring shot, and Okabe still has not thrown a punch.

“That’s unusual,” the second commentator observes. “This isn’t the Okabe we’re used to seeing.”

“But the concern is he hasn’t thrown anything,” his partner replies. “If you give Wakabayashi this much freedom…”

Suddenly, two quick jabs snap out in succession. Okabe slips the first, but…

Dsh!

…cannot fully evade the second, which grazes his cheek with a crisp pop.

“There it is!”

“The first clean blow of the round!”

Okabe’s face tightens for a brief moment. And Wakabayashi allows himself the faintest smirk.

From the blue corner, Sera’s voice cuts through the noise. “Easy, Okabe! That jab won’t hurt you.”

Okabe hears him and forces his breathing to steady.

Do not get worked up.

Be the annoying one.