VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA - Chapter 575: Cold Gloves

Chapter 575: Cold Gloves

Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Nakahara’s locker room has shifted from chaos into something denser, more concentrated. The earlier panic has cooled into a hard, simmering focus that hangs in the air like trapped heat before a storm.

Nakahara stands in the center with the mitts secured tightly around his hands, leather creaking as he raises them to chest level. Across from him, Kenta rolls his shoulders once, eyes steady and alert.

Just half an hour ago, Kenta had already accepted that his bout might be canceled. Now that Arman has arrived, that resignation has vanished completely, replaced by a calm intensity that sharpens his every movement.

“Don’t give me half punches,” Nakahara says, voice low but edged. “Again. From the top.”

Kenta snaps a jab into the left mitt, then drives a cross behind it. The sound is crisp and heavy, reverberating faintly against the metal lockers lining the walls.

“Harder,” Nakahara insists without hesitation. “You’re still holding something back.”

Kenta exhales and resets his feet before launching a tighter combination, the hook whipping across with more intent. Sweat begins forming along his temple, but his breathing remains controlled.

“He came late,” Nakahara continues between impacts. “He had a medical check just minutes ago. Whatever condition he’s in, it’s none of our concern.”

The mitts crack again as Kenta increases speed, stitching together sharper combinations while keeping his balance centered and disciplined, as though already visualizing the exchanges inside the ring.

“Listen to me carefully,” Nakahara says suddenly, lowering the mitts and stepping closer during a brief pause.

He fixes Kenta with a stare that carries the residue of his earlier fury, eyes burning not with panic now, but with conviction hardened into something ruthless.

“I don’t care what happened to him at the camp,” Nakahara says quietly. “To hell with his preparation. To hell with how little time he had to acclimate.”

Kenta holds his gaze without flinching, absorbing every word without protest or hesitation.

There was a time he questioned whether he truly had what it took to defeat Arman. Yet when the possibility of cancellation loomed over the event, something inside him shifted.

During the long uncertainty, he realized how much this fight meant to him. And he actually reached a quiet conclusion, better to fall after giving everything than to be denied the chance to try.

Now that the fight is no longer in danger, the earlier hesitation has disappeared. What remains is a hard focused determination to prove that he belongs at this level.

“There will be no mercy tonight,” Nakahara continues. “If you must beat him, then beat him decisively. Hurt him enough that he remembers this as a nightmare for the rest of his career.”

The words linger heavily between them, not shouted but delivered with chilling clarity.

“Make it a lesson,” Nakahara finishes. “One he won’t forget.”

Kenta nods once, not out of obedience but understanding. Nakahara then raises the mitts again without warning.

“Now show me. Back to top.”

The next sequence comes faster and louder, Kenta driving through each punch with clean mechanics and rising aggression, as though channeling his trainer’s anger into something disciplined and lethal.

***

Minutes pass in relentless rhythm until the locker room door swings open and Tetsu steps inside, urgency written across his face.

“Sir, the crowd’s getting impatient,” he says quickly. “We need to bring Kenta out now.”

Nakahara lowers the mitts slowly, eyes never leaving Kenta.

“We’re ready,” he replies.

Tetsu nods and exits immediately to coordinate the entrance sequence, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Nakahara removes the mitts and walks toward the door first, naturally assuming the lead. Just before stepping through, he stops and turns back toward his team.

“It’s time,” he says evenly, though steel runs beneath his tone. “Let’s teach them what professionalism really means.”

Hiroshi and Murakami gather the remaining equipment and fall in behind Kenta as they move toward the corridor leading to the ringwalk.

This time, Sera does not join them. He stays in the locker room, quietly staying with Ryoma and Ryohei while the rest of the team steps into the noise awaiting them outside.

***

Back in Arman’s locker room, the air has turned suffocating.

Arman no longer argues, as if whatever needed to be said has already exhausted him. The anger that burned earlier has cooled into indifference.

Across the room, Yohannes has Sugiarto pinned near the lockers. “You bastard,” he snarls, shoving him back. “You told Arman the purse was only four thousand. Then you tried to bribe me, saying they only gave six.”

Sugiarto straightens his shirt, jaw tight but defiant. “Don’t act holy,” he shoots back. “When I offered you a thousand, you didn’t complain.”

“You went too far,” Yohannes barks. “Cutting from thirty thousand down to six? That’s robbery, you piece of trash.”

Arman watches them with open disdain, his contempt directed not only at Sugiarto but at Yohannes as well.

The head coach looks enraged, yet not for the injustice done to his fighter. His anger burns solely because he, too, was cut out of the deal.

It’s Arman who trains until his lungs burn, who bleeds in sparring, who steps into the ring to be hit. But all the sacrifice, all the pain, only to fill the pockets of men like these.

On the wall, the flat screen flickers as the broadcast shifts. Arman glances up, and sees Kenta entering the arena.

The reaction is overwhelming. The Cruel King’s Army chants loudly, roaring his nickname ’The King’s Spear’, while nearly half of the upper stands rise to support him.

The commentator’s voice swells with energy.

“Not long ago, very few people even knew the name Kenta Moriyama. With a modest record and years spent grinding in a small gym, he was hardly considered a prospect.”

“But everything changed the night he faced Liam Kuroda,” the analyst adds. “He entered as a massive underdog and handed Kuroda his first professional loss in convincing fashion.”

At the mention of Liam Kuroda, Arman’s mind sharpens briefly. An Australian fighter with elite technique, speed, and power. A complete fighter, and Kenta defeated him.

Now Arman must face that same man with a chaotic preparation, minimal acclimatization, and no proper rest after arguing through the night with his own team.

He spent hours inside a taxi. Even now, he has not warmed up yet. His body feels cold and stiff.

While the manager and head coach argue over stolen money, he sits here growing colder by the minute. The ambition that once fueled him feels distant now.

***

Moments later, a knock interrupts the room.

Yohannes and Sugiarto stop mid-argument. Wahyu opens the door, and a staffer informs them it is time to prepare for the walk.

“What the hell is this?” he snaps, stepping in quickly. “Why isn’t this done yet?”

He pushes Dedi aside and grabs Arman’s wrist, pulling the tape tighter with hurried, uneven motions.

“Move faster,” he barks at Dedi. “We’re already late. Do you want him walking out half-prepared?”

His composure begins to crack as he looks around the room. “Where are the gloves? Who packed the gloves? Don’t tell me you misplaced them now.”

He rummages through the bag himself, breathing heavier with each passing second.

“Jesus… this is a mess,” he mutters. “We don’t even have time for a proper warm-up.”

After putting on the gloves, Arman stands and walks out without a word.

“Hey, what about the warm up?” Yohannes calls.

But Arman doesn’t say a word. Silence fills the room. Yohannes looks around and finds Dedi and Wahyu staring at him with undisguised judgment.

Sugiarto pretends nothing is wrong, while Bima scrolls through his phone as if detached from it all.

“Get the equipment,” Yohannes finally orders. “We can’t let him walk in alone.”

They scramble to gather their things and follow. Sugiarto lingers briefly before stepping out.

“You stay here,” he says, glancing at Bima. “Watch it on the TV.”

***

When Arman steps into the arena, the reception is lukewarm at best. Despite holding the number two ranking in the OPBF for two years, he has never been a crowd favorite within the regional boxing community.

Only the commentators’ voice fills the arena.

“Arman Sargsyan began his professional career in Eastern Europe, fighting at a relentless pace with more than six bouts in a single year. But stagnation forced him to relocate to the OPBF circuit.”

“He’s undefeated in twelve OPBF contests,” the analyst adds. “Often entering as the underdog. But he’s beaten two seasoned gatekeepers, and has held the number two spot in the rankings ever since.”

But Arman hears none of it. Even after stepping into the ring and listening to the announcer introduce the fighters’ profile, his attention drifts toward Yohannes and Sugiarto at ringside.

His gaze is cold and stripped of feeling, which is only later distracted by the referee’s call.

“Fighters, center ring!”

At center ring, the referee gives final instructions. After that, Arman turns away without offering a glove touch and walks back to his corner.

He stands there, shoulders heavy, legs slightly trembling. His body is cold, untouched by sweat.

There is no fire in his chest, only fatigue.

Then finally…

Ding!

The bell rings for round one, and Kenta moves quickly to claim the center of the ring.

But Arman does something no one expects. He bites at the tape around his glove, tugging at it with his teeth.

“I had enough of this…”

Confusion ripples through the arena as the crowd struggles to process what they are seeing. The initial cheers dissolve into scattered murmurs.

Up in the booth, the first commentator stumbles over his words. “Wait… what is he doing? He’s… he’s taking off his glove? This can’t be right.”

The referee steps closer, arm half-raised in warning, but Arman continues peeling the tape away with deliberate calm.

“This is unbelievable,” the first commentator says, voice rising. “The fight just started!”

Before anyone fully understands what is happening, Arman slips through the ropes. He yanks off one glove, and without hesitation, throws it straight at Sugiarto’s face.

Dhuack!

The reaction intensifies. Gasps break out from the lower rows, spreading outward in waves of stunned noise.

“Is he quitting?” the analyst asks bluntly. “Is Arman Sargsyan walking out of this fight?”