VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The hum of small wheels cuts through the low rumble of evening traffic. Among the cars and delivery trucks creeping along the street, a lone electric scooter drifts in the opposite lane’s shadow.

The pace’s slow, the kind of slow only a cheap motor can manage. Coach Nakahara leans forward over the handlebars, the faint orange glow of dusk painting his worn jacket in tired shades.

He has visited six boxing gym so far, offering Ryoma to help their boxers in sparring. But all he got was passive-aggressive response, and accusation that he was being arrogant.

It’s something they called as dojoyaburi, raising one’s name by destroying other dojo’s reputation.

Of course, Nakahara never has that intention. And he has no intention to stop, because he has made that silent promise to himself that he will make sure Ryoma secure a title fight in one year.

After getting into a quieter area, he squeezes the brake lightly. The scooter sputters to a lazy stop in front of Hoshino Boxing Club.

The sign above the door is sun-faded, but the brass bell by the entrance gleams like it’s polished daily.

“Heh, that’s Hoshino for you… a man who wouldn’t dust the office shelves, but would shine the one thing people touched before stepping inside.”

They aren’t friends, not exactly. More like regular sparring partners back in the day, trading rounds until sweat turned the canvas slick.

When one of his fighters needed a hard thinking partner before a bout, Hoshino had called on Nakahara more than he can count with fingers.

“Figured maybe it’s time the balance tilted the other way.”

From the doorway, Nakahara hears the sharp thwack of gloves on heavy bags, and the crisp pop of mitts meeting leather.

In the ring, Coach Kenji Hoshino works the pads with his most promising athlete, Tokuma Naoki, the same boxer who, in Ryoma’s other life, pulled off that tragic upset on the final night.

But Today, Naoki is still only ranked tenth in Japan’s Super Featherweight division.

“Now, this one… put more weight,” Hoshino says, bracing his right mitt against his ribs.

Naoki bends, a slight twist in his hips, and…

Swssh!!!

A sharp body blow lands on the mitt, but…

Plak!

Hoshino smacks Naoki’s head with the mitt, irritation written all over his face.

“Damn it! You expect to break ribs with that half-ass shot? Put your weight into it!”

“S-sorry!” Naoki bows slightly, only to get tapped again.

“Don’t bow yet. We’re not done. Again!”

Coach Hoshino lifts both mitts high, drawing Naoki in with a sharp one-two command. The punches pop against leather.

After letting Naoki throw a few compact combos, Hoshino snaps a short left hook. It’s not to hit, but to make Naoki slip under it.

“Duck!”

As Naoki drops his head, Hoshino lowers his right mitt to his own left side, tucking it tight against his ribs. His left arm swings across, locking behind the mitt, bracing for the collision he’s about to invite.

“Now, body!”

Naoki bends deeper this time, twisting through his hips before driving his fist forward. Hoshino feels the weight coming and tightens the brace, his left forearm clamping the right mitt in place.

BAM!

A sharp thud echoes, and the corners of Hoshino’s mouth lift. He knows that one landed right.

“That’s it. More like that. Stay low. Compact jabs. High-low body shot!”

Meanwhile, Coach Nakahara watches by the ring side, arms crossed on chest, face slightly painted with acknowledgement.

Naoki’s no dancer, sure. No slick footwork, no sniper’s precision. But he’s got legs like steel posts and a short brutal reach, built for hooks and uppercuts in close range.

And that high-low combo, aiming head to raise the guard, then digging to the body, it’s smart for a heavy hitter without pinpoint aim.

“Yeah… diamond in the rough,” Nakahara thinks.

But then…

Plak!

Hoshino swats the mitt at Naoki’s head, again, so hard that the mitt slips from his hand.

“Why do you always hesitate on the body blow?”

Naoki hesitates. “I’m… afraid to miss and hurt you, Coach.”

Plak!

Again.

The other mitt bounces off his head.

“I’ve been in this job for decades. You think I won’t be able to catch your pathetic, half-ass body shot? If you are so scared to hurt people, maybe you shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

That’s when Nakahara steps in. “Hey, old man! Ease up on him. He’s worried only because you’re already too old. Maybe think about retiring.”

Hoshino’s eyes flick over, sour. “Says the guy three years older than me.”

Truth is, he’d noticed Nakahara for a while. But to him, Nakahara wasn’t someone you dropped everything to greet, just another no-name trainer from a no-name gym.

“So, what are you here for?”

“I heard your boy’s got a fight coming.”

“Yeah. And?”

“Thought he might need sparring. I can send my fighter over.”

Hoshino’s voice turns mock-sweet. “Well, aren’t you generous, coming all the way over to offer help.”

“I’ve only got four fighters. Hard to keep sparring fresh in-house. I need the work too, so I came myself.”

Hoshino pauses, still in the ring, gaze tilted down like a man from a higher realm.

“This for that Shimamura guy? Honestly, I don’t like that smug-nose brat.”

“Neither do I. He walked out this morning.”

“Heh. Good for you. So, who are you offering?”

“Ryoma Takeda.”

“Oh… the golden boy.”

Hoshino’s lips curl, not in surprise, but in something closer to disgust. There’d been a time he’d greeted Ryoma with a smile warm enough to melt steel. Now, he doesn’t bother hiding the scorn he feels, not from Nakahara, not from anyone in earshot.

“Didn’t that kid just win his debut yesterday? And already you’re sniffing around for a sparring partner. What’s the plan, Nakahara? Make a name for him by using my Naoki as a stepping stone?”

Nakahara shakes his head lightly. “No, no… I’m just trying to give the boy some experience. If anything, I’m hoping Naoki could humble him a little.”

Hoshino barks out a laugh, short and humorless.

“Not just the boy, Nakahara. You, too… you need to humble yourself more than anyone else.”

He strolls toward the corner, never taking his eyes off Nakahara, one hand curling around the top rope. He leans there, still in the ring, a deliberate reminder of who owns this space.

“Maybe I should remind you who you are,” Hoshino says, voice low but sharp. “A no-name coach who’s never accomplished a damn thing… not in the ring, and not outside it. You got lucky last night, Nakahara. That’s all it was.”

He arches a brow, the chill in his eyes enough to freeze the air between them.

“Just because your kid flattened Kirizume’s Tōjō in one round, you think you’re ready to take on the whole damn city?”