VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

And just like that, Ryohei’s fear melts into a grin. This is perfect, exactly the kind of training he craves.

He’s been hitting Okabe’s head all week, which is too easy. What he wants the most is someone slippery, elusive, someone who forces him to work his offense.

Ryohei rolls his shoulder, looking excited already.

“Okabe! Ring the bell!”

Tch. Okabe clicks his tongue, but hits it anyway.

Ding!

Ryoma steps to the center, light on his toes. Ryohei opens the dance with his left hand, always his weapon of choice to start a fight.

Knowing he can’t throw back, Ryoma keeps his distance. There are so many spaces in the ring, so he just uses it to stay out of Ryohei’s reach.

“Coach, this is fine, right?” he asks, sliding out of range.

Nakahara stays silent. He knows Ryohei’s speed will keep the pressure on. And besides, Ryoma has nowhere to run.

This isn’t a street fight. They are boxed in a ring with four corners, and ropes for walls. That’s why they call it boxing.

Step by step, jab by jab, Ryohei hunts Ryoma. He’s never too deep, never reckless, just constant pressure, long arms fencing Ryoma into range.

First minute, Ryoma blocks most of it, but his body twitches every time an opening flashes. His Vision Grid keeps screaming: counter here, here, and here! But his hands freeze, the restraint grates on him.

“Tch…” he hisses through his teeth.

And Ryohei smells blood. With no fear of counters, he pours it on; jabs, straights, combinations he’d normally hesitate to throw.

Dsh! Dsh! Dsh!

Three out of five shots slip past Ryoma’s guard and tap his headgear. Light hits, nothing damaging too much, but irritating enough to knock his rhythm off.

From outside, Nakahara looks dissatisfied. He expected this drill to sharpen Ryoma’s instincts for defense. Instead, it’s exposing something else, not a technical flaw, but a mental one.

He has always known Ryoma to be impatient, reckless, the kind who dares to gamble. But only now does he realize that same recklessness bleeds into his boxing too.

Ryohei, on the other hand, is thrilled. It is not only the joy of fighting without the risk of being hit back, but the challenge itself is still real for him.

Ryoma is elusive, far harder to pin down than Okabe. And each time Ryohei manages to land a punch, even if it is not clean, there is a sharp sense of satisfaction. It feels almost like stumbling upon a cool glass of water in the desert.

“This is amazing, Coach!” he calls out with a grin, throwing combinations with no hesitation. “Way better than smacking Okabe’s head. We should do this all the time.”

Hearing those words, and seeing that look of delight on Ryohei’s face, makes Ryoma’s blood boil. For once, he loses his composure entirely and throws his right hand.

Ryohei stops instantly and protests. “Hey, hey! Who told you that you could punch?”

Ryoma turns to Nakahara, his voice carrying the frustration of a child denied a treat. “Coach, this isn’t fair!”

“Of course it isn’t,” Nakahara replies flatly. “That’s why it’s called training. Now quit whining. And Ryohei, you shouldn’t be wasting your breath arguing in the middle of a fight, should you?”

The spar continues, though Nakahara finds little to be pleased with in the following rounds. If anything, another weakness shows itself, this time on Ryohei’s side.

The drill should have been simple. Ryohei was given free reign to attack without worrying about counters. Yet each time Ryoma twitches, tilting his right hand as though ready to fire back, Ryohei falters. His punches lose commitment, his rhythm stutters.

At that moment, Hiroshi steps into the gym along with Kenta.

“Oh, a spar!” Kenta says, face looks intrigued.

“Wait…” Hirosi frowns. “What’s going on? That kid’s form looks terrible.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara replies. “I just wanted to sharpen his defense, told him not to throw a punch. But it’s wrecked his rhythm.”

“Oh, I see…” Hiroshi mutters, blinking. “But didn’t you say we shouldn’t mess with his form for now?”

“I didn’t expect this flaw to show itself,” Nakahara sighs. “And not just his flaw. Ryohei’s as well, too pragmatic. He might not even notice it, but he’s playing too safe.”

Kenta’s face wrinkles. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Fear is good when it sharpens you,” Hiroshi says. “It keeps you alert and careful. But too much fear stifles growth.”

Nakahara nods in approval. And somehow, his attention is now focused on Ryohei more than on Ryoma.

Even with a grin spread across his face, as if he is enjoying himself, Ryohei fights in the same way he always does: keeping distance, holding back his commitment, never stepping too deep.

For Ryohei, caution is practically second nature. He still piles pressure on Ryoma, who grows more and more frustrated. But in Nakahara’s eyes, none of Ryohei’s punches carry true danger or weight.

“Tch.” Nakahara clicks his tongue. “Good enough to score points. But that’s all.”

On one side, he sees Ryoma, reckless and impatient, always willing to gamble. On the other, Ryohei, careful to a fault, unwilling to risk anything. And in realizing this only now, Nakahara’s irritation turns inward.

He once believed decades of experience made him a great trainer, and perhaps in technical knowledge that was true. But fighters are not machines. They are people, led as much by emotion as by skill. And more often than not, it is emotion that decides a fight’s outcome.

***

Once the spar ends, Ryoma looks drained, not from damage but from sheer dissatisfaction. The irritation lingers in his body, coiling into unspent rage.

Ryohei, meanwhile, walks over to Okabe with a wide grin on his face. But Okabe only narrows his eyes and waves it off.

“Meh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s the most boring spar I’ve ever watched.”

“Says the guy I beat three times today.”

“Heh. You had three rounds to go all out, still scored zero downs. And you’re happy about that?”

Ryohei’s grin falters. He tries to come up with an excuse, but the facts sting. He glances at Ryoma, who is still fuming, pounding the sandbag with short, angry bursts.

“Damn it!” Ryoma growls. “Not only I couldn’t punch back… I even let him hit my face over and over.”

Ryohei feels a knot tighten in his chest. Those words, and the way Ryoma expressed it, hurt his pride more than he can admit.

But then, he begins to wonder if something is wrong with his own approach. Landing punches on Ryoma is no easy task, but there were openings he simply never took.

He could have closed the distance, driven him into a corner, worked the body at least once, or thrown something with real weight. But he never did.

In the ring, Coach Nakahara readies himself for a mitt session with Kenta, though his eyes linger on Ryohei and Ryoma.

There is an urge to call out their flaws, yet hesitation gnaws at him. For the first time in years, he begins to doubt his own skill as a trainer.

“Coach!” Kenta calls out.

“Ah, sorry.” Nakahara raises the pads. “Come, one-two.”

He tries to shake the doubt away, but it slips back in, dulling the rhythm of his commands.

Kenta, who has trained with him the longest, notices the difference right away. But before he can say anything, a cheerful voice breaks in.

“Good day, everyone!”

It is Aki, bounding into the gym as bright as ever. Normally Nakahara would not be so easily distracted, but today irritation flickers across his face. He turns, ready to snap, until he sees what she is holding.

“Look, look, look!” she beams, waving a sheet high above her head. “The draft for the Eastern Japan Rookie Championship. I printed it for you guys!”

At least, Nakahara finds a reason to stop the mitt session and climb out of the ring. The others gather around too, curiosity pulling them in. Even Ryoma abandons the sandbag, his earlier frustration evaporating.

“And Ryoma, guess what!” Aki announces with mock suspense. “Your fight is Thursday, April ninth, 2015. Second bout of the night, against Tatsuki Aramaki.”