VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma is already feeling the walls closing in. Every time he tries to circle, Ryohei’s reach clips him, gloves grazing his cheek or shoulder.

His footwork stays sharp, but the space vanishes too fast, forcing him to slip and weave in tighter space than he likes. His breathing grows sharper, and that hint of frustration is back in his eyes.

From the ring corner, Hiroshi returns, towel still draped over his shoulder. He stops, squinting at the ring, noticing how the space is narrower than before.

He approaches Nakahara, who’s standing arms crossed by the post, watching with a strange calm. Lowering his voice, Hiroshi leans in.

“What is this now, Coach?” he asks. “You saw earlier how the kid got his form ruined. And now you shrink the ring? You’re pushing him into Ryohei’s wheelhouse.”

Nakahara doesn’t look away from the action. His gaze stays fixed on Ryoma, slipping barely past a straight and weaving under a hook.

“That’s the point,” he answers, tone quiet but steady. “He can run all day, but sooner or later, someone’s going to catch him. I want to know what happens when he can’t run.”

Hiroshi frowns, whispering sharper now. “So you’re letting him get battered to prove a point?”

Nakahara glances at him, and calmly shakes his head. “No. I’m letting the kid learn to trust his reflexes. He’s already shown he can see punches at close range, faster than most. If he learns to stand his ground, even a little, he’ll conserve his legs.”

Hiroshi stares at him, caught between doubt and the weight of those words. He looks back at the ring, where Ryoma is gritting his teeth, dodging by a hair’s breadth, shoulders tightening under the pressure.

And for a moment, Hiroshi isn’t sure who’s crazier; the coach, or the kid who still hasn’t broken.

***

Meanwhile, Aki is already on her way to Kirizume Boxing Gym. And no, she isn’t planning on exposing the rift between Kirizume and Ryoma to the public.

But Ryoma has become a prime subject for her journalism. And with his next match less than three weeks away, she needs the other side of the story.

Interviewing Ryoma’s next opponent is still on her agenda. So she comes here thinking Aramaki might be training under Kirizume.

Unfortunately, when she arrives…

“Tatsuki Aramaki…? Never heard of him.”

“Yeah, why would you think he’s here?”

“Eh?”

Aki blinks at the dismissive answers, taken aback. But before she can ask again, another voice cuts through.

Stepping forward is Tōjō, towel slung around his neck. “You’re that journalist who came with Ryoma Takeda the other day, right?” he asks, face unreadable.

Aki bows her head slightly. “Yes! Fujimori Aki, Boxing Spirit Weekly.”

“If you’re looking for Aramaki,” Tōjō says, cold, deliberate, “you’ll find him at Murakami Boxing Gym. Not here.”

The way he says it leaves no room for questions. Aki frowns slightly, feeling uneasy. Something clearly doesn’t add up and she’s tempted to press further. But then her eyes catch something in the ring.

Kirizume has just paused in the middle of mitt work with Renji Kuroiwa. Not because of a break, but because his attention has shifted.

He’s staring at her, not a word spoken, just a look, cold and heavy. It’s the kind of stare that makes Aki’s chest tighten, her hands clam up around her notebook.

Her courage wilts in an instant. She bows, mumbles an excuse, and hurries out. It’s only once she’s outside that she lets the fear spill out in a whisper:

“Dangerous…” she whispers, footsteps quick and rigid. “He’s too dangerous.”

Whether Kirizume’s gaze truly carried that weight, or whether Ryoma’s earlier words have already poisoned her perception, she can’t tell. What’s clear is that she’s still too green, not ready for something serious like this.

“I’m just a sports journalist,” she mutters, clutching her bag tighter. “I study fighters’ lives… not criminals.”

The same day, she makes her way to Murakami Boxing Gym. Compared to Kirizume’s place, the atmosphere here feels heavier, more worn, as if the air itself has absorbed years of resentment.

She gets a chance to speak directly with Coach Murakami himself. But the moment Aramaki’s name leaves her lips, the old man’s expression twists.

“Aramaki?” he scoffs, voice thick with disdain. “That traitor has nothing to do with this gym anymore.”

Aki blinks, startled by the venom in his tone. “Traitor…?”

Murakami leans forward, his glare sharp. “He turned his back on us. Walked out and crawled into Kirizume’s pocket. You think I don’t know what kind of man Kirizume is? That boy sold himself to a viper.”

The words sting sharper with each breath. But then his gaze cuts into her, and his voice lowers into something even colder.

“And you… you call yourself a journalist? Yet you come here asking me about Aramaki, when you don’t even know he’s already entered the Rookie King under Kirizume’s banner?” He then spits the words like an insult. “Pathetic. A useless sport journalist who can’t even keep up with the basics.”

Aki flushes red, fingers tightening around her notebook. She tries to explain herself, but Murakami cuts her off with a dismissive wave.

“You want to know about Aramaki? Go to Kirizume’s gym. That’s where your precious story is. Not here. Don’t waste my time again.”

He turns away, already done with her, leaving Aki frozen in place, her pride stung almost as much as her nerves.

In the end, she leaves Murakami Boxing Gym without another word. He shoulders slump, notebook clutched tightly against her chest as if it were the only thing keeping her together.

The afternoon light begins stretching long shadows across the street, soft orange bleeding into gray. It should be a beautiful time of day, but all she feels is the weight of Murakami’s words pressing down on her chest.

Useless. Pathetic.

The insults repeat in her head, but worse than his voice is her own. She begins whispering questions she can’t answer.

Am I really cut out for this? Do I even belong in this field?

Her steps slow. The fire she once carried when chasing interviews feels dim now, replaced with a gnawing doubt that eats at her.

By the time she realizes where she’s walked, she’s at the Tama Riverbank. The air is cooler here, the sound of water a quiet backdrop to her thoughts.

She follows the narrow road that runs along the embankment, a quiet strip tucked away from the main street, where only her footsteps and the river keep her compan

Then…

Thump… thump… thump-thump…

Her ears catch it before her eyes do. It’s a steady pounding, not random but rhythmic. It sounds familiar, the kind of cadence she’s heard countless times in gyms, echoing off walls during bag work.

But this one isn’t coming from a gym, though. It drifts from a shabby hut. And that rhythm, sharp and measured, isn’t the sloppy thud of an amateur messing around.

No, this is clean, trained, the kind of sound that only comes from fists honed to punish.

Her heart quickens, curiosity heavy and uneasy, pulling her forward. She approaches the hut and stops at the small front yard, calling softly.

“Sumimasen?”

But no reply, only the steady pounding, each strike rattling through the walls.

Thump… thump… thump-thump!

Thump… thump-thump… BAM!!!

She circles cautiously to the side, until the sound grows louder. Following it, she slips into the backyard, and freezes.

There, beneath the fading light, is Aramaki. His worn gloves slam into a bizarre contraption nailed against the trunk of a tree.

A makeshift “punching bag” of worn-out tires; one cut and nailed at head height, two more bolted at rib level.

Each punch from Aramaki makes the tree shudder, scattering leaves down on his sweat-soaked shoulders.