VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma absorbs the message in silence, his thoughts circling. From the Aramaki he knew in his previous life, he can still picture the misery that man once carried.

But the current Aramaki is different, only three fights in, still green. The question is, how much different?

“Ah, one more thing,” Aki cuts into his thoughts. “He’s only been training at home. Not at Kirizume, not even his old gym. Isn’t that weird?”

That makes Nakahara stir. He steps down from the ring, his expression shadowed.

“And yet he’s confident enough to tell my boxer to forfeit?”

Aki glances at him, startled by his tone. But there’s no sarcasm in it, just a heavy unshaken seriousness.

“What do you think, kid?” Nakahara asks Ryoma. “Is he planning something dirty, without dragging Kirizume’s name down? Or is it Kirizume himself, keeping his own hands clean?”

Ryoma exhales sharply. “I could imagine that with someone like Shunpei Oguchi. But Aramaki? He’s not that kind of man.”

“Exactly!” Aki leans forward, eyes bright with conviction. “From what I saw, he’s gentle. A soft-spoken, shy man… a loving father. They live humbly, but with kindness. I just can’t believe he’d ever stoop to something underhanded.”

Nakahara narrows his eyes. “A humble life. A man with a family. A father.” He shakes his head. “That’s more than enough to make a kind man dangerous.”

“Eh?” Aki blinks. “What do you mean by that?”

“You won’t understand,” Nakahara says quietly. “Not unless you’ve been a father yourself.”

Aki frowns, almost pouting. “But I’m just a girl.”

“Exactly.” Ryoma scoffs as he walks to the heavy bag.

Soon, the sharp rhythm of his gloves fills the air, snapping at first, and then sinking into heavier thuds.

Aki listens carefully. The sound lacks the raw punishing weight of Aramaki’s punches, yet Ryoma still trains in far better conditions than Aramaki’s makeshift backyard.

“At least you still have a proper gym,” she says, glancing toward Nakahara before bowing politely. “Anyway, thank you for letting me observe. I’ll take my leave now.”

She starts toward the door, but Nakahara’s voice stops her.

“Wait.”

He crosses the floor and lowers his tone so only she can hear.

“Thanks for the tip about Aramaki. But… you shouldn’t be doing this.”

Aki blinks. “W–why not?”

Nakahara offers a faint smile, more teacher than accuser.

“I don’t think you meant any harm. But as a journalist, you can’t play favorites. You owe fairness to both sides.”

Her chest tightens. Only now does Aki realize how much she’s been leaning toward Ryoma’s corner. She bows again, this time in apology rather than gratitude.

“Thank you… I’ll keep that in mind.”

When she finally slips out, Nakahara turns his attention back to Ryoma, who’s still hammering the heavy bag, burning away every ounce of fuel he has left.

Yes, they have the facilities. But what use is that when Ryoma’s body can’t handle the demands placed on it?

Super Featherweight tops out at 59 kilos. Yet every morning Ryoma’s scale reads 62, sometimes 63, three to four kilos over.

Normally, cutting that much in two weeks is no problem. But looking at him now, wiry arms, skin clinging to muscle, it’s hard to imagine his body yielding any more.

For weeks, he’s been running on fumes, half-starved, sharp but fragile. Earlier in sparring, Nakahara pushed him. Now, even on the bag, Ryoma’s punches lack bite. The snap is gone.

Nakahara exhales, already knowing the truth. “This is the cost of forcing yourself into a weight class that doesn’t fit. Lightweight… maybe even Super Lightweight. That’s where you real strength lies.”

After watching for a few more moments, Nakahara steps forward, lays a hand on Ryoma’s shoulder.

“That’s enough. Take a break.”

Ryoma whirls, sweat dripping, but stubbornness flashing.

“But Coach… I still have more to burn.”

Nakahara shakes his head. “No. You don’t need to burn everything now. Hold this weight for a little while. Then, three days before the weigh-in, we’ll cut the rest with water, only the sweat, not muscle.”

Ryoma nods, and rips off the gloves.

***

They may think they have the facilities advantage. But the irony is this: Aramaki isn’t only training with tree trunks and sandbags at home.

For one week before the fight day, Kirizume slips him just enough money for proper food, enough for Kaori and the baby to eat well, enough for his body to recover.

Almost every day, a trainer named Masato Kanda shows up at the hut to drill him. He’s a freelance trainer Kirizume keeps on his personal payroll, separate from the official Kirizume Boxing Gym.

And tonight they’re in a public gym, lights harsh, and a ring tape loose at the corners. No Kirizume logos, just sweat, grit, and a bitter truth: every boxer thinks he’s the hero of the story, until the day he’s told he’s just someone else’s sparring partner.

And tonight, that role falls to Kazuya Tōjō.

After all, Tōjō’s style mirrors Ryoma’s, an out-boxer with sharp jabs, fast hands, and smooth footwork. He may hate being used as a test dummy, but when the order comes straight from Kirizume, he can’t refuse.”

Tch… damn it. Why am I even here?

His fists pelt Aramaki’s headgear like hammers, each blow snapping his neck back, the dull thuds echoing in the gym. But the bastard won’t break.

I’m not some tool. I’ve got my own fight, my own score with that fucking golden boy.

Tōjō grits his teeth, pouring on the pressure, but his thoughts are sharper than his punches.

And yet here they are, using my fists, just to polish up this nobody so he can steal the spotlight.

Another jab bounces off Aramaki’s guard, sweat flying. He rips a hook across the headgear, snarling under his breath.

If he thinks I’ll just let myself be a stepping stone, he’s out of his damn mind.

But no one gives a damn about his feelings. Not even Masato bothers to call out his name. Every shout is for Aramaki, fixing his form, drilling him with hints on how to exploit Ryoma’s weakness.

All of it traced back to scraps of intel from Ryoma’s spar with Renji. And they’re betting Nakahara won’t have enough time to patch that hole before fight night.

“Stay close!” Masato barks from ringside. “Don’t run… bite down and mix it! Body and head,

head and body! Make him guess which one’s coming!”

That’s the instruction on the surface. But the meaning underneath is sharper: each body shot has to carry the weight of a career, thrown like it decides the fight itself.

Aramaki grits his teeth, slipping one hook, eating the next. The impact rattles his jaw, but he steps in instead of out, shoulders grinding against Tōjō’s chest.

A left hook sails high, brushes Tōjō’s temple. Instinctively, Tōjō’s guard rises. That’s when Aramaki buries the right hand into the soft spot below the sternum.

Thud.

The punch lands clean on the solar plexus.

Tōjō’s eyes go wide. He staggers back, lips curling, face darkening to red. Air refuses to come. He’s been landing shots all night, yet he’s the first to fold.

“Good! That’s it!” Masato shouts. “Force him to cover upstairs, then dig down. Switch the angle! You’ve really got it right.”

For a few terrible seconds, Tōjō bends over, clutching his middle, glaring at Aramaki as though the man had stolen something from him.

Because the fact is, he has. Not just the gas in the tank, not just air out of his lungs, but also his main target, Ryoma.

Now he’s just one boxer being used as a stepping stone for Aramaki’s path to Ryoma. And that, more than the pain in his chest, is what burns him most.