VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The ropes creak as Hiroshi pulls them free, one by one, widening the ring back to its full size. Beside him, Coach Nakahara steadies the post with a grunt, his old hands working with the care of a craftsman restoring his workshop.

“Bigger ring today,” Nakahara says, half to himself, half to the room. “No shortcuts. Let’s see what you boys can really do.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed on Kobo, who’s stretching casually in the corner. Every move looks loose, unbothered, as if he’s here for nothing more than fun. But Ryoma’s suspicion doesn’t waver.

The way the boy moves stirs an old memory in Ryoma. He had seen Kobo’s professional fight before, not in this time line, but years ahead in his other life. It was at Korakuen Hall, 2022, on the undercard of Toru Kanzaki’s title fight.

Yes, Kanzaki actually had his title shot by the end of 2022. That’s how good the man’s potential is. And Kobo fought as an opener, listed under the same gym as Kanzaki.

Now, standing here in 2015, this high schooler looks uncannily like that same fighter, only rougher around the edges, declaring interest in joining his gym.

“Has this guy already joined Minato Bayside Gym?”

“Or was this just a coincidence, a kid drifting in at the exact moment I’m set to fight Kanzaki?”

Ryoma narrows his eyes. He wants to read Kobo, but it isn’t easy. The guy’s whole life has been spent behind a mask of smirks and swagger, a street thug who’s learned to weaponize attitude. Micro-expressions are murky on men like him; every twitch can be bluff or just habit.

Yet, Ryoma understands that in this life, events are already diverging. Some things have changed, aren’t unfolding exactly as they did before.

It’s possible, no matter how unlikely, that Kobo really did come here to box, to start fresh under Nakahara’s roof. And the Coach has been in his best mood because of this.

“Let’s just watch for now… see what this guy’s really after.”

Outside the ropes, Hiroshi strikes the bell, timer in hand. Coach Nakahara plants himself at the corner post, his voice steady, meant for both boys.

“Your name’s Kobo, right? Just one round. Do your best. And Ryoma, don’t go too hard on him.”

Kobo dips his head, playing the polite kouhai role perfectly. “Please, take it easy on me, aniki!”

Ryoma answers with the same casual edge. “Sure. Just bring everything you’ve got.”

Kobo pulls into stance, chin tucked, guard tight. But behind the raised gloves, Ryoma catches it, the corner of Kobo’s mouth curling upward, a smirk too sharp to hide.

“Everything I’ve got, huh?” Kobo mutters low enough for only Ryoma to hear. “Don’t bawl if I end up snapping a rib.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow, finally sees the significant shift in the kid’s behavior. Not to mention the way Kobo starts the fight, gauging his distance, bobbing his head with a fined form, it’s to good to be considered as a noob.

“I’m coming!”

Kobo steps in, plants his front foot, and sends a compact left hook.

Ryoma reads the hook as it comes. He could slip it, but instead he lets it land on his right forearm.

Dsh!

He takes it as a training material, using his right arm for blocking without risking to injure his right knuckle.

“Not bad,” Ryoma says, almost amused.

“We’re just getting started,” Kobo snaps back, piling on the pressure.

Ryoma eases a step back, eyes narrowing, analyzing the boy’s movements.

The kid’s sharp, no doubt. He’s tighter than most amateurs. But he’s nowhere near Ryohei’s level. Every jab Ryoma brushes aside, every heavy punch he slips cleanly.

Kobo doesn’t waste motion, no wild swings, no lazy hands left dangling. He throws, he retracts, always guarding the chin.

Within thirty seconds Ryoma already has his verdict. This isn’t some street brawler. Someone’s been teaching Kobo properly.

The only question that matters now…

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ryoma growls between slips.

Kobo’s brow twitches, not understanding the weight behind the words. But he simply takes it as a taunt, and fires back with a straight right.

Ryoma leans away by a hair, then taps him with a sharp left.

Dsh!

It grazes the edge of Kobo’s headgear, light, stinging, more insult than injury.

Kobo presses forward, cutting distance with a hook, only for Ryoma to ghost away and flick another jab.

Dsh!

And another, two jabs, quick and sharp.

Dsh, dsh!

Still light, but precise enough to rattle Kobo’s patience.

“Come on! That’s all you’ve got?” Ryoma taunts.

He twists his left shoulder, feinting hard. And Kobo bites, jerking his head aside, only to eat the real jab clean.

“That’s called a feint,” Ryoma says flatly.

Then comes another feint, and Kobo flinches again.

Dsh!

“Here… another feint.”

Dsh!

“And here…”

Dsh!

“Sorry, that was real.”

The rhythm needles Kobo’s nerves raw. Rage spills over as he storms forward, throwing from every angle, jabs, crosses, hooks, trying to break through.

But Ryoma answers each one with another jab to the face, left hand snapping like a whip. He never uses his right fist right, not once.

But it’s these lefts that hurt Kobo’s pride the most. It’s like every jab says the same thing, you’re not even worth my full arsenal.

“What’s wrong?” Ryoma needles again. “Didn’t you promise to snap my ribs?”

Then, the final ten seconds hit, and Ryoma changes gears.

He still keeps the right hidden, but now he starts driving weight behind the left. Six punches in three seconds, angles shifting, and each one hammers Kobo’s face through his guard.

Then, before the bell, Ryoma traps Kobo’s elbow with his right hand, ripping his guard wide open, and…

Thud!

An uppercut cracks Kobo’s chin, snapping his head skyward.

Kobo’s knees buckle, and…

Blugh!

He drops, both knees hitting the canvas.

Around the ring, the newcomers stiffen, throats dry, as though they’ve just seen a classmate executed.

Okabe smirks in the corner, hiding his satisfaction. Ryohei just exhales heavily, shaking his head. He can’t believe Ryoma pushed it that far.

But Nakahara doesn’t look satisfied at all.

“What the hell, Ryoma? You went too far!”

He rushes through the ropes, crouching at Kobo’s side, concern sharp in his eyes.

“Kid! Are you alright?”

No answer.

“Hey! Kid!” Nakahara grips his shoulder, shaking lightly.

Kobo finally flinches, blinking sluggishly. He stirs, but the dazed look in his eyes tells the truth. He blacked out just now, even if only for a second.

When his gaze drags upward, Kobo finds Ryoma watching him. It’s not fierce, not threatening, but cold and detached, eyes cutting through him as if measuring something small.

It isn’t intimidation that hits Kobo, but something worse. For the first time in his life, he feels himself shrinking, almost like an insignificant insect under glass.

“Please, Coach! I only used my left. Didn’t know he was this soft.”

Ryoma heads for the ropes, sweat still rolling down his temple. Before stepping out, he glances back, voice flat but cutting.

“You’re wasting your breath on guys who don’t mean it. They’ll smile, bow, and call you coach today… then vanish tomorrow without a word. And when they do, you’ll be the only one left carrying the disappointment.”