VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma has barely pulled out his gumshield when one of the newcomers steps forward and bows so low his forehead nearly touches the canvas.

“Senpai… it’s my turn.”

The other rookies freeze, exchanging looks.

“Satoru…? Are you out of your mind?” one of them blurts.

“You saw what happened to Kobo. You’ll get killed in there!” says another.

Ryoma studies the kid’s posture. Unlike Kobo, there’s no cocky grin in him, no forced bravado, only a stiff bow and a steady voice.

“I came here to become a boxer,” Satoru says. His tone is quiet but firm. “Please… go easy on me.”

There’s no bluff in his eyes, just raw nerves and a stubborn sort of resolve.

“What now, Coach?” Ryoma asks.

“He’s here to learn,” Nakahara says. “Just don’t bully him. Teach him something.”

The coach turns back to Kobo, who’s still on the canvas, headgear askew. He unbuckles the straps, pulls the headgear free, and pats Kobo’s shoulder before helping him out between the ropes.

Then he calls across the gym: “Hiroshi! Grab a spare gumshield from the box. Kid’s not going in bare-mouthed.”

“On it, Coach,” Hiroshi replies, jogging to the equipment shelf.

As Satoru climbs into the ring, Nakahara holds out Kobo’s headgear and slips it onto him, tightening the straps under the boy’s chin. Hiroshi returns with the gumshield, and the coach presses it into Satoru’s hand.

“Bite down and get used to the feel. First spar, don’t push past what you can handle,” Nakahara says, his voice soft but encouraging.

He gives the headgear a firm tug to test the fit, then taps Satoru’s cheek lightly with his palm.

“Got it?”

Satoru nods once, then shuffles to the center of the ring. The bell clangs. He lunges straight ahead, no stance, no guard, just wild, looping swings like some street thug picking a fight in an alley.

Ryoma snaps out a stiff jab. It lands clean, a reminder to slow down. But Satoru keeps flailing, his punches wide enough to walk through.

This guy… he’s raw. Totally amateur.

This time Ryoma flicks two quick jabs, sharp but light. And the way Satoru stumbles and blinks makes it clear, this might be his very first time in a ring.

“Hey, hey… stop throwing those telegraphed swings,” Ryoma scoffs, and taps him square on the face with another light jab.

Satoru freezes, dazed. “Ah… is there something wrong with my punches?”

The kid just stands there, confused, waiting for an answer, in the middle of sparring.

“Raise your guard,” Ryoma mutters, snapping a left.

To his surprise, Satoru immediately follows, arms lifting to cover up. That tiny bit of obedience makes Ryoma reevaluate. Maybe this kid isn’t here to posture. Maybe he really does want to learn.

So Ryoma shifts gears. He eases up, turns the spar into a lesson.

“I said stop with the wide swings.”

Dsh!

“You think power alone will hurt your opponent.”

Dsh, dsh!

“But no one’s falling for a telegraphed punch.”

Dsh!

Each jab punctuates his words. And each time, Satoru answers through the mouthguard, breathless but earnest: “Yes!” “Yes!” “Yes!” Even as the leather pops against his face.

“Keep it compact.”

“Pull your hand back after you throw.”

“And guard your chin. You’re begging me to crack it.”

Finally, Ryoma halts a punch an inch from Satoru’s jaw. He just gives a light tap and drops his fists.

“That’s enough.” He says before turning to Nakahara. “Sorry, Coach. I don’t mind showing them basics, but I’ve got my own fight coming up.”

The coach gives a slow nod.

Satoru bows again and again, thanking him with almost comical sincerity, only stopping when Ryoma waves him off.

The boy backs out of the ring. And Ryoma watches him go, eyes narrowing, before his gaze flicks toward Kobo. His Vision Grid stays sharp, analyzing any small detail in his battered face.

For now, Ryoma only sees the swelling taking shape. But his unease is still there, a knot in his gut whispering that these newcomers aren’t here just to learn. A part of him wants to corner them right now, force the truth out.

But another part holds him back. What if they are sincere? If he pushes too hard, he might drive them away before they even start.

Meanwhile, he still sees Coach Nakahara cracking dry jokes with the group, trying to lighten the mood.

Ryoma exhales, weary. His own fight should be the only thing on his mind, yet this nagging issue refuses to let him settle.

***

Saturday arrives, the first day of the weekend. For most boxers, pros and amateurs alike, it should be the longest day in the gym.

Coach Nakahara waits with quiet hope. If those high schoolers come back, the day off from school might make them eager to train harder. He’s already imagining what to do with them; mitts sessions, letting them punish the sandbag until their arms give out, maybe even watching old fight tapes together.

But the gym stays empty. Past two in the afternoon, but still no one comes. He’s lost count of how many times he’s paced from his office to the entrance, peering out the door just in case. But each time, the answer is the same.

“Enough, Coach,” Ryoma says finally. “I know them well enough. They won’t come.”

Nakahara turns a glare on him, sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t speak, but Ryoma feels the weight of blame, as if the boys turned away because of him.

At last, one of them shows up. It’s Satoru, and just the sight of his enthusiasm makes Nakahara’s face light up.

“You came after all. Good lad.”

Satoru bows quickly, scratching his cheek as a crooked grin slips out.

“Yes, sir. Please take care of me.”

***

What neither of them knows…

Kobo and Tsutomu are already back at Minato Bayside Gym, faces tight with the satisfaction of having something to report. Or at least, that’s what they think.

Tsuchida squints when he sees Kobo’s face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Ah… this…” Kobo scratches his cheek, wincing at the swelling. “Part of our report.”

Tsuchida blinks, then turns to Tsutomu for clarity.

“We gathered the info,” Tsutomu says. “Kobo even sparred with him.”

“And?” Tsuchida presses.

Kobo exhales. “He beat me. One round. With only his left.”

It’s at that moment Kanzaki strolls in, just in time to catch the tail end of the whispering.

“Oi, Kobo! Who messed up your face?”

Kobo doesn’t answer. Tsutomu stays quiet too, unsure if Tsuchida wants them to spill. But Tsuchida lays it bare. Maybe honesty will light a fire under Kanzaki.

“I sent them to scout your next opponent,” he says flatly. “We suspected he might have injured his right hand. Kobo even sparred him.”

Kanzaki’s eyes narrow. “With Ryoma?”

“Yes,” Tsutomu says carefully.

“And guess what,” Kobo cuts in. “He only used his left. Isn’t that proof enough his right’s busted?”

Kanzaki smirks, scoffing. “If it’s just beating you, I could do it with my left too.”

“No…” Kobo tries to convince him. “I wasn’t the only who had sparring with him. And never once he used his right hand.”

Kanzaki ignore him. He slings his bag over his shoulder and turns away.

“Kanzaki,” Tsuchida calls after him. “Did you watch the video I gave you?”

“Nope,” Kanzaki says without slowing. “Didn’t have the time.”

That’s what he says. But the truth is different. He watched the videos, just not all of them.

Later, alone in his room, he can’t resist. Just like yesterday, he plugs the memory stick into his flat screen and lets the footage play.

Ryoma’s first Interhigh final flashes across the screen. When he sees the moment of victory, Kanzaki’s heart twists. Heat rises to his face, sourness curdling in his gut.

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue, killing the screen. “Just you wait. I’ll smash that smug nose of yours to pieces.”

Winning the Interhigh had once been his dream. But he’d failed, over and over, only reaching the finals once.

The sting is unbearable. It’s a dream you can only chase in high school, and you can’t stay in high school forever. Once the chance slips away, it never comes back. That truth burns deeper than any loss.

What makes it worse is, knowing Ryoma, the boy he once mocked and dismissed, actually did it. Not just once, but twice.