VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning, Ryoma pushes open the gym doors, and there he is again. Satoru Fumihiro, the overeager high schooler, standing right by the entrance like a puppy waiting.

“Good morning, Senpai!” He bows deeply, grinning before Ryoma even steps inside.

And this time, he’s brought company. Two boys Ryoma hasn’t seen before. They don’t look like thugs the way Kobo’s crew did. If anything, they look like nerds who stumbled into the wrong building. Ryoma doubts either has the frame for boxing.

Satoru gestures proudly. “Hey, you guys! This is Ryoma Takeda. You probably never met him before, but he represented our school at Interhigh. Won gold… twice.”

The two spring into action, snapping into stiff bows with voices that nearly echo off the walls.

“Good morning, sir! I’m Yahiro, class 1-B, Kamisaka High!”

“My name is Furuse, same class! Please take care of us!”

Ryoma says nothing. His expression stays flat, unreadable, but suspicion flickers in his eyes.

Last night’s ruined date with Kaede still sits raw in his chest. And in his mind, kids like these are where trouble starts. Satoru especially, too eager, too convenient, but Ryoma still doesn’t trust him.

The two newcomers keep bowing, waiting for acknowledgment that doesn’t come. The silence stretches, until Okabe and Ryohei arrive.

“Oh, new faces?” Okabe grins, tossing his bag on the bench. “Satoru, you bring these two?”

“Yeah,” Satoru admits with a sheepish grin. “They’re my juniors from school.”

Ryohei smirks as he passes them. “Better teach them some manners. If they screw around, I’ll smack your face first.”

Before the mood sours, Hiroshi steps out of the office, papers in hand. “Ryohei, cut it out. If Coach Nakahara hears, you’re the one in trouble. Now… Yahiro-kun, Furuse-kun, these are parental permission forms. Take them home, get them signed.”

“Now?” Yahiro asks.

“You can bring them back later,” Hiroshi replies with a shrug.

Furuse bounces on his toes. “So we can start training today? Sandbag? Sparring?”

“That’s too soon,” Hiroshi says with a laugh. “But you can join the others for roadwork.”

The two light up, immediately digging into their bags. For now, they pull out their PE uniforms and ask about the locker room.

As they walk off, Ryoma’s eyes flick to the bags left behind. There he fins gloves, trunks, even gumshield box.

“Man, they’re serious,” Okabe whistles, peeking as well.

“They actually saved up for months to buy them,” Satoru explains, scratching his cheek. “But they couldn’t get into the school’s boxing club. I was the same, so I knew how it felt. That’s why I brought them here.”

Ryoma narrows his gaze, stepping closer, voice low. “Why couldn’t they join?”

Satoru hesitates. “Not that they couldn’t, but… there were too many members. Trouble with sharing the facilities. The leaders told some freshmen to consider other clubs.”

Ryoma doesn’t miss the falter in his smile, the way his eyes dart aside. He knows the kid only tells half-truths.

So he presses further. “Who’s the captain now?”

“…Tsutomu,” Satoru admits.

“And the vice captain?”

“…Kobo.”

That’s all Ryoma needs. He knows exactly how it went. Tsutomu and Kobo didn’t just advise to look for other club activities. They judged, decided the two freshmen weren’t worth the gloves based on their looks.

“Hell,” Ryoma thinks, “I nearly made the same call.”

Still, the distrust for Satoru lingers. Ryoma says nothing more, just turns away, watching instead as Yahiro and Furuse emerge from the locker room.

Their PE shirts hang loose, their smiles half shy, half bursting with excitement. Hiroshi takes them through stretches, guiding every move with patience. Soon enough, he sets them with the others for roadwork.

That’s when Coach Nakahara arrives, his booming voice filling the gym. “Oh? More newcomers today?”

“Yeah,” Hiroshi says, pointing with his clipboard. “Satoru brought them.”

Nakahara grins and claps Satoru’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Keep this up, I might knock a few yen off your monthly fee.”

Satoru beams, but Ryoma isn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes linger on Yahiro and Furuse. The awkward way they lace their sneakers, the nervous energy bubbling in their grins.

For the first time, his suspicion gives way to something else. Their naivety, the awkwardness, the look of a little out of place in their faces…

They remind him of himself, back when he first stepped into the high school boxing club. He’d been weak then, soft, overprotected, the only child of doting parents.

But after losing his father in the Tōhoku tsunami of 2011, he knew he couldn’t keep crying, couldn’t stay fragile forever. He wanted to change, to become stronger. But the club captain turned him away.

Ryoma remembers too well what it feels like to be dismissed, to be judged useless just because his face looked soft. As if he had no right to change, no right to grow into someone stronger.

***

Meanwhile, at Minato Bayside Gym, that same ex-captain is still playing the tough guy.

“Pack your crap and get out!” Kanzaki barks, his voice echoing through the hall. “If you can’t handle being used as punching bags for your seniors, you’ve got no right touching our sandbags. Go cry somewhere else!”

Another rookie staggers off, clutching his ribs, fresh from being brutalized in Kanzaki’s sparring.

The thing is, Coach Tsuchida had already lined up proper sparring partners from other gyms, but Kanzaki wasn’t satisfied. So he vented his frustration on the youngsters, battering them to prove a point.

Even his seniors have had enough.

“Oi, Toru, that’s enough!” one calls out.

“I get toughening up the kids,” another says, “but you’re way past the line. You’ll punch them punch-drunk at this rate.”

“They’re not even your weight class,” a third snaps. “If you’re not satisfied, then spar with me instead.”

Kanzaki shoots him a glance. His jaw tightens.

Tch.

But he just clicks his tongue and turns away. “You’re two classes above me. I’m not risking injury by sparring you.”

“Exactly!” the senior fires back. “And those kids you bullied are even further below.”

Before it can boil over, Coach Tsuchida steps in, trying to douse the flames. “Hey, you guys! That’s enough! And Kanzaki! Where are you going? It’s time for your mitt session.”

“Shut up!” Kanzaki barks, storming toward the exit. “Why don’t you hold pads for those useless kids? I’m going on roadwork.”

By the time Tsuchida reaches the door, Kanzaki is already gone, sprinting down the street, his frustration spilling with every stride.

“Fuck this…” he snarls under his breath. His fists clench as he quickens his pace. “Just you wait… I’ll turn that baby face of yours into my personal punching bag.”

He looks restless, every stride heavy with irritation. The clash with Ryoma last night still needles at him, festering under his skin.

Meanwhile, Tsuchida just stands there, exhaling hard, watching. Kanzaki is his brightest prospect at super featherweight, the very fighter he scouted and personally recruited. The talent is undeniable. The discipline once matched his ambition.

But lately, he isn’t sure anymore. Kanzaki’s ego and pride have grown so sharp, so blinding, it’s becoming impossible to reach him, let alone to lecture or correct his mistakes.