VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

May 14th, 2015.

The morning air in Suidobashi is quiet, almost too quiet for a fight week. Inside Dr. Hayashi’s clinic, the hum of the X-ray board fills the room as the doctor studies the faint line on the screen.

“…Still there,” he says, tapping the shadow. “Tiny, almost invisible. But it’s a fracture. It hasn’t fully healed.”

Nakahara folds his arms. Hiroshi’s jaw tightens. Ryoma exhales, face shadowed by disappointment. For a moment he’d allowed himself hope. But the machine kills it in an instant.

“You can’t use this hand,” Dr. Hayashi warns. “Honestly, you shouldn’t fight at all. One wrong impact and it gets worse.”

“Then I won’t use it,” Ryoma answers.

The doctor stares, incredulous. “Boxing isn’t done with one hand.”

Nakahara steps in. “We’ve prepared for it. He’ll manage.”

Dr. Hayashi sighs, strips off his gloves. “Reckless. All of you. Listen well: your right hand is off-limits. Push it once, and you may not get another chance.”

Ryoma nods. “Understood.”

His voice is steady, though Hiroshi’s eyes flick toward him uneasily.

***

By the time they arrive at JBC headquarters, the lobby is already a hive of noise. The weight of anticipation presses on Ryoma as he steps inside.

He spots Rikuya Senda with his earphones in, Shunpei Noguchi laughing too loud with his cornerman. But Kanzaki is nowhere in sight.

Nakahara approaches the staff table. “Where’s the supervisor today?”

“Wakimoto-san is overseeing this weigh-in,” the clerk says.

A tall man in a gray suit turns from the partition, inclining his head. “Rest assured, everything will proceed fairly.”

Relief flickers over Nakahara’s face.

“Good.”

He glances back at Ryoma, giving a nod like telling there’s no repeat of last time.

Ryoma just takes a seat. That’s when a familiar voice calls.

“Ryoma-kun.”

Tanaka, the veteran journalist, strolls over. Beside him, Aki Fujimori kneels slightly to meet Ryoma’s eyes.

“Nervous?” she asks.

Ryoma shakes his head. “Just thirsty.”

Tanaka chuckles. “Everyone here would kill for a sip of water.”

Aki leans closer, lowering her voice so only Ryoma can hear.

“How’s your right hand?”

For a beat, Ryoma doesn’t answer. Then, keeping his eyes forward, he murmurs, “Please… don’t talk about it here.”

Aki’s smile softens. She gives the slightest nod, promise of silence.

Then Ryoma raises his voice for them both. “Honestly, I can’t say I’m all okay. The weight cut nearly killed me this time.”

A few chuckles ripple nearby, but another voice cuts through, sharp and amused.

“Then maybe you should move up a class.”

Shunpei Noguchi swivels in his chair, grinning. “Save us all the trouble. No more starving yourself just to tower over smaller guys.”

Ryoma’s gaze flicks toward him, brows twitch, but his facial expression stays flat.

Shunpei leans forward, voice tightening with bitter edge. “Or is that the whole point? Keeping the big frame, beating up smaller guys while pretending you’re one of us? Sounds less like guts, more like cowardice to me.”

The air in the room thins. Fighters and trainers pause just slightly, as if waiting for Ryoma’s reply.

But Ryoma’s lips just curl faintly. “Relax. I won’t be here long. Once I take the title, I’ll move up. You can fight over whatever scraps I leave behind. Sound fair?”

Shunpei stiffens, his smirk turning brittle. Across the room, a couple fighters snicker. Even Tanaka and Aki hide their grin.

But then footsteps cut the air. Kanzaki arrives, coat draped over his shoulders, handlers trailing like shadows.

“Winning a title, huh?” he scoffs.

His voice is low and flat, but it lands across the room like a thrown stone.

“Sorry, but… That’s not going to happen. You won’t be walking away to collect anything. ’Cause I’m going to break you so bad you’ll be the one thinking about retirement.”

There is no laugh in it, no swagger, just a cold focused malice that looks almost personal, something older than this match, a debt that must be paid.

Ryoma feels it like a pressure behind the ribs. He knows, without needing confirmation, that this is not taunting for the crowd. It’s a grudge sharpened into a promise.

But then, his eyes travel past Kanzaki, and stop. At the very back of the room, almost deliberately placed like two punctuation marks, stand Tsutomu and Kobo.

“These bastards… what the hell are they doing here?”

Ryoma’s hand goes cold. He remembers Nakahara’s slump when they stopped coming. And here they are, showing like a message, bitter and ugly.

Sadly, Nakahara spots them too. His voice cracks. “You guys… what are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to…”

Tsutomu smirks. “Ah, old man… we’re just accompanying Kanzaki-senpai.”

“Kanzaki-senpai?” Nakahara falters.

Kobo adds softly, insolent. “Can’t join your gym, old man. Minato Bayside’s a whole level up. Sorry.”

The apology is thin like a glass, meant only to sting gently before it settles. Nakahara’s face goes a color Ryoma hates, the old hopeful betrayed, and for a second the old man looks years older.

Ryoma burns. But Hiroshi grips his shoulder.

“Easy… you’ll get your chance soon.”

Kanzaki, on the other hand, doesn’t meet Ryoma’s gaze. He looks at Nakahara, lets a grin slip, and then a short chuckle, like poison sinking deep.

Only after Kanzaki and his entourage drift away does Ryoma break the silence, trying to throw a rope toward his coach.

“Don’t blame yourself, old man. They came to spy on me. Pretended interest, vanished, and now they show up here? It’s just a mind game. They want to break us before the fight even starts.”

Nakahara’s face twists. “So that’s it… They were playing me all along. And I… damn fool, I let myself believe it.”

Ryoma catches the shift in Nakahara’s face, and it brings him a measure of relief. Nakahara is furious, sure. But better this than watching the old man sinks beneath false hope.

***

The weigh-in runs its course without tricks this time. And Ryoma makes the limit cleanly, not a shred below.

“Finally, I can eat now…” Ryoma exhales, the tension slipping from his shoulders.

“At least you didn’t have to strip down to your shorts this time,” Hiroshi quips, a crooked grin breaking the moment.

The official finally announces the completion. But before all fighters leave, Tanaka clears his throat, asking for their time.

“A quick word from the super featherweights, maybe?”

Noguchi speaks first, smirking as he walks out. “It’ll be quick in there. So don’t blink.”

Rikuya pulls one earphone out, his tone flat. “Doesn’t matter who’s in front of me. I’ll crush them all.”

Ryoma takes his time, voice even. “I’ve done my work. So I’ll just do my best.”

But then Kanzaki cuts in, his words slow enough to cut. “Don’t let him fool you. His right hand’s broken. What’s he going to do, fight me with one arm? Good luck then.”

That remark snaps everyone to attention. Even Aki shifts uneasily, a flicker of doubt crossing her face as if wondering whether she had somehow let slip Ryoma’s secret about his right hand.

Then, before leaving the room, Kanzaki tilts his head, eyes glittering. “And even if he tries, he’s still got that nose, pointy, sticks right out. I don’t know how no one has shattered it yet. But tomorrow, I’ll be the first to break it.”

The words hang like smoke, bitter and heavy. Ryoma’s jaw locks. He says nothing, but his silence cuts sharper than any reply.

***

At the gym, Ryoma still carries the bitterness of Kanzaki’s words. He bites into the rice ball hard, jaw tight, every chew loud, almost savage.

“That bastard… break my nose, huh?”

He tears off another mouthful, chewing like he’s grinding Kanzaki’s face between his teeth.

“When the final bell rings, I’ll make him repeat every damn word he just said.”

“Hey,” Hiroshi cuts in, “slow down. You’ll choke before you get to him.”

Ryoma pauses, breath hissing through his nose. His fists flex on his knees before he snatches the bottle from Hiroshi and gulps it down.

Around him, the other gym members glance over with uneasy faces. They’d like to ask Coach Nakahara what’s wrong. But the old man’s expression is no lighter than Ryoma’s face.