VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara halts at the doorway, turning back with a squint. It’s quite rare for him to see Ryoma looking unsure before fighting someone.

“And why’s that?” he asks. “We’ve watched his tape. Nothing in his game suggests he can shut down a flicker. Hell, he hasn’t even formed a proper style yet.”

Ryoma’s voice doesn’t waver. “That’s exactly it. He looks unrefined, but it’s not because he’s bad. And it’s not because he just started boxing.”

That draws Nakahara closer, his steps slow, his curiosity sharpening. “Then what?”

Ryoma meets his gaze. “The flicker alone won’t cut it. Noguchi’s record may be thin, but he’s not green. He’s fought plenty outside the ring. Street fights.”

Nakahara blinks. “Street fighting?”

Ryoma nods. “Out there, there’s no prep. No sparring partners, no film to study, no rhythm to read. You fight whoever’s in front of you, in total chaos. That’s where Noguchi comes from. That’s why his boxing looks rough. Not because he’s unskilled, but because he’s adapted to survive in a lawless fight. A place where there is no style, only grits and madness.”

Nakahara folds his arms, exhaling in thought. He didn’t expect that Ryoma would have studied his opponent this deeply. But he understands why.

If Shunpei Noguchi really is a pawn Daigo Kirizume slipped into the rookie tournament to break Ryoma, then Ryoma has every reason to be on guard.

His eyes shift to the flat screen where Noguchi’s fight is paused. It is obvious, Noguchi’s rough, borderline dirty.

The image of Rikuya Senda after his bout with Noguchi is still fresh in his mind. If they aren’t careful, Ryoma could end up the same way.

“Street fighting, huh?” Nakahara mutters.

“Aramaki came to see me yesterday,” Ryoma says.

Both Nakahara and Hiroshi glance at him, their interest immediately caught. They both know that Aramaki was one of the boxers Daigo Kirizume used to break Ryoma.

“What did he say?” Hiroshi asks. “I know Aramaki is not a bad person. Did he warn you about Noguchi?”

Ryoma nods. “He said Kirizume doesn’t need to knock me out of the tournament. All they want is for me to break, no matter the cost. And considering Noguchi’s background, he could just cross the line.”

Nakahara exhales slowly. “Then… just like you warned Rikuya Senda, we can’t let the fight drag on. We don’t know what Noguchi will try to pull.”

“That’s why… Coach.” Ryoma leans forward, eyes burning. “Forget the flicker. Just make me stronger, strong enough to finish it early.”

Nakahara raises an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a half-smile. Most trainers struggle to light a fire under their boxers. But Ryoma isn’t asking for motivation. He’s begging to be pushed further.

“Fine,” Nakahara says. “We’ll make you punch harder.”

“Wait, hold it!” Hiroshi blurts, stepping forward. “Ryoma’s right hand just healed. If we push it too soon, we risk tearing it open again. Let’s wait for another week.”

“Punching hard isn’t only about the fist,” Nakahara replies, already turning for the door. “We’ll start today, by building the muscle that carries the weight behind the punch.”

Ryoma and Hiroshi follow him out into the gym. Nakahara stops near the squat rack, where a dusty pair of dumbbells sit, each one only two kilos, the only set they own.

Ryoma stares at them, unimpressed. “That’s it? Then… what am I supposed to do with these?”

“They’re for squats,” Nakahara says evenly. “You’ll hold them and go low, again and again, until your thighs feel like they’re tearing. Punching power starts in the legs. The spring in your calves, the twist in your hips, that’s where the weight comes from. If your legs can’t carry it, your fist won’t deliver it.”

“And you think squats are enough?” Ryoma doubts.

Nakahara folds his arms, watching Ryoma’s expression. Then he exhales, looking a bit disappointed more to himself than anyone else.

“We don’t have fancy equipment here,” he regrets. “And you can’t bulk up while cutting weight. But we can turn your legs into coiled steel. That way, every punch carries your whole body, not just your hand.”

Ryoma studies him for a moment. He sees the regret, the weight of a coach who wishes he could give more.

In that instant, Ryoma finds one more reason to fight for the title, not just for himself, but to help building this gym.

He forces a grin, masking the thought, and strips off his sweater.

“Then let’s start now.”

He grabs the dumbbells, drops into his first squat. The iron is cold, the motion heavier than it looks.

“How many, Coach?” he asks between breaths.

Nakahara squints, calculating. “The idea is to do it until you fail, but… Let’s try with sets of twenty. Start with five sets. If you can still stand after that, we’ll add more.”

“Five sets?” Ryoma exhales through a strained laugh. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Kill you?” Nakahara smirks, leaning back against the wall. “If this kills you, Noguchi will bury you.”

Ryoma grits his teeth and drives his body upward, thighs burning already. “Then I’ll outlast the grave.”

Hiroshi watches from the side, arms crossed, unsure whether to be impressed or worried.

Across the gym, the rhythm of training falters. Kenta, the senior, is hammering the heavy bag with booming hooks. But his strikes slow as he glances over, brow furrowed.

He’s seen all kinds of Ryoma’s drills so far, but never Nakahara putting him through squats with dumbbells before this.

Okabe, meanwhile, crouched low in front of the body pad with Satoru holding it for him, has been practicing short-range bursts. He straightens up, towel around his neck, and wipes his mouth, watching Ryoma grind through the squats.

“What’s this supposed to be?” he smirks, amused by Ryoma’s squat form.

For an in-fighter like him, legs are the anchor. He knows exactly how much burn Ryoma is in for.

On the other side, Ryohei is working the speed bag, his long reach and jabs echoing in rapid percussion. The sound stutters, and then stops entirely as his head tilts toward Ryoma.

As an out-boxer himself, he knows leg spring is everything. Now he narrows his eyes, curious at what Nakahara is building into Ryoma’s style.

“Eyes front!” Hiroshi snaps from the corner, clapping his hands once. “Don’t get distracted. Focus on your own training.”

Most of the gym stirs back into rhythm, but Ryohei wipes the sweat off his forehead and drifts toward Hiroshi.

“Hiroshi-san…” he calls, his voice stays low, careful not to carry. “Are you sure about this?”

Hiroshi glances at him. “Sure about what?”

“The squats. With weights.” Ryohei’s eyes flick to Ryoma. “That kind of work… it’ll build his legs, yeah. But too much of it will kill the bounce and his smooth footwork. You know as well as I do, an out-boxer lives and dies on spring.”

Hiroshi folds his arms, watching Ryoma grimace through another rep.

“You think Nakahara doesn’t know that?” he says, his tone stays calm.

“I’m saying,” Ryohei presses, “if you make him heavy down there, Ryoma won’t move the same. He will have stronger punches, sure. But he’ll be slower on his feet. And against someone like Noguchi, losing the step means losing the fight. You are making it easier for the enemy to beat him.”

Hiroshi can only exhale through his nose, not denying the logic. He’s not stupid, and as physio himself, he knows this more than anyone else.

Now he only casts a look toward Nakahara, who stands watching, expression darkened as if already weighing the same concern.