VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The night air outside Minato Bayside Gym is cool, the hum of distant traffic drifting over the empty street. Maruyama walks briskly ahead, keys dangling loosely in his hand.

Noguchi trails behind, slouched with his hands buried in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.

“Man…” he whistles low, rubbing at his cheek. “That Sekino guy’s no joke. And that’s just number eight in the nation. Makes me wonder, how strong’s the champ, huh?”

Maruyama doesn’t slow. “Too early for you to be thinking about championship belts.”

Noguchi chuckles, shrugging. “Belts don’t matter. What matters is the chance to stand in front of the champ. Test myself. Still…” he grins wider, eyes narrowing with mischief, “…they say prize money’s bigger for champions, yeah? Way bigger than what Club Abyss pays. Speaking of, mind giving me a ride there?”

Maruyama stops dead, turning sharply to face him. His eyes narrow. “Are you out of your mind? You just sparred with the eighth-ranked boxer in the country, and now you’re thinking of brawling at that club?”

“Hey, hey.” Noguchi waves him off lazily, smirk unbroken. “We agreed I’d join your gym, but don’t act like you own my life.”

Maruyama exhales sharply through his nose, muttering, “Do whatever you want.”

He turns back toward his car, then pauses at the door, looking over his shoulder. His voice is cold now.

“But go on your own. And if you get yourself hurt bad enough to blow the rookie tournament, don’t bother coming back. You’re out of my gym.”

The words hang heavy before Maruyama slips into the driver’s seat, the engine rumbling to life. Moments later, the car rolls away into the night, tail lights shrinking until they vanish.

Noguchi spits to the side, scoffing. “Tch. Who was the one begging me to join in the first place?”

He shakes his head, still grinning faintly, and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets as he sets off down the street on foot.

Across the road, half-hidden in the dim glow of a streetlamp, a lone figure sits hunched on a pedestrian bench. From afar, he could pass for a drifter. But his eyes are sharp, following every step Noguchi takes.

It’s Ryoma, he has been shadowing Noguchi since he left his apartment, trailing Maruyama’s car with a cab to get here.

He thought they would lead him to Abyss Club. But here he is, just a block away from Minato Bayside Gym. That alone has set his nerves on edge.

What they were doing inside, he doesn’t know. But now, as Noguchi walks under the streetlight, his Vision Grid hums faintly and delivers its verdict.

>

Ryoma exhales quietly, the bottle in his hand shifting against his knee. Yes, Noguchi is walking fine. But those bruises tell their own story.

It’s from a spar, he knows it, with someone from Minato Bayside. And Ryoma’s mind can only settle on one name, Sekino Yasunobu, the veteran with the Philly Shell and the infamous flicker jab.

Ryoma rises slowly from the bench, the plastic bottle crunching faintly in his grip as he straightens. His eyes linger on Noguchi’s back, the figure shrinking into the night.

“So they’re really conspiring against me now…” he mutters, almost to himself, the words low, contempt sharpening their edges.

His footsteps carry him into the shadows, swallowed by the city.

***

The next day.

Nakahara’s gym floor rattles under quick footwork, the ring ropes swaying faintly with each shift of weight. Ryoma adjusts his mouthguard, rolling his shoulders as Okabe circles him, gloves tight.

This time, Ryoma’s Vision Grid behaves differently. It’s not just showing lines of text across his sight only, but the quiet presence of a voice in his head, his own voice, layering over the rhythm of the spar.

“Come on, Okabe!” Ryohei calls out from the apron, half-amused, half-taunting. “Show that brat who’s really superior in this gym.”

The words snap like a whip, pushing Okabe forward into his first rush.

Okabe wastes no time closing the gap. He comes in low, gloves high, head weaving, his feet pumping forward like a piston.

The shorter man is all pressure, snapping jabs more to smother than score, each step forcing the space to shrink.

Ryoma pivots lightly on his back foot, using the full length of the ring. His guard stays compact, eyes reading the rhythm, letting Okabe’s gloves brush against his forearms and elbows.

A while ago, he still kept the dance on the outside, pure out-boxer, legs always carrying him away. But now, his movement has weight.

He doesn’t flee. He holds his ground, testing the pocket, a sharper presence pressing forward just enough to answer fire with fire. Less evasive, more willing to trade, but still calculated.

When Okabe finally lunges with a hook to the ribs, Ryoma answers with a stiff jab down the middle, chin tucked, body barely shifting.

Dsh!

It snaps Okabe’s head back, but the featherweight senpai grits his teeth, swallowing the sting and stepping right back in.

The pace quickens. Okabe’s inside rhythm crashes against Ryoma’s measured mid-range, the ring echoing with leather on guard and the scrape of shoes.

Sweat beads on their brows as the clash tightens, Okabe’s relentlessness threatening to swamp the calm precision of the taller man.

Now that the system voices its scans, Ryoma no longer wastes focus reading the text. His eyes stay on the fight, studying Okabe’s pattern, reading the tiny trajectory arrows show by the system.

And then…

***

>

***

Ryoma’s gaze sharpens, his focus narrowing like a blade, waiting.

Okabe twitches his shoulder, feints left, and coils his right. But Ryoma’s fist shoots before the straight can even leave Okabe’s guard.

Bam!

The punch lands clean. Okabe’s head snaps back, his legs buckling before his body slams into the canvas with a dull thud.

Ryoma exhales through his nose, tongue clicking. He shakes his head, irritation in the sharp lines of his mouth. Not even half a minute into the round, and Okabe’s already down in the canvas.

Ryohei leans over the ropes, jeering. “Oi, don’t tell me you’re done already! At least make yourself useful teaching your kouhai a thing or two!”

Ryoma has already turned, walking toward the ropes with a disappointed scowl. But behind him, Okabe groans, forcing himself back to his knees.

“Wait… we’re not finished yet!” he says, voice hoarse but stubborn.

Ryoma pauses, then pivots slowly, his expression flat.

“Fine.”

He raises his guard again. And Okabe charges once more. But his body betrays him, legs still shaky, arms sluggish.

Ryoma doesn’t even bother with his right. He peppers him with lefts only, and unlike before, his jabs land harder now, not just sharp flicks but heavy thuds that shake Okabe’s balance.

And just as the bell rings…

Dhs!

…one last left hand drops Okabe again.

This time, he doesn’t spring up. He just slumps back onto the canvas, sitting with his gloves resting on his thighs.

His breath rattles out, more whine than defiance.

“Damn it… this isn’t fair. We’re not even the same weight. How do you expect me to fight him like this?”

From the corner, Coach Nakahara’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “We don’t have much choice. Of everyone here, your style comes closest to Ryoma’s next opponent.”

“Then find someone else out there!” Okabe snaps, slamming a glove against the floor.

Silence hangs, no one answers. Nakahara only exhales, rubbing at his brow. He can’t afford to ask help from other gyms for sparring right now. In all of Tokyo, doors are closing on them. Every gym has turned its back.

But then…

Creak!

The door creaks open, its hinges dragging long against the silence. Every head in the gym turns toward the entrance.

And there, framed in the doorway, stands a figure in casual streetwear, hands tucked in his pockets, his eyes sharp and unblinking, locking immediately onto Ryoma.

It’s Tatsuki Aramaki, Ryoma’s first opponent in the Rookie King Tournament.