VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The air in the gym shifts, tension snapping tight like a pulled rope. Kenta, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, raises his brows but says nothing, the corner of his mouth curling into the faintest grin.

Ryohei and Okabe trade a look; curiosity sparks in their eyes, sharp and unspoken. Even Nakahara pauses in mid-step, his hands tightening on the towel slung over his shoulder.

For a moment, the whole gym seems to tilt toward the same thought: Aramaki hasn’t come here for nothing.

But Aramaki only gives them smile, a humble, almost peaceful curve of the lips.

“Good day, everyone.”

His voice is calm, disarming against the weight of his presence.

And to everyone’s surprise, Ryoma answers casually.

“You finally came.”

Every head turns. The way he says it, it sounds as if he invited Aramaki.

“Sorry,” Aramaki says, trudging toward the bench by the ring. “I’m late. Had some things to do at home.”

He rummages in his bag, pulls out tape and gloves, and begins wrapping his hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Eyes follow him, then flick to Ryoma who’s already shadowboxing in the ring, warming up like he’s been expecting this.

Coach Nakahara walks over Aramaki, frowning.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Aramaki looks puzzled. “Sparring. Didn’t Ryoma tell you? He said he couldn’t find a partner for days, so he invited me.”

Nakahara swallows hard, clears his throat, forces a smile. “Right… Ryoma hasn’t had proper sparring so far, so…”

“Excuse me!” Okabe snaps. “What the hell was Ryoma doing with me just now? Bullying? I helped him get ready for Noguchi, got beat up for it, and now you say he hasn’t sparred? What’s my face then, decoration?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Ryohei jeers. “You barely made your kouhai sweat.”

“Shut up!” Okabe shoots back, glaring.

Kenta chuckles, shaking his head as he steps to Aramaki. “I heard you left Murakami’s Gym after your fight with Ryoma. Found a new place yet?”

Aramaki shakes his head, still smiling as he tapes his left hand.

“Then why not join us?” Kenta offers.

“Hey, Kenta, don’t decide that on your own,” Nakahara cuts in sharply.

Kenta winches. “What? You don’t want him here? He’s quite good.”

“That’s not it,” Nakahara says, arms crossed. His gaze settles on Aramaki. “You’re in the same weight class as Ryoma. If you join, you can’t fight him anymore.”

Aramaki grins. “Well, I can fight him right here, can’t I?”

Nakahara blinks. “Sparring? That’s all you want? Wait… are you saying you actually considering join my gym?”

Aramaki scratches his head sheepishly. “Yeah. Ryoma asked, I said yes. I figured you were fine with it too.” Then his expression falters, worry flickering in his eyes. “Wait… don’t tell me I can’t train here either?”

Nakahara exhales hard. “It’s not that I don’t want you. But this is a small gym. And tell you what, we’ve already made enemies with half the gyms in Tokyo. My reputation’s trash, and I can’t promise I’ll get you fights.”

“They all denied me too,” Aramaki says quietly.

Nakahara rubs his forehead. He doesn’t know what’s exactly happened to Aramaki. But he just assumes it’s because of that loss to Ryoma.

Now he feels bad that Aramaki can’t join any gym. And it feels cruel to turn him away. But still…

“Listen, Aramaki. I can’t arrange fights for all my boxers. Right now Ryoma only gets matches because of the rookie tournament. After that? Who knows. If you join here, I’ll have to split focus. Who do I back? Who gets priority? You’re signing on with no guarantees, you understand that?”

“But there’s still a chance, right?” Aramaki presses. “Better than nothing.”

“Just let him in, old man,” Ryoma calls from the ring.

“You shut up!” Nakahara snaps. “Two fighters in the same division, that’s a conflict I can’t ignore.”

“Well, once I win the title, I’ll move up,” Ryoma replies nonchalantly. “We both know I can’t stay in Super Featherweight forever.”

Nakahara exhales again, shoulders heavy. Then he turns and fixes Aramaki with a stern look.

“You really want to join, despite the condition?”

Aramaki nods, though his face looks a bit unsure.

“Here’s the truth,” Nakahara says. “You can train under this roof, but don’t expect a contract with me for the time being. We’ll talk about that later, that’s if I manage to get you fights. Until then, you better keep looking for another gym. It’s for your own good.”

Aramaki grimaces, then forces a smile and nods. “What choice do I have?”

“Fine,” Nakahara mutters, turning away. “That’s settled.”

***

After warming up enough, Aramaki slips on his headgear and climbs into the ring. The straps creak as he tightens them, leather squeaking faintly under his fingers. He moves with a calmness that doesn’t match the tension rolling through the gym.

Nakahara steps closer, arms crossed, his voice edged with caution. “Ryoma, don’t go too hard. He hasn’t trained since your last match.”

The coach’s words hang heavy, stirring memories in everyone present. That last fight wasn’t just a bout, it was a war that left blood on the canvas and Ryoma with a broken knuckle.

Aramaki only smiles, adjusting the chin strap. “It’s fine. Don’t hold back.”

A hush falls over the room. The usual rhythm of the gym gradually fades into background noise, like the place itself is holding its breath.

Ryohei squints, gripping the timer tightly. Okabe shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his jaw as if he can still feel Ryoma’s shots from earlier. Kenta watches with his usual easy grin, though his eyes betray a flicker of unease.

In the ring, Ryoma stretches his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his feet. The spring in his step contrasts Aramaki’s grounded, patient calm. Two different rhythms, already clashing before a punch is thrown.

“This is insane,” Okabe mutters, scowling. “We’re really doing this again?”

Ryohei smirks. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“Scared? I’m the one who sparred him just now, remember? His punches… they’ve got more weight behind them now. If he isn’t careful, he’ll snap something again.”

Kenta chuckles, leaning on the ropes. “Relax. It’s just sparring.”

“Just sparring, he says,” Okabe shoots back. “That’s what you said last time too.”

Ryohei snorts. “You worry too much. Look at them, one dancing, one crouching. Classic styles. It’s like a documentary.”

“Yeah,” Okabe mutters. “A documentary on how to die early.”

Coach Nakahara raps his fist against the canvas, giving a signal to both fighters. Aramaki turns toward Ryoma, extending his glove.

“Sorry about what happened in our last fight. How’s your hand now?”

Ryoma touches gloves with his right, answering with a dry grin.

“Don’t feel so bad. It’s completely healed.”

They then separate, sliding back to their corners. Aramaki sinks low, crouching into his in-fighter stance, head tilting, shoulders rolling.

Across from him, Ryoma moves light and smooth, his footwork flowing like a dancer, an out-boxer’s rhythm, easy and sharp.

“Aren’t you going to use that flicker?” Aramaki asks, eyes never leaving him.

Ryoma smirks. “Who knows?”

“Well then…” Aramaki’s head starts weaving, a steady bob and sway. “Here I go.”

Then, Ryohei slaps the edge of the ring with his palm, the sound sharp as a starting bell.

Aramaki bobs forward, Ryoma dances back, maintaining the distance between them. And soon, the sound of gloves cracking against forearms echoes through the gym.

No one speaks. Every eye is locked on the ring, memories of their brutal fight replaying in silence.

Then a sharp impact rattles the ropes. Ryohei exhales a low curse. Okabe leans in, jaw tightening.

Hiroshi and Kenta don’t move at all, their arms folded, eyes sharp, watching every step both fighter takes.