VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

They’ve sparred before this, twice in the last two weeks. But it never lasted long. Coach Nakahara always stepped in before the end of second round.

But now Nakahara isn’t here. So it makes sense everyone looks uneasy. Even Aki can feel the shift in the gym’s air.

The two fighters shadowbox in their corners, light on their feet, relaxed in the face. Their movements smooth, almost lazy, a sharp contrast to the tight jaws and worried eyes of the members gathered outside the ropes.

“Okabe, can you take the bell?” Ryoma asks casually.

“Ah…? S-sure,” Okabe stammers, fumbling for the bell and timer.

Moments later…

Ding!

Sparring begins.

Aramaki plants himself in his in-fighter stance, measured steps carrying him toward center.

Ryoma circles with light footwork, bouncing at the tips of his shoes. Then… he stops, sinking into a crouch that mirrors Aramaki’s posture.

Both men close in, pivoting inch by inch, gloves twitching, feints layered between their guards.

Then, Ryoma’s vision grid flashes green, and…

Swsh!

…a jab slices out.

Aramaki reacts, right glove snapping up…

Dsh!

…it’s blocked, leather smacking leather.

Ryoma has taken the initiative, but Aramaki doesn’t surprise because he knows his reach disadvantage. He steps back, bounce on his feet, and smiles lightly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve found your reach already.”

“Of course.” Ryoma smirks. “I don’t need a whole round to measure distance. I know my body better than anyone.”

Their voices are casual, almost friendly. But then…

Zrff!

Aramaki steps-in, his posture low, gloves high.

He can’t play at long range, that’s not his style. Once his lead foot stamps down inside, his right hook is cocked and ready.

But his left hand goes first, probing, forcing Ryoma defensive.

Dug, zrsh!

The left slams into Ryoma’s guard. The right hook only cuts through empty air as Ryoma already gone, feet sliding back.

And Ryoma answers with two flashing jabs…

Dsh, dsh!

…both tap sharp against the edge of Aramaki’s headgear.

Aramaki’s head reels back. And Ryoma dives in, two hooks ripping downstairs before he whips a right upstairs.

Aramaki’s guard drops low, catching the body shots…

Dug, dug!

…then he ducks under the headshot, and fires back, an uppercut angled tight from below.

Ryoma jerks his head away. The glove skims past his chin, missing by a breath. His adrenaline spikes, heart pounding.

He hops back again, this time putting real distance between them.

“Damn… that was close,” he whistles.

“And you still read it despite the tight space,” Aramaki scoffs.

They bounce out of range, voices calm, like men sharing drinks at a bar. But ringside, the gym members hold their breath, half fear, half thrill.

Aramaki hasn’t laded clean shots yet. But his punches are heavy, sharp, thrown like he means to end it here. That’s not something they usually see within the first fifteen seconds of sparring.

The two fighters crash back in, trading at close range. Blows thud against forearms, scrape past guard, miss by strands of hair.

They aren’t holding back in the slightest bit. Each of their punch carries weight. The gym fills with dull thumps, leather smashing flesh, shoes screeching canvas, gloves colliding like gunshots.

***

Okabe, the one who usually helps Ryoma in sparring, feels intimidated and humbled. Having one kouhai who can beat him is already more than enough. But now, standing here, he’s witnessing the rise of another.

Just seeing Aramaki pour pressure on Ryoma is enough to tell: this kid is on a level above him. It’s a fact he can’t deny.

It’s not that Aramaki escapes every punch Ryoma thrown at him. He still eats body shots, still takes Ryoma’s jab snapping his head back. But he keeps firing, each counter sharp, heavy, carrying danger.

And there’s something different in his punches. Ryoma blocks them, slips past them, but the pressure, and the constant presence, makes Ryoma sweat faster than Aramaki.

What starts as “just” sparring twists into something harsher. When Aramaki lands a clean body blow, Ryoma’s temper cracks, and he whips a hard shot straight into Aramaki’s face.

Spurt!

And blood bursts from Aramaki’s nose.

“Hey, hey… that’s dangerous,” Ryohei mutters, face pale.

“That kid…” Okabe swallows hard. “He’s pushing this too far.”

But Aramaki doesn’t step back. He goes wild instead, charging deeper and unleashing a flurry.

Hooks from both sides, high, low, compact, vicious.

Thud, thud, bug, bug, thud!

Five in a row, but all smothered by Ryoma’s guard.

The sixth, another left hook…

Thud!

Ryoma blocks again, but he does it while firing a counter at the same time.

Bam!!!

The glove crashes against the side of Aramaki’s headgear. Still his head whips sideways.

And before he can reset, Ryoma buries a right hand into his gut.

Bug!

Then caps it with a left hook…

Bam!

…smashing Aramaki’s head while it’s still hanging off-axis.

His head jerks violently, body thrown with it, hurled sideways until he crashes against the canvas.

Blubug!

For a heartbeat, everyone thinks he’ll push himself up as usual.

But no. Aramaki doesn’t move.

He just lies there, sprawled on his side, unconscious.

Ryoma stands frozen, chest heaving. His face is dark, eyes wide, sweat dripping down his temples.

Blood surges hot in his veins, a rush that feels different, sharper and heavier, like something inside him has shifted. His gloves twitch at his sides as if his body is still begging to fight.

The gym stays silent for a beat, until a voice erupts from the entrance.

“What the hell is going on here!?”

Hiroshi storms in, his footsteps pounding against the floor. His eyes flare as he takes in the scene: one fighter sprawled on the canvas, the other standing over him, and no coach anywhere in sight.

“Are you all insane!?” he bellows, face flushed with rage. “Who the hell let this happen!? Sparring without supervision!? And you…” he points a shaking finger at Ryoma…”what the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

The members by the ropes shrink back, silent. Ryoma doesn’t answer, his chest still rising and falling, his both knuckles still tremble in thrill.

Hiroshi shoves past him, dropping to a knee beside Aramaki. But before his hands can even reach him, Aramaki stirs.

A groan escapes him as he rolls slightly, head lifting like someone dragging themselves out of a heavy sleep. His eyes blink open, looking hazy and unfocused, staring around with a blank clueless expression.

“Stay still,” Hiroshi orders sharply.

One of his hands hovers over Aramaki’s shoulder. His tone softens just slightly, shifting from rage to urgent professionalism.

“Look at me. Can you hear me?”

Aramaki blinks again, mouth half open. “…Yeah.”

“Follow my finger.”

Hiroshi raises one hand, moving it slowly side to side in front of Aramaki’s eyes.

“Don’t move your head, just your eyes.”

Aramaki obeys, sluggish but steady.

“Good. Any nausea? Dizziness?”

Aramaki swallows, and then shakes his head faintly.

“Any pain in your jaw? Neck?” Hiroshi presses.

He takes of Aramaki’s headgear, and checks him intently with firm touches along Aramaki’s cheekbone, then the back of his neck.

“…No. Just… heavy,” Aramaki mutters.

Hiroshi exhales through his nose, still tense but slightly relieved. He glances up, glare locking onto Ryoma again.

“Sigh… You have no idea how close this could’ve gone.”

Ryoma’s shoulders sink under Hiroshi’s stare.

“…Sorry, I… I overdid it.”

The word slips out low, almost swallowed by the noise of the gym.

On the surface, it looks like guilt. And part of him does feel guilty. He never meant for it to go this far. It was supposed to be just sparring, just light, only a routine.

But inside, he knows it wasn’t. His pulse still hammers through his veins, chest rising with the rhythm of it. That last exchange, the way his body moved, the way his glove connected, it felt sharper, heavier than anything he’s done before.

And standing there, watching Aramaki sit dazed on the canvas, Ryoma feels something strange burning inside him, something he doesn’t recognize.