VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

In this transition phase, Ryoma has to keep his timing, speed, and coordination sharp, the holy trinity of an out-boxer’s identity. At the same time, he needs to build muscle that does something, not just sits there looking impressive in mirrors.

Hiroshi calls it “functional growth,” which sounds fancy until you realize it just means pain, sweat, and no days off. His formula: 40% body conditioning, 60% boxing training, 100% exhaustion.

The week blurs into a loop of repetition and fatigue, a metronome powered by sweat and stubbornness.

Monday: Strength and Core Power.

After warming up, Ryoma starts his day with squats, three sets of heavy lifts that make the floorboards shudder.

Then deadlifts, push presses, and the long slow torture of hanging leg raises. Hiroshi circles him like a noisy toddler, eyes fixed on the rhythm of Ryoma’s movement.

“Keep the motion clean,” he says. “Every angle counts. Your core’s your anchor. Lose it, and the rest falls apart.”

Tuesday: Technical Sparring.

It is six rounds sparring. That’s the plan.

Kenta adjusts his headgear with calm precision, the same calm he carries into everything; his jabs, his breathing, his silence.

Ryoma bounces lightly, gloves tapping together in small bursts of rhythm.

“This isn’t about winning, kid!” Nakahara’s voice cuts through the noise. “Adapt, and adjust yourself. Feel the weight, not the doubt.”

Kenta advances with measured steps, his jab brushing the air in small testing strokes. Ryoma circles, keeps his guard tight.

The first few exchanges feel manageable, but soon his arms start to drag, the gloves feeling like stones tied to his wrists.

Kenta’s punches are heavier than those in his old class, not faster, but only more inevitable.

Ryoma ducks under a right hook, and then sends a counter to the ribs. The impact echoes but doesn’t move Kenta. He just grins slightly, as if saying “good, now again.”

By the fourth round, Ryoma’s lungs scrape for air. His body feels dense, his feet slower to respond. But something inside him begins to adjust.

It’s a rhythm forming between resistance and breath. In the last round, he stands his ground long enough to trade dual clean shots.

Dsh! Bam!

Both heads snap back from the impact.

Kenta holds his ground, barely shifting his stance. But Ryoma, even through the headgear, feels the world tilt for a second, a thin ring of dizziness circling behind his eyes.

“That’s enough,” Kenta says, lowering his gloves. His tone is calm, not scolding. “Don’t force it. You’re still adjusting.”

Ryoma nods, his breath rasping against his mouthguard.

At ringside, Nakahara watches without moving, arms crossed, his silence a quiet vote of confidence in Kenta’s judgment.

Wednesday: Explosive Power.

The gym feels heavier after sparring days. Ryoma moves through medicine-ball slams, plyometric jumps, and kettlebell swings, the sound of impact filling the space like a drumbeat.

Hiroshi says little this time. He knows Ryoma’s learning curve now lives in the silence between breaths.

Thursday: Technical Training.

The mitts crack like gunfire. Nakahara wears the pads, catching each strike with precision that borders on mathematical.

“Left straight. Pivot. Now the counter. Don’t let your body collapse.”

Each combination pushes Ryoma’s endurance further. The heavier frame no longer feels alien, just demanding. His punches have grown a bit denser, traveling shorter but hitting deeper.

Between rounds, Nakahara watches him breathe. “You’re starting to move like someone your own weight. That’s progress.”

Ryoma smirks weakly, “Then maybe this body’s finally mine.”

Friday: Full Conditioning.

It’s the kind of day that breaks people. Ryoma undergoes hill sprints at dawn, followed by jump rope until his calves burn like open wires. Then the circuit; push-ups, burpees, mountain climbers, shadowboxing with ankle weights.

The air turns humid with effort, each exhale a soundless scream. By the final set, Ryoma’s body no longer protests; it just moves on instinct. His mind quiets when the pain becomes routine.

Saturday: Sparring Again.

Kenta waits in the ring. This time, the rounds stretch cleaner. Ryoma reads distance better, his defense steadier. Kenta presses forward but never overwhelms him, only testing Ryoma’s balance instead of breaking it.

Their gloves clash in short efficient bursts. Ryoma lands a clean body shot, and earns a small nod from Kenta again.

When it ends, Nakahara scribbles notes without looking up. “Finally you lasted six rounds and kept form. We’re getting there.”

Ryoma wipes his face with the towel, chest heaving, but there’s a faint satisfaction behind the exhaustion, the kind that doesn’t shout, only lingers.

Aramaki, on the other hand, wants to be part of Ryoma’s sparring roster, but he’s no longer in the same class. Watching from the sidelines, the exclusion cuts deeper than he lets show.

Nakahara notices it. His eyes flick briefly toward Hiroshi, and they share a quiet knowing glance. A moment later, Nakahara calls out to Aramaki.

“Come by the office,” he says simply.

Aramaki follows, and inside, the air feels a little heavier.

Nakahara takes his seat behind the small desk, the corners stacked with mismatched folders and half-empty bottles of sports drink.

“Ryoma’s moved up,” he begins, voice low and even. “That means we’ll need someone solid to keep the Super Featherweight slot active. I’ve been thinking… if you’re serious about staying here, I might bring you under our management.”

Aramaki blinks, unsure if he heard right. Nakahara continues before the silence grows too long.

“It’s a small gym,” he says. “We don’t have the kind of pull big promotions do. Fights, sponsors, all of that’s still uncertain. I want you to understand that before you say yes.”

To Aramaki, it still sounds like the best news he’s heard in months. His answer comes out before hesitation can find him.

“I’ll take it,” he says.

Nakahara nods once, then pulls a thin folder from the drawer and places it on the desk. “Good. Take these papers home. Read everything first. We’ll talk again in a few days.”

Aramaki takes the folder with both hands, bowing slightly. There’s a quiet weight to the moment, a sense that maybe, for once, he’s been seen.

***

Sunday, it’s all about recovery.

Ryoma spends the morning sweeping hair at the barbershop. His mother moves slowly but with steady hands. She smiles when he takes over the broom.

He doesn’t tell her about the bruises, or the ache that still hides beneath his ribs. It feels better that way, to let silence do the explaining.

And two weeks pass like this. The rhythm of sweat, sleep, and the sound of gloves has its own gravity now. The soreness no longer frightens him; it feels like proof.

By afternoon, he returns from the gym and, without thinking, picks up the scissors from the counter. They feel light again. Not because they’ve changed, but because he has.

His hands steady, his grip firm. His mother glances at him through the mirror, smiling faintly, as if she notices something different but chooses not to mention it.

“Back to work already?” she teases. “You’ll wear yourself out before your next fight.”

Ryoma shrugs. “Still got no fight coming. Besides, this counts as rest.”

Fumiko arches an eyebrow. “Since when does holding scissors count as recovery?”

He lifts the comb and scissor lightly. “If I can’t even hold these, I shouldn’t call myself a boxer.”

Fumiko shakes her head, but there’s a quiet pride behind her sigh. “Just don’t start shadowboxing with them.”

Ryoma chukles lightly.

He doesn’t say how good it feels to hold something delicate again, something that isn’t meant to be hit.

When he catches her reflection in the mirror, that familiar irritating voice slips into his head again.

>

“Shut up!”