VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next day, at a convenience store.

A faint chill from the fridge washes over Hiroshi’s arm as he reaches for a bottle of isotonic drink. He’s still in his tracksuit, eyes glazed from the previous night’s late pad sessions.

His plan is simple, drink, rice ball, back to the gym before morning drills start.

Then he sees it, the magazine rack by the counter, glossy covers lined like trophies. One of them catches his eye. Bold red letters stretch across the top:

“Ryoma Takeda vs. Kobayashi Ayano — A-License Promotion Bout, Ota City General Gymnasium, Tokyo.”

Hiroshi freezes mid-motion.

“Ota Gym?”

He leans closer, blinking to make sure he isn’t misreading it. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, washing everything in that sterile white glow convenience stores always have.

He grabs the magazine, flips through the article. And there it is again, same headline, same photo of Ryoma and Ayano.

He doesn’t even wait to finish reading. He buys a copy, snatches his drink, and runs.

The short distance back to the gym feels longer than usual. His sneakers slap against the pavement, the late-morning air thick with warmth and exhaust.

By the time he bursts through the doors, his breath is ragged. The air inside smells like canvas, leather, and faint disinfectant.

Okabe is shadowboxing near the ring. Ryohei is jump rope slaps the floor rhythmically. Ryoma, Aramaki, and Kenta, the three look so fierce torturing the sandbags.

Hiroshi ignores them and heads straight for the office. Inside, Coach Nakahara sits behind his desk, the same desk that’s seen hundreds match contracts and late-night arguments.

A stack of documents leans precariously near a half-empty mug of coffee. The smell of ink and old paper hangs thick.

“Coach!” Hiroshi calls, still panting. “Have you seen this?”

He slaps the magazine onto the desk, the cover facing up.

“They changed the venue! Ota Gym!”

Nakahara glances at it, and then leans back slowly in his chair, expression unreadable.

“I know,” he says evenly. “I’ve received the official letter yesterday.

Hiroshi blinks. “Then it’s true?”

A faint smile curves across Nakahara’s lips. “Exactly as I predicted.”

He taps the corner of an envelope lying among the clutter. The JBC letterhead gleams faintly under the office light.

“Once they approved the one-million-yen purse,” he continues, “it was only a matter of time before they went hunting for a bigger stage. Korakuen can’t fit the kind of audience they want for this fight.”

Hiroshi swallows hard. “So this is a real commercial bout?”

Nakahara nods. “A big one. The commission gets their cut. Ota Gym sells out. Everyone wins.”

His tone sharpens, firm and calculated. “And we get what we asked for: exposure, money, and an official A-license test. Nothing else matters.”

Hiroshi exhales, still processing it. The number, one million yen, still rings in his head.

“Then… this means Ryoma’s fight is set for good?”

“It’s locked. Date, venue, purse, all confirmed.”

Nakahara stands, stretching his back until the chair creaks. “Go call Ryoma and Aramaki. They should hear this directly.”

Hiroshi nods and hurries out, magazine still in hand.

Outside, the gym feels different, charged, like the calm before thunder.

“Ryoma! Aramaki!” Hiroshi calls out.

Both fighters glance up from the corner of the gym where they’ve been pounding the heavy bags. The sound of gloves thudding against leather fades as they stop mid-combo.

Hiroshi, still standing by the office door, simply tilts his head, a silent gesture for them to come.

The others in the gym pause their drills, curiosity flickering across their faces. Everyone knows what’s being whispered lately, that Ryoma’s fight could be the one that puts the gym back on the national map.

Ryoma and Aramaki exchange a brief look, and then pull off their gloves. Sweat streaks down their arms.

They wipe their faces with towels and head toward the office, their footsteps soft against the floor.

Inside, Nakahara sits exactly as before. The JBC letter and magazine lie side by side, like twin verdicts.

When they step in, he looks up.

“It’s official,” he says simply. “You’re both on the card. Ota City General Gymnasium.”

Aramaki blinks. “Ota Gym?”

“That’s right. And the fight date’s confirmed, March fourth.”

Aramaki lets out a small breath, half a laugh. “Four weeks, huh…” He scratches his neck. “I haven’t fought in eight months. Not sure that’s enough time.”

Ryoma stands beside him, calm as ever. “Four weeks,” he repeats quietly. “So what’s the plan now?”

Nakahara leans forward, elbows on the desk. “The lightweight limit’s 61.2 kilos. But you’ll fight at 64. That’s your effective weight, what you’ll actually carry in the ring. You need to get used to it.”

Ryoma nods. “I was 55.6 kilos this morning.”

“Good,” Hiroshi says from the corner. “That gives us room to work. We’ll burn you down to 64 over the next two weeks, focusing on fat loss. Once you hit that number, you’ll train there; spar, drill, move, all at fight weight. Think of it as a full simulation.”

“And after that?” Ryoma asks.

“The last two weeks,” Nakahara says, “we bring you down to lightweight, gradual and controlled. The final three days, we’ll drain water only. No starvation tactics this time.”

Ryoma smirks faintly. “Cutting three kilos in two weeks? I’ve done worse.”

“Let’s not do worse,” Nakahara mutters, lips twitching.

Then his eyes move to Aramaki. He’s been watching him closely ever since Aramaki joined as an outsider.

No contract, no sponsor, just a quiet fighter who shows up before sunrise and leaves after dark. His record may not be stellar, but his discipline embarrasses most of the gym’s regulars.

His weight remains stable, his diet on point, no issues there. What concerns Nakahara isn’t his condition. It’s the gap, eight long months since his last fight.

“For you, Aramaki” Nakahara says at last, “we’ll focus on rhythm. Timing, reaction. As much sparring as possible. No shortcuts.”

Hiroshi tilts his head. “He’s facing Junpei, right? Maybe we should bring someone in who can mimic that flicker style.”

Nakahara nods slightly, thinking, but before he can answer…

“No need,” Ryoma says. “I can help him with that.”

Both Nakahara and Hiroshi glance at him, look clearly objected.

“You?” Hiroshi frowns. “You’ve got your own fight to prepare for. And we’re not going to do a repeat of last time, when you sent him to hospital.”

Nakahara folds his arms. “And you’ve gone up in weight. You’ll overpower him even if you don’t mean to. Too much risk.”

Ryoma shakes his head. “I’ll hold back. I’m not talking about full sparring, just flicker drills. I know Aramaki’s timing, and I know how Junpei moves. Let me handle this one.”

The room falls still as Nakahara studies him for a long moment.

There’s no arrogance in Ryoma’s tone, just quiet conviction, the kind that comes from hours in the ring, not from ego.

On second thought, it might help Ryoma too, feeling how his flicker translates with the added weight, how much speed he can afford to lose.

“Fine,” Nakahara says finally. “We’ll give it a try today. But if you push too far, even once, I’ll pull you out myself.”

Ryoma nods. “Understood.”

Aramaki gives a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, man.”

Hiroshi still looks unconvinced, but doesn’t argue.