VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the time Ryoma returns to the gym, it’s quiet again, just the way he remembers it.

He doesn’t even realize how much the place has changed because of him.

“Morning,” he mutters, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind him.

There’s no answer, because no one’s around.

It’s a weekday morning, after all. The new kids are still at school, Ryohei and Okabe aren’t here yet, and as for Kenta, best not to ask.

The front door was unlocked, so Ryoma figures Nakahara or Hiroshi must be inside somewhere.

He drops his duffel on the bench, pulls off his damp sweater, and exhales sharply. The shirt underneath is already soaked through because he’s had a roadwork since dawn.

After wrapping his hands and slipping on his gloves, he walks to the sandbag.

“It’s been a while,” he murmurs, giving the leather a testing jab. “Hope I’m not too rusty.”

>

“Yeah, ten days in bed feels like forever.”

Then he starts.

PACK!

PACK! PACK! PACK!

PACK! PACK! DUG! DUG! PACK! PACK! PACK!

The rhythm builds, filling the quiet gym with a heartbeat again.

In the office, Nakahara stirs awake on the sofa. He didn’t come in early. He just never left the office since yesterday.

He had too much paperwork, too many calls to make, too many thoughts spinning about Ryoma’s next fight. Somewhere between planning and worrying, he fell asleep where he sat.

The unlocked door? Just another thing he forgot last night.

Now, through the thin wall, the steady sound of gloves on canvas tells him who’s back. And it makes him smile.

He walks to the door and stops there, leaning his shoulder against the frame. From a quiet distance, he watches Ryoma move, observing, evaluating.

The snap of Ryoma’s punches is still sharp, each heavy thud echoing with reassuring power. It’s enough to ease Nakahara’s worry, at least a little.

But the form, the way Ryoma pivots, rolls, and blends his punches together, stirs a different feeling in him. Lately, it’s been gnawing at him more than he wants to admit.

He’s running out of things to teach the boy. All he can really do now is make sure Ryoma steps into the ring in his best condition, body and mind.

In one sense, it makes his job easier. But beneath that ease lies a deeper pressure: the quiet fear that he’s no longer helping Ryoma grow, that he might fall short of guiding him toward the future he’s reaching for.

***

After forty-five minutes of pounding the sandbag, Ryoma finally stops and heads to his duffel for a drink.

He grabs a bottle of Pocari Sweat and sits down. But just as he’s about to take a sip, he notices someone standing by the office door.

“Oh, Coach… how long have you been there?” he asks.

“Long enough to see how rusty you’ve gotten,” Nakahara teases with a faint grin.

“Come on,” Ryoma mutters, taking a gulp. “I’ve only been gone ten days. I’m not that bad.”

Then he notices something odd. Even from a distance, Ryoma sees Nakahara’s eyes have the unmistakable crust of a man who lost a fight with REM sleep.

“Uh… Coach, you haven’t washed up? Wait… don’t tell me you stayed here all night?”

Nakahara scratches his neck and looks away, rubbing the corner of his eye with a finger.

“I fell asleep,” he says.

Ryoma frowns and glances toward the front door. “And you didn’t even lock the door? Coach, what if someone broke in and took our stuff?”

Nakahara blinks, processing the concept of burglary as if hearing about it for the first time. He scans the gym for a moment, and then rushes into the office.

His first stop: the desk cabinet. Good thing, the envelope Logan left yesterday is still there, unmolested, fortunately.

“So?” Ryoma asks, following him in. “Anything missing?”

Nakahara takes the envelope out and places it on the desk, his tone casual though his face shows a hint of relief.

“There… it’s yours.”

“My fight purse?” Ryoma asks.

Nakahara doesn’t reply, just watches as Ryoma checks it. The envelope is still sealed; he hasn’t opened it himself.

Inside is a single hitotaba, a bundle of ¥10,000 bills, neatly marked at one million yen.

“You didn’t take the gym cut?” Ryoma asks, thumbing through it. “You’re too careless, Coach. Keeping this much money in a desk cabinet?”

“It’s all yours,” Nakahara says. “From Logan Rhodes.”

Ryoma’s smile spreads as he finishes counting. The money isn’t life-changing, but it’s enough to live on modestly for most of a year, or irresponsibly for a week.

“So he really came, huh? Did he mention the other deal?”

“He did.”

“You already found me another opponent?”

“Not yet. You got a bank account yet?”

“Nope. Guess it’s time to grow up and get one.”

Nakahara gestures toward the chair. “Sit down first. We need to talk.”

“Sure.”

“I got a call from Minato Bayside Gym,” Nakahara says. “They want to match you with Sekino Yasunobu. Currently ranked seventh in super featherweight.”

Just hearing the name, Ryoma can already read the motive behind their call.

“So they still hold a grudge, huh?”

“After what you did to Kanzaki, they clearly said that someone needed to teach you a lesson.”

Ryoma lets out a light laugh. “So Sekino’s moving up to lightweight just to give me that lesson? I’m touched.”

“He hasn’t moved up yet,” Nakahara corrects. “I called JBC myself to make sure. No paperwork from Minato so far.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. “He’ll only move up after we accept?”

“Exactly,” Nakahara nods. “He’s not interested in lightweight. He just wants to fight you.”

“You give them an answer yet?”

“Still thinking. Their offer’s four hundred thousand if you win, seventy percent if you lose.”

“That’s cheap,” Ryoma says. “If they want me that bad, tell them a million. Same amount JBC gave us.”

Nakahara chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t let that deal get to your head, kid. You’re still unranked. The hype won’t be the same. One million’s too much.”

“Then decline. End of story.”

“Honestly,” Nakahara says, folding his arms, “you need this fight as much as they do.”

Ryoma frowns. “How so?”

“Moving up a division, Sekino’s rank could drop to ninth or tenth. If you beat him, there’s a good chance you get ranked. That’s our first wall toward the belt.”

Ryoma gives it some serious thought, and Nakahara lets him sit with it.

The room falls silent, but not for long. The phone rings, cutting through the stillness.

“It could be them,” Nakahara mutters, reaching for the receiver.

But Ryoma is faster.

“Nakahara Boxing Gym,” he says.

A pause follows, his expression sharpening.

“No need, you can talk with me. … It’s fine, he’s right here. Go ahead.”

Nakahara leans closer and whispers, “Is it them?”

Ryoma nods, still listening.

“Sorry,” Ryoma finally says into the phone, “four hundred’s too low. The JBC offered me a million for my last fight.”

He leans back, voice calm but edged. “If you don’t believe me, ask the JBC yourself. Anyway, my schedule’s filling up. You’re not the only ones calling this gym. With Logan Rhodes and NSN on our side, we’ve already got bigger names lining up.”