VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, in Nakahara Boxing Gym.

Ryoma has just finished his last round of pad work, slipping under a right hook and snapping up with a counter cross that lands sharp against the mitt.

“Sharp, but too high,” Coach Nakahara says flatly, lowering the pads. “Sekino is not that tall. He’s moving up from Super Featherweight, remember?”

Ryoma sighs, nods once, and wipes sweat from his brow. His movements are calm, but the frustration flickers behind his eyes.

Across the gym, Aramaki is shadowboxing in front of the mirror, shirt soaked, whispering his own counts under his breath.

Kobe works the double-end bag with a steady rhythm, while Ryohei sits against the wall, half-watching, half-scrolling through his phone.

And Kenta? Well, he’s more busy dealing with the new comers than training for himself.

Moments later, the sound of the door sliding open breaks the rhythm.

Everyone looks up.

A man steps inside, mid-forties maybe, short black hair slicked back, wearing a plain tracksuit and carrying worn duffel.

He doesn’t look impressive at first glance, but there’s something in the way he scans the room, quiet but sharp, like he’s measuring everything.

Coach Nakahara steps forward, introducing the man to the gym.

“Everyone. Line up!” he calls, voice carrying through the gym. “This is Takuya Sera. Used to fight under me. But retired early. He studied abroad after that, sports science, performance analysis. And starting from now, he’ll be helping out with training.”

Sera nods calmly. “Good to meet you all.”

Aramaki gives a casual bow. Kobe says nothing. Ryohei waves lazily from the wall. Ryoma just watches him, a bit indifferent, but his eyes begin dissecting.

There’s something off about the man, not in a bad way, but in how he moves. His gestures are too careful, his presence subdued, like someone used to being overlooked.

He looks like a man who knows a lot, but doesn’t care if people know it.

“Alright,” Nakahara claps once. “Back to work. Ryoma… you’ll be working with Sera today.”

Ryoma blinks. “With him?”

Nakahara nods. “I just want him to take a look at your form first before the others. Just go with it. Take it as a way to know each other.”

Ryoma doesn’t argue, but the tension in his shoulders says enough.

***

A few minutes later, Sera stands by the ring with a tablet in hand, watching as Ryoma goes through movement drills, step in, pivot, slip, reset.

And then…

“Stop.”

Ryoma freezes mid-step.

Sera walks closer, tapping the screen. “Your back foot’s lifting too early when you jab. You’re losing pressure. It’s subtle, but that’s why your follow-up cross doesn’t land clean.”

Ryoma frowns. “That’s just how I move.”

“Maybe,” Sera says, unbothered. “But it’s also why your counter slips late sometimes. Try anchoring the back heel more. You’ll feel the difference.”

Ryoma glances toward Coach Nakahara, but the old man just crosses his arms and nods for him to continue.

So he tries it. Step in, jab, hold pressure, cross.

It feels odd at first, heavier, slower. But the impact sounds sharper when the glove meets the mitt.

Sera nods once. “Better. You’re punching from the ground now, not from the air.”

Ryoma wipes sweat from his chin, still unsure if he likes this new “better.”

He’s always trusted Nakahara. But this new coach, he talks like a scientist, not a boxer. Always watching with calm detachment, like the sport is an equation he’s trying to balance.

***

Training rolls on through the afternoon.

Aramaki and Kobe switch turns in the ring while Sera sets up resistance bands, monitors their footwork angles, and occasionally corrects posture or timing.

The others seem to adjust to him fast. He’s patient, clear, and knows how to explain the “why” behind small things, something the old Nakahara rarely bothers with.

It feels more like a college course than a gym drill.

But Ryoma keeps his distance. He works the bag alone, focusing on speed drills, rhythm drills, anything that feels familiar.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but he doesn’t trust the change.

He’s finally found a rhythm again after the rough months following his last fight. And now he’s afraid that this new coach might throw his rhythm off.

***

By late afternoon, the gym quiets down. Most of the others are done.

Ryoma sits on the ring edge, wrapping tape back around his wrists. His muscles ache, not from fatigue, but from restraint. He hasn’t thrown freely all day.

Sera approaches, holding a small notebook this time instead of the tablet.

“You’re fast,” he says simply. “You have good form, too good. But you’re not finishing your movements.”

Ryoma doesn’t look up. “You mean I’m sloppy.”

Sera shakes his head. “No. You’re afraid of breaking your own rhythm.”

That makes Ryoma glance at him, brow furrowed.

Sera continues, tone calm, almost matter-of-fact. “You fight like someone who’s afraid to lose what he already built. That’s not caution, but fear. And I’ve seen it before.”

Ryoma’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know me.”

“No, I don’t,” Sera says, tucking the notebook away. “But I know that look. You think you’ve reached the perfect form.”

“Well, that’s what people told about me,” Ryoma says. “I’m not bragging. Not my words, but I shown enough to support that idea.”

Sera exhales tiredly. “You know what happens when your mind decides you’ve already reached perfect? It stops pushing. It stops asking what’s next. Stops asking for growth.”

He turns to leave, stopping just before the door. “Don’t let the memory of one good punch decide how you move forever.”

And then he’s gone.

Ryoma stays where he is, hands motionless over the wraps. The words dig deeper than he wants to admit.

***

Later, in the small break room, Coach Nakahara sits with Hiroshi the physio, both nursing cans of coffee from the vending machine.

Aramaki walks by, towel slung around his shoulders.

“New coach’s weird,” he mutters. “Talks like a teacher.”

Nakahara smirks faintly. “Yeah. But he’s got eyes.”

Hiroshi nods. “And he reads movement well. You can tell he used to fight.”

“Short career, though,” Nakahara says quietly. “Had talent, but no chin. Still… he knows the game.”

From the ring, faintly, they can hear the sound of gloves again. Ryoma hasn’t stopped, still shadowboxing by himself, mind pondering Sera’s words.

Nakahara takes another sip of coffee, eyes narrowing slightly.

“He’s thinking too much lately.”

When the others have gone, Ryoma’s still there.

He’s alone again, the bag swaying under the dim yellow light. He’s replaying the words in his head, afraid to lose what he built.

Each hit lands a little sharper. His rhythm, his stance, everything feels slightly off, like a song that skips a beat every few bars.

And then, the sound of footsteps from behind breaks his focus.

“Kid,” Nakahara says, voice steady. “We just got a call.”

Ryoma stops the bag mid-swing, gloves hanging loose at his sides. “From who?”

“Elliot Graves’ camp,” Nakahara replies. “They’re asking for a sparring session.”

Ryoma blinks, breath still heavy. “With me?”

Nakahara nods once. “They asked for you by name.”

For a moment, the gym feels quieter. Ryoma exhales slowly, a faint crooked grin forming.

“Elliot Graves, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. “When will the spar?”

“Three days from now,” Nakahara replies.