VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning, Narisawa Boxing Gym is alive again, ropes slapping, bags thudding, sneakers squeaking against the mat.

Inside the ring, Elliot Graves moves with calm precision. His rhythm is quiet but sharp, his step measured, each punch snapping like a whip.

The first spar doesn’t last long. His opponent, an unranked fighter, takes two rounds before the coach waves it off, too much gap in class.

The second spar? It ends even faster, barely one round before the towel flies.

Elliot pulls his gloves off, expression calm, not gloating. To him, this is nothing more than rhythm work, warming up

By the corner, Shoji, the newly crowned Super Lightweight Champion, watches with mild interest. He’s not threatened, just warming up himself, rolling his shoulders loose, shadowboxing quietly.

When it’s supposed to be his turn to come, he notices something: Elliot talking with Sergei Volkov, low and firm. The Russian gestures sharply, shaking his head once, waving a hand toward Shoji’s direction.

Shoji frowns. “What’s going on?” he asks, glancing toward Satoshi, the interpreter.

Satoshi hesitates. He doesn’t answer right away, eyes still flicking between the two foreigners still speaking in low tones.

Moments later, Sergei steps back, nods once, and Satoshi finally approaches Shoji with an apologetic bow.

“Mr. Graves says he will not spar today,” Satoshi explains softly.

Shoji’s brows knit. “What? You’re the ones who asked for sparring.”

Satoshi keeps his tone careful. “They still have many days left in Japan. There will be more opportunities. But… they already arranged another sparring session today. Someone else.”

Shoji blinks. “You mean… another boxer? From outside?”

Satoshi nods. “Yes. Mr. Graves personally requested him.”

The words ripple through the gym. The few journalists and staff present exchange curious looks, their whispers rising. Who could it be?

Shoji crosses his arms, half-offended. “So he skips me, the Japanese Champion, just to spar someone else? Who is this guy he’s inviting?”

Before Satoshi can reply, the gym door slides open.

Coach Nakahara steps in, polite as ever, followed by Ryoma and the new coach, Takuya Sera.

The murmurs spread instantly. Heads turn.

Satoshi frowns. “Don’t tell me… that’s the boxer he was inviting.”

Nakahara doesn’t notice the stares, doesn’t know anything about the misunderstanding. He just walks straight to Narisawa, bowing with practiced politeness.

“Thank you for giving my boxer a chance to spar with Mr. Graves,” he says sincerely.

Narisawa blinks, caught off guard. “Spar?”

“I appreciate it,” Nakahara adds, smiling.

But Narisawa only shakes his head, confused, the smile never forming. “I… didn’t know about this. Sparring with whom?”

Before Nakahara can answer, Satoshi suddenly hurries forward, bowing halfway in panic.

“Ah, Narisawa-san! It was us,” he blurts quickly. “We contacted Coach Nakahara three days ago about arranging the spar.”

Narisawa’s head turns sharply toward him. “And you only tell me now?”

Satoshi stiffens, sweat forming at his temple. “I just… got his confirmation last night. I meant to tell you this morning but… I forgot.” His voice lowers as he bows again, both hands pressed together. “I thought… since Mr. Graves asked personally, and the ring was free… it wouldn’t be a problem.”

The air hangs thick for a second.

Narisawa inhales slowly, jaw tightening. Every instinct in him wants to snap, but the cameras are rolling, and the gym is full of witnesses.

The last thing he needs is a scene in front of his own boxers. So he forces a small smile, smoothing his tone.

“Forget it,” he says finally, adjusting his collar. “If Mr. Graves wants it, then he gets it. It’s not a big deal.”

He gives a small wave of dismissal, half-turning toward the crowd. “Let’s just treat it as a courtesy. A world contender can do whatever he wants, I suppose.”

The words sound calm, but everyone nearby can feel the tightness behind them, the quiet sting of being bypassed in his own gym.

Satoshi bows again, murmuring apologies under his breath. Nakahara, oblivious to the tension, simply nods and starts preparing Ryoma for warm-up, polite and focused.

But behind them, Narisawa’s eyes linger on Elliot for a long moment. Then he watches Nakahara’s modest clothes, his small-gym energy, and feels a sting of insult.

Then his eyes shift to Ryoma. Narisawa recognizes the face. He’s heard the chatter, seen the headlines, the little spectacles that stirred Tokyo’s boxing scene for a moment.

But he’s never actually watched Ryoma fight.

To Narisawa, Ryoma Takeda is just another name in the endless cycle of “next big things.” Every year, someone new shines bright for a while… then fades.

He exhales quietly and turns away, muttering under his breath, bitterness bleeding through his calm tone.

“Declined my champion… just to spar an unranked kid from a no-name gym. What an insult.”

***

The crowd senses the tension, a quiet shift rippling through the gym. In the middle of it all, Elliot Graves starts to shadowbox, calm, composed, but with a focus so sharp it feels heavy in the air.

They’ve seen him spar before, but not like this. Not with that expression. Not even during his session with Junichiro yesterday.

Across the room, Ryoma warms up in silence, light on his feet, rolling his shoulders, letting the rhythm of his breathing carry him through the nerves.

Beside him, Takuya Sera watches the ring for a long moment before speaking.

“I’ve followed that guy for a while, back when I was still in England,” Sera says quietly. “He had three losses early in his career. Then that Russian, Sergei Volkov, took him in. Ever since, he hasn’t lost a single fight.”

Ryoma raises a brow. “A Russian?”

His gaze shifts to the ring, toward Sergei, who stands with his arms crossed, quietly observing. But soon, Elliot’s shadowboxing steals his attention.

There’s something captivating in Elliot’s movement. The smooth, pendulum-like rhythm of his steps, weight rocking forward and back, side to side, looks effortless, almost hypnotic.

He hasn’t thrown a single punch, yet every shift feels so slow and smooth, part of a larger rhythm that hides something deeper.

Ryoma’s eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me he fights with the Soviet style.”

Sera glances at him, a faint smile forming. “You’ve done your homework. That’s good to hear.”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just keeps his focus on Elliot, his Vision Grid quietly parsing each motion, the balance, the tempo, the subtle play between stillness and movement.

He knows the style, of course. But he’s never studied it, never faced someone who truly lives it.

Even in his previous life, he never saw that kind of style in Japan. The country’s boxing has always leaned toward American precision and Mexican aggression; straight lines, clean shots, pressure, and heart.

But this rhythm before him, it’s different. He’s heard it’s a nightmare for counter punchers like him. The constant rhythm shifts, feints, and angles blur the timing that counter fighters rely on.

That’s the theory. The story he once heard.

And yet, as Ryoma keeps watching, something doesn’t add up. Elliot’s rhythm looks constant, steady, and almost predictable.

His Vision Grid feeds him a pattern that seems easy to counter.

But somewhere deep down, his instincts whisper otherwise.

“Well, he’s ranked 9th in the world,” Ryoma exhales. “Let’s see how far I can last.”