VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Unlike the usual three-round routine, today’s sparring stretches into a fourth. Ryoma allows it, not out of lenience, but purpose.

He holds back just enough to let Okabe keep up, to push without crushing him. After all, from build alone, Okabe is a bit smaller than Aramaki.

From the sidelines, Nakahara watches closely. What catches his attention isn’t Ryoma’s strength or sharpness, but his restraint, how he measures every strike, how he now understands control.

And it’s not only about controlling the fight, but also controlling his own output, the number of punches thrown, and the power behind them.

“That’s enough, kid!” Nakahara calls out. “Take a break. Okabe, continue with Aramaki.”

Ryoma steps back, breathing still steady even after four rounds. He comes to Nakahara, letting him remove his headgear.

And then he slips through the ropes, patting his glove on Aramaki’s shoulder.

“Don’t hold back,” he says casually. “He’s stupid, but his body’s smarter than you think.”

Okabe glares up from the corner, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Hey, was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” He looks annoyed, but too tired to argue.

“Take it however you want,” Ryoma mutters, already unwrapping his gloves.

Aramaki laughs as he straps on his headgear. “Ready, senpai?”

“Hold on,” Okabe pants, raising a hand. “Let me catch my breath first.”

But it’s barely a minute before Ryohei smacks the bell again, ignoring any notion of rest.

Ding!

The sound cuts through the air, and the spar resumes, feet shifting over the canvas, gloves snapping.

Ryoma crosses the floor to Hiroshi, who’s already reading his expression, already expecting something from him.

“What is it this time?” Hiroshi asks, half amused.

Ryoma exhales, eyes fixed on Okabe’s movements. “I think we can work on his legs a bit. Not the calves, those are fine. It’s the thighs, maybe even the hips. His rotation’s weak; he’s losing power in transition.”

Hiroshi nods, jotting something on his notepad. “Got it. Noted.”

***

The spar between Ryohei and Okabe turns out more even than expected. The two are close friends, but friendship means nothing once the bell rings. They trade punches with the stubborn pride of kids comparing whose marbles shine brighter.

By the second round, though, Ryohei’s new build starts to show its edge. His footwork is sharper, his stance heavier. Then…

BAM!

A clean left hook crashes into Okabe’s headgear. His knees buckle, and he drops. The dull thud echoes through the gym.

“Come on, Okabe!” Nakahara shouts from ringside. “Show some grit! You think you can just stop after one knockdown? This is where you prove you’re a fighter!”

Okabe hears him, but his body won’t listen. The room spins; his legs refuse to respond.

“Damn…” Ryohei mutters, lowering his gloves. “That was through the headgear. In a real match, that’d be worse.”

“I know…” Okabe breathes, trying to rise. “Just… give me a second.”

But his arms tremble, his knees sag again. Nakahara watches long enough to know it’s pointless. He signals to Kenta, and Kenta slaps the bell.

Ding!

The round is over.

Ryoma, already leaning to Hiroshi, has seen enough. His gaze follows Okabe’s unsteady movements, the sluggish way his legs fail to absorb the fall.

“See?” he says quietly, tilting his chin toward Okabe. “His lower base couldn’t handle the impact. It’s not just stamina. It’s structure. His legs can’t absorb the shock, and his neck’s too weak to stabilize it. That’s why he loses balance so easily.”

Hiroshi nods, eyes narrowing in thought.

“If he tightens those areas,” Ryoma continues, “he can take a hit and still stay upright. If the frame holds, he’s still in the fight.”

Hiroshi glances at him with a flat face, like he is not fully buying his words. And Ryoma’s face contorts at his reaction.

“You don’t believe me?” Ryoma blinks. “I’ve had spars with him quite a lot, and he’s always like this. Get down once, and he’s not getting back.”

Hiroshi just gives him a smile, a bit mocking smile, and nods rigidly. And clearly Ryoma doesn’t like his response.

But Nakahara’s voice cuts the air, calling him from inside the ring, where Okabe still sitting on the canvas.

“Kid! Get back in. It’s time your spar with Ryohei.”

Ryoma exhales and climbs into the ring, walks toward him. “Damn it, Okabe. You didn’t ven give me enough time to rest.”

Nakahara takes off the headgear from Okabe, and puts it on Ryoma.

“I’m trying, asshole,” Okabe grumbles. “But it’s unfair. You put more weight in Ryohei, and now I look the weakest one here in this gym.”

“Stop making an excuse,” Nakahara cuts him. “There’s still more time, and there should be more room for you to improve. And we will help you, all of us.”

***

Once Ryoma begins sparring with Ryohei, he realizes Okabe wasn’t just making excuses. The weight Ryohei gained has changed everything.

Moving from Super Featherweight to Super Lightweight is no small leap. His footwork’s slower now, heavier—but there’s far more power behind each strike.

Dug, dug, bug, dug!

Four punches; left, cross, body shot, hook upstairs.

Ryoma blocks the first three, but the body blow lands clean. He exhales sharply, absorbing the impact, then snaps back with a tight jab and a sharp cross before slipping away.

He stays composed, but his body betrays him. There’s a faint tremor in his legs. His steps lose their rhythm. That one clean shot has already taken its toll.

It’s only the second round, but sixth overall since the earlier spar with Okabe. But the fatigue is setting in fast.

Across from him, Ryohei feels it too, though in a different way. That single body shot lights something inside him; confidence, pride, maybe even arrogance.

Of course, there’s nothing like the satisfaction of feeling your punch dig deep.

Usually, Ryohei’s the runner, the footwork guy. But now, he stands his ground, shoulders square, eyes bright with a hint of cockiness.

Ryoma notices. And he doesn’t like it.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, stepping in.

Dug!

Just a slapping left lands against Ryohei’s guard.

Ryohei fires back immediately, lunging for a counter. But Ryoma’s already retreating, one smooth pendulum step backward.

Another slapping left whips across before his rear foot even settles.

Dsh!

It cracks across Ryohei’s temple, snapping his head sideways. And Ryoma is already snaps forward again, driving in, chaining three crisp shots.

Bug! Bug! DSH!

A hook buries itself in Ryohei’s ribs, another cuts upward, and a final cross catches him clean.

Ryohei’s body folds, his balance lost. Still, he swings back on instinct…

Zrrf!

A wild counter slices the air, grazing Ryoma just enough to halt the next blow.

But Ryohei’s knee hits the canvas anyway. He forces himself up again, staggering, his breathing’s ragged, pride wounded more than his ribs.

“You damn kid,” he grunts between breaths. “Didn’t know you could use the pendulum step like that.”

Ryoma smirks, lowering his guard just slightly. “Did you think I drilled that just to dance around?”

He exhales, the faintest grin tugging at his lip.

“It’s called the Soviet style,” he adds. “Picked it up from Elliot Graves, back when I sparred him.”