VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryohei looks annoyed, but Ryoma’s words ignite a spark. He’s done the same drill, so why shouldn’t he try it?

As the spar resumes, Ryohei’s steps shift, lighter and smoother. It’s not quite the Soviet style, but more his own version. He’s no longer just running or charging, but weaving in and out, hitting and slipping.

The fight becomes livelier, as both fighters begin using the entire space available to them, and more lefts clashed and entangled.

Then Ryoma stops, his face slightly twitches.

“His footwork suddenly becomes annoying.”

He feels an increase of difficulty in catching Ryohei now.

Because Ryohei isn’t just running away. He throws in his jabs often while sliding in and out, mixed with a few cross, and hooks, just to break his momentum.

Ryohei isn’t just running anymore. He peppers jabs while sliding in and out, mixing in quick crosses and hooks to break his rhythm.

And watching from the corner, Nakahara smiles faintly, surprised at how much one spar could change him.

***

Ryoma feels his lungs burning. And irritation only deepens his fatigue. By the fourth round, his footwork slows, steps dragging with weight.

Ryohei sees it, the stiffness and the small lag. So he presses forward, throwing more punches.

“Finally… I can beat this kid,” he mutters, eyes bright.

He drives Ryoma’s guard back, keeping those hands pinned. His punches are tight, the gaps short, the rhythm relentless.

Dug, dug, bug, dug!

Bug, dug, dug, bug!

Two body shots land clean, draining what’s left of Ryoma’s stamina. The pain hasn’t caught up yet, but the heaviness spreads.

He fires a sharp left and tries to slide away. But his legs betray him, calves tightening as if something invisible grabs hold on his calves.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Ryohei smirks, bumping his gloves before closing in.

There’s no way Ryoma can outstep him now. So he plants his feet, rear leg dragging behind, left arm tucked tight, shoulder lifted, the Philly Shell.

He rolls and slips, parries with subtle twists, his defense compact and fluid despite his fading legs. Most of Ryohei’s blows thud harmlessly against Ryoma’s forearm and shoulder, or miss by inches.

From ringside, Sera, the new coach, nods with quiet approval.

“His defense is top-notch,” he says to Nakahara. “Makes me wonder who taught him. Surely not you.”

Nakahara chuckles. “Picked it up himself back in the rookie tournament. First time I saw him use it was mid-fight. Ijust helped in sharpening it through mitt session. And the kid deepened his own understanding through it.”

There’s pride in his tone, but his excitement isn’t really for Ryoma. It’s for Ryohei, who’s finally able to forcing Ryoma back, pushing him to the ropes.

But that moment doesn’t last. Pride turns to greed, and Ryohei hunts for the headshot.

Ryoma tilts back, the coiled right hand waiting.

Ryohei’s cross glances off the lead shoulder.

Then the counter fires.

Dsh!

It cracks against Ryohei’s mouthguard, snapping his head sideways.

Then Ryoma shoves him off with a short left, just enough space for the next strike.

BAM!

The right hook slams into the headgear. Ryohei stumbles, balance gone, and drops to one knee.

Ryohei’s down, but Nakahara doesn’t bother counting. A quick glance at the timer shows the round’s almost over. So he waves it off.

“That’s enough,” he calls. “Kenta, get ready. You’ll spar with Ryohei next. Kid, take a rest.”

That’s how Nakahara structures his sessions: alternating sparring partners to give Ryoma more recovery time between rounds.

But that last counter Ryoma landed on Ryohei lingers. Its effect, and the long break that follows, cool his body down too much.

Nakahara studies them both, and neither looks ready for another hard round.

He exhales, nodding to himself. “We’ll stop here for today. Next sparring day, same structure. Okabe with Ryoma and Aramaki, Ryohei with Ryoma and Kenta.”

Then he turns to Ryoma.

“And kid…”

Ryoma lifts his head, already guessing what’s coming. “You still want me doing twelve rounds again?”

“That’s the plan,” Nakahara says flatly. “If you can’t handle it, just let one of them beat you.”

Ryoma opens his mouth to protest, but Nakahara’s already walking off, masking a faint smirk.

He knows the boy too well. Ryoma’s pride won’t let him lose, and Nakahara’s counting on exactly that to push him further.

***

May 27th, 2016 — Korakuen Hall, Red Corner Locker Room

The air smells faintly of sweat, tape, and disinfectant. Okabe sits on the bench, his knees bouncing nonstop, gloves still off, the tremor of nerves disguised as energy.

Two years since his last official fight, too long for any fighter to stay calm before the bell.

Ryohei and Aramaki stand before him, talking about nothing in particular.

“So,” Ryohei says, folding his arms, “you think the opponent’s the type who throws wild hooks or those boring straight ones?”

Aramaki shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Okabe’s gonna end it fast, right?”

Okabe grins, a twitchy grin. “Yeah. First round finish. I’ll go easy on him, maybe let him breathe once or twice.”

Ryohei laughs. “You hear that? Big words for a guy whose leg’s about to dig a hole through the floor.”

Okabe freezes, glancing down. His left foot’s still jittering, heel tapping restlessly.

“I’m just warming up,” he mutters. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Aramaki smirks. “Sure, sure. Just don’t warm up too much before the fight starts.”

Even Ryoma cracks a quiet smile at that, standing silently in the same white gym t-shirt as the others, Nakahara Boxing Gym printed bold across the back.

Across the room, fighters and trainers from other two gyms exchange glances, whispering behind their hand wraps.

It looks strange to them, seeing a twenty-year-old rookie, barely past his own A-license test, now acting like a cornerman as if he’s some seasoned pro.

“That’s Ryoma Takeda, right? The one fighting Sekino next week.”

“Yeah. What’s he doing here? Acting like a cornerman?”

“Maybe their gym’s that short on staff.”

“Or maybe he’s just too cocky. Thinks he can win it without training.”

Then a staffer pushes through the door. “Shuji Okabe, get ready. You’re next.”

Okabe exhales, rolling his shoulders, grin tightening. “Alright then… I’ll make it quick. The guy’s just a rookie anyway.”

But his left leg won’t stop bouncing.

Nakahara notices the uncertainty in his face. He crouches in front of Okabe, one hand resting firmly on that restless thigh.

“Your opponent may be a rookie,” he says evenly, “but he reached the East Japan Rookie Final. That earned him this promotion match.”

Okabe’s grin falters.

“But you’ve got experience,” Nakahara continues. “Don’t let excitement make you stupid.”

Ryohei chuckles. “Coach, he’s just too nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!” Okabe snaps, voice cracking slightly.

No one replies. The silence stretches, thick with teasing tension, until everyone bursts out laughing.

Ryoma finally says something, adjusting the towel around his neck. “Hey, Okabe… In case you get a hard time getting into the fight out there, just remember who you sparred with for the last two weeks.”

Okabe glances up. The corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Yeah. Right.”

Ryohei and Aramaki head out first.

“We’ll cheer from the seats,” Aramaki calls.

“Yeah,” Ryohei adds, “since no one else probably will.”

Then the locker door opens again. The fighter from the previous bout walks in, face swollen, eyes blank, followed by a quiet defeated team.

The mood in the room dips. Okabe watches them pass, and then stands. His gloves finally go on.

Then he nods once to Nakahara. “Let’s do this.”

Ryoma lingers behind as they leave.

He still doesn’t understand why Nakahara brought him here instead of keeping him focused on his own fight.

But now isn’t the time to ask.

So he sighs once, grabs the ice bucket, and follows them out.