VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

They step out from the red corner tunnel into a hall that feels half-asleep. It feels nothing like Ryoma’s last outing.

It’s not empty, but far from full. The seats are a quarter occupied at best; most of the noise comes from shifting shoes, the rattle of camera shutters, and the murmurs of boring conversation.

No commentary, no music, no loud introductions. There are only the officials, a few judges, and the quiet tension of fighters waiting for their turn.

It’s a different kind of stage.

Unlike the chaos of Ryoma’s match with Ayano, when the JBC made it into a full-blown spectacle, selling tickets, running live commentary, packing Ota Gym to the rafters, this one feels stripped bare.

Ryoma leans closer to Nakahara, lowering his voice. “…This is way different from mine. Back then, it felt like a real event.”

Nakahara glances at him briefly, expression steady. “Yours was a showcase. They saw potential in you, so they made it commercial. But it’s still an exhibition in JBC’s eyes, not recorded as a professional fight.”

Across the ring, the announcer steps up, not the booming kind with the showman’s voice, just a standard JBC official reading from a clipboard.

“Next bout… Shuji Okabe, Nakahara Boxing Gym, age twenty-three. Record: five wins, all by knockout, and four losses by decision… versus Tanjiro Hara, Koshigaya East Boxing Gym, age twenty, record: six fights, four wins, two by knockout, and two losses.”

There’s polite applause, but brief and subdued. Even from the stands, Ryohei’s voice can be heard so clearly, loud and teasing, impossible to miss.

“Go, Okabe! Don’t trip on the ropes this time!”

Aramaki’s laughter follows soon after, and even Okabe can’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he adjusts his gloves.

***

Ryoma sets the ice bucket down by the corner post. He straightens up beside Nakahara, trying to look the part of a proper cornerman even if he doesn’t quite feel like one.

As usual, the referee goes through the familiar instructions; obey the break, protect yourself at all times, touch gloves. A brief nod from both fighters, and they return to their corners.

Finally…

Ding!

The fight begins. Both men circle cautiously at first.

Okabe’s stance is compact, chin tucked, gloves high. Across from him, Hara looks sharper, looser, the kind of rhythm that comes from steady activity. He’s been fighting regularly, while Okabe hasn’t stepped into a sanctioned ring in almost two years.

Okabe tries to jab, but his movement feels stiff, as if his body’s lagging half a beat behind his thoughts.

Hara takes advantage, cutting the distance fast with double jabs and quick steps. His punches aren’t heavy, but they’re busy, probing and testing.

From ringside, Ryoma watches quietly, noticing how Hara’s sharper timing makes Okabe hesitate.

Okabe scowls, biting down on his mouthguard.

“Move, damn it.”

But his arms won’t snap the way they used to.

It lasts for a while, one minute, two minutes, as Okabe fights almost like an amateur.

Hara keeps pressing, jabbing to the body, circling left, and when Okabe finally ducks wrong, the right hook lands clean across the side of his head.

Dhuack!

Okabe stumbles half a step, blinking. The sound stings more than the pain.

“You little brat…” he growls under his breath.

And just like that, something changes. His guard tightens, his steps shorten, and the old Okabe shows up, the brawler, the infighter.

He bursts forward, slipping under Hara’s next jab to throw hooks to the ribs and uppercuts inside the guard.

Hara answers back, trading leather toe-to-toe as both refuse to give ground. It’s messy, wild, but alive.

The crowd stirs for the first time. Shouts echo across the half-filled hall, a wave of excitement breaking through the quiet.

Then the bell cuts through the roar.

Ding!

Both men back off, chest heaving.

But Okabe looks composed now, as if the two years he lost had just come flooding back.

***

Ryoma, still holding the ice bucket, hesitates a few steps behind the team. Everyone else moves with practiced rhythm as Okabe arrives, leaving him standing there, hands awkward at his sides, unsure where to fit in.

For a moment, he feels like a stranger in his own corner.

Nakahara breaks the silence first, voice dry and cutting. “You really let a rookie work you up like that, huh?”

Okabe exhales through his nose, a heavy, angry snort, like a bull holding itself back.

“Yeah… damn kid caught me clean,” he mutters, flexing his shoulders. “Hard to even move my limbs back there. Felt like my body forgot how to fight.”

He takes a deep breath, tilts his head side to side, and the tension eases a little. Then he looks up, grin returning.

“But it’s okay. I’m fine now. I know what to do.”

Nakahara studies him for a second, then gives a curt nod. “Good. Then show it in the next round.”

The ten-second warning buzzes. Ryoma steps back, still gripping the bucket, watching as Okabe rises from the stool. He looks lighter now, sharper, eyes finally awake.

***

Ding!

Okabe starts the second round calmer, tighter, but too still. He lets Hara dictate the pace, jabbing sharp, pressing in, always first to move.

Okabe blocks well enough but barely fires back.

And it makes Ryoma grow impatient. “Okabe! Mix in something, stupid! This isn’t like you!”

But Nakahara’s voice cuts through. “It’s still early. Let him take his time.”

So Ryoma watches.

But the third, and the fourth round, the fight goes the same way, Okabe patient to a fault, his opponent looking livelier by the minute.

Ryoma’s fists clench with every missed chance. But Nakahara doesn’t move, doesn’t shout, just studies the ring.

“This is why you’re here,” Nakahara finally says. “To see how a veteran handles a long fight. It’s not about winning early. It’s about controlling what comes later.”

Ryoma frowns, but the words settle somewhere deep.

By the fifth, Okabe begins to shift up a gear. The slow unreadable rhythm he held suddenly breaks.

He steps in, hooks the ribs, slips, and fires again. The tone changes instantly, his pace rising as Hara’s starts to crumble.

And Nakahara nods slightly. “Now he starts taking back everything that kid spent too early.”

The sixth and seventh rounds grow fierce, but it’s clear who owns the ring now. Hara’s punches lose weight, his feet drag, while Okabe still looks fresh, landing short but efficient counters.

Ryoma realizes it now. Okabe hadn’t been passive, but he was measuring, letting his opponent spend himself dry.

By the ninth, Hara collapses after a short right, unable to rise again. He’s too exhausted than hurt, and the referee waves it off.

Nakahara doesn’t cheer. He just folds his arms, glancing at Ryoma.

“That’s what patience earns you in a ten-round fight,” Nakahara says quietly. “You’re an A-class boxer now. If you still fight the way you usually do, you’ll end up like that kid over there.”

Okabe steps down from the ring, his face flushed, with sweat trickling from his chin.

Hiroshi greets him first, grinning wide. “You really fought differently tonight. The way you jutted your arms out to disrupt his punches… and you took a lot of head shots, but kept your balance. That’s new.”

Okabe laughs breathlessly. “Guess those drills finally paid off.”

Then he turns to Ryoma, still catching his breath. “If it weren’t for those sparring sessions with you, I might’ve folded in the seventh. Thanks, man.”

Ryoma nods, smiling faintly, but his mind lingers elsewhere. Now, seeing Okabe still looking fresh after an intense nine rounds fight, he’s finally beginning to understand what Nakahara wanted him to see.

By his assessment, Tanjiro Hara was sharper, cleaner technique, better footwork, with stronger defense. But that very confidence burned through his fuel too early.

Okabe used it against him. And in Hara’s fading fire, Ryoma sees a mirror of himself.

He thought Nakahara brought him here so he could help Okabe with his insight. Never did he realize Nakahara meant for him to see his own fatal weakness laid bare in another man.