VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Finally, Hiroshi breaks the heavy silence with a tired sigh. “The first contender always gets priority,” he says. “That’s normal. But the way they ignored us entirely… that’s no accident. They’re avoiding us. And honestly? That’s all the proof we need.”

Sera’s jaw tightens. “Then there’s only one thing left… force them to answer us.”

Hiroshi lifts a brow. “How, exactly?”

Sera turns his gaze toward Ryoma, eyes sharp with a challenge.

“By beating everyone above him in the rankings.”

But Ryoma looks away, expression flat, unamused. Nakahara catches it immediately.

“Kid,” he says carefully, “don’t get impatient yet. It’s only been a year since you turned pro. You’ve only had six fights. You don’t need to rush…”

“Honestly…” Ryoma cuts in with a slow exhale. “I don’t care about the Japanese title. I just don’t want to waste my time here.”

The words hang in the air, bold and blunt, dripping with the frustration of someone who feels the ceiling closing in.

Nakahara exchanges a look with Sera. They don’t need to speak; they both understand it now. Ryoma isn’t chasing the champion.

Just like Logan had warned them, Ryoma’s chasing the world. If they keep holding him here, they are going to rot him away.

Sera speaks first, voice steady. “Well… it’s not like we haven’t been considering it. If the Japanese belt doesn’t motivate you, then fine. We can look toward the OPBF. A real regional route.”

Ryoma finally glances back, interest flickering in his eyes.

“But,” Sera continues, “we still need to raise your national ranking a bit. You can’t skip the ladder entirely.”

Nakahara nods, leaning forward. “Just one fight,” he says. “Take down a top-ranked Japanese opponent, move yourself into the upper tier… and then we go after an OPBF contender. That way, you’ll be in position for both, the Japanese belt and the OPBF title. Whichever opportunity comes first, we seize it.”

He pauses, studying Ryoma’s reaction.

“What do you think, kid?”

For the first time since the call, Ryoma’s eyes sharpen, alive again, ignited by something real.

“OPBF, huh…” he murmurs, and this time, there’s a spark behind the words.

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He simply turns and walks out of the office.

A few seconds later, the rhythmic thud of the sandbag echoes through the gym again, sharp, steady, and alive.

Nakahara sags back into his chair with a long exhale, knees weakening with relief.

Sera drops onto the sofa, slouching as he unbuttons his jacket, breathing out as if someone removed a weight from his chest.

Hiroshi stands there, brow furrowed, clearly puzzled by their exaggerated reactions.

But it’s understandable, because he has no idea what kind of dread had been creeping up on the two older coaches. The fear of losing Ryoma, and with him, the future of their small gym.

After a moment, Nakahara straightens, clears his throat, and regains his composure.

“Hiroshi,” he says, “bring Aramaki and Kenta here.”

Hiroshi nods and steps out. A minute later, Aramaki and Kenta enter the office; Kenta with his hands in his pockets, and Aramaki wiping sweat from his brow.

“What’s up, old man?” Kenta asks casually.

Nakahara sits forward, slipping into his serious tone. He looks first at Aramaki.

“I owe you an apology,” he begins. “I’m not putting you into the Class-A tournament this year.”

Aramaki blinks, surprised, but keeps quiet.

“It’s not that you don’t deserve it,” Nakahara continues. “But I need you for something else. Something more important for the gym.”

He exhales slowly, picking his words carefully.

“We’re trying to keep Ryoma here. If we fail to meet his expectations… we might lose him. And we can’t let that happen.”

Kenta and Aramaki trade a startled glance; they’d known the gym relied on Ryoma, but never imagined he might leave, not after everything he’s given this place, and to Coach Nakahara.

“To give him what he needs, we have to organize our own event, a proper one. But one fight alone, even with Ryoma’s reputation, won’t draw enough crowd. We need at least two solid matchups on the undercard. So I’m planning to look for fights for both of you.”

He shifts his gaze to Kenta.

“You’ll be part of the same event. Is that alright with you, letting a rookie headline over you?”

Kenta snorts. “Do I get a say in that? I’m just grateful to finally get my own fight.”

Nakahara turns to Aramaki, and Aramaki lifts both hands.

“Coach, I don’t care much about the Class-A tournament,” he says. “Just give me a fight. As long as I can bring some money home, that’s enough.”

Nakahara nods, relief flickering across his face.

“Good. That settles it. I’ll start looking for opponents immediately.”

He leans back slightly, voice firm but tired.

“Prepare yourselves. I’m planning to hold the event in less than two months. We don’t have the luxury to waste time.”

Kenta and Aramaki nod, still processing the weight of it, then step out of the office together. And the room grows quiet again.

Sera sinks deeper into the sofa, exhaling. “Three fights still won’t be enough,” he mutters.

Nakahara rubs his temples, and then nods. “I know. We’ll need more bouts on the card. I’ll invite fighters from other gyms, fill it out properly. Make it look like a real event.”

He straightens up, takes a long breath, then reaches for his jacket and the scooter keys on his desk. The weight in his shoulders hasn’t disappeared, but there’s resolve in the way he stands.

“I’ll leave the gym to you two for today,” he says to Sera and Hiroshi.

And with that, Nakahara steps out of the office, out into the evening air, already planning the impossible.

***

The gym feels different now, tense, purposeful, almost feverish. With every fighter now having a match ahead, no one slacks. Jump ropes snap sharply, heavy bags boom in steady rhythm, and the ring stays occupied without a second wasted.

But Ryoma trains on another level entirely.

He skips until the rope whistles like wire, shadowboxes until sweat rains from his chin, then moves straight into bagwork and mittwork with Sera without asking for a break. The resistance suit strapped to him creaks with every punch, every twist, and every explosive step.

Hours pass before he finally slows.

By late afternoon, drenched and trembling with exhaustion, he collapses on the bench, staring downward as though the floor might swallow him whole. The others glance at him uneasily, no one understands the frantic pace he’s forcing on himself.

Aramaki, closest to him, strolls over with a towel around his neck. “Hey… you trying to die before the fight? Slow down a bit, man. No reason to get that impatient.”

Ryoma doesn’t react, not even a blink.

Aramaki sighs, sits beside him, and cracks open an isotonic drink. “Seriously, man, at least groan or something. You look like you’re training for doomsday.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Ryoma finally murmurs, “You don’t know this yet… but soon the whole world will shut down.”

Aramaki pauses mid-sip. “Shut down? What are you talking about?”

Ryoma turns to him, expression deadly serious. “Everything. The economy. Travel. Fights. We won’t be able to step in the ring for at least two years.”

Aramaki stares, baffled. “Whoa, whoa… what? Since when were you into conspiracy stuff?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer. He just stands, shoulders heavy, and walks toward the locker room.

Aramaki watches him go, completely lost.

“…What the hell was that…?”