VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The hallway outside still trembles with leftover cheers, but inside the locker room the mood sits heavy and airless. No one talks. No one even pretends to.

Okabe is perched on the treatment bench while the ringside doctor pokes at his ribs and shines a light into his swollen eye.

Every prod earns a sharp hiss, but no one reacts, not Hiroshi, not Sera, and definitely not Ryoma, who stands in the corner pretending to scroll through a phone that hasn’t lit up once.

Two full matches pass outside, one sloppy decision, one fast knockout. Yet the silence inside the locker never breaks.

Finally, a staffer shows up. “Next up… the main event… Ryohei Yamada! Get prepared.”

The room shifts. Sera pushes off the wall; Hiroshi stops pacing. Even Ryoma raises his head.

And for the first time in his career, Ryohei gets a taste of what it feels like to be welcomed by hundreds of strangers.

The whole arena isn’t chanting his name, not yet. But pockets of voices rise for him all the same, loud enough to reach the ring.

“Another fighter from Nakahara Gym, let’s go!”

“Ryohei! Show us that electric footwork again!”

“Just don’t drag it this time. End it faster.”

The sound hits him in unexpected waves. For a man who’s spent most of his career invisible in undercards and half-empty venues, it’s enough to make the ring lights feel a little brighter.

And unlike Okabe’s, Ryohei’s fight doesn’t need dramatics.

The moment he steps into the ring, the whole arena settles into a focused murmur, the kind a crowd makes when they can tell a fighter is exactly where he belongs.

From the opening bell, it’s clear: Ryohei is everything Okabe wasn’t tonight. He’s steady, composed, and sharp.

His Soviet-style footwork isn’t a copy; it’s something he’s bent into his own rhythm. Smooth arcs, precise pivots, a jab that snaps like a ruler against a desk.

He hears Sera’s instructions and follows them instantly, fluidly.

“Angle left!”

Ryohei shifts.

“Pressure with the shoulder… exit!”

He slides out clean, not rushed, not reckless, but controlled dominance. By the end of four rounds, he’s won all four without breaking shape.

At ringside, veteran journalists Tanaka and Sato trade surprised looks.

“He’s changed,” Tanaka murmurs. “And the whole gym has.”

Sato nods. “A year of dead silence… and suddenly they’re evolving. Ever since Ryoma got popular, everyone in Nakahara seems hungrier for recognition.”

“If this keeps up,” Tanaka says, “they might be the next force in Tokyo.”

In the sixth round, after two counter attempts that nearly cost him the fight, Ryohei finally ends it with one decisive shot to the jaw.

“Again! He pulls it off again,” one commentator laughs. “Just like last time, Ryohei finds a way to land that counter when he has no business landing it.”

“Maybe it’s exactly what we said earlier,” the other adds. “It’s in their DNA. Nakahara gym fighters always flirt with disaster.”

“Yeah… and the fans eat it up every time.”

***

Three days later…

The front door’s glass panel catches the morning light as Coach Nakahara pushes it open. Even that gentle motion sends a thin wash of lightheadedness through his skull. He pauses, steadying himself with a palm against the door before letting the dizziness settle.

A week of rest wasn’t enough. Hiroshi told him that, Ryoma told him that, the doctor told him that. But stubbornness is the one muscle he refuses to let weaken.

The gym at nine in the morning is usually loud. But today, the place feels padded and muffled.

Okabe and Ryohei are still home recovering from their fights. Kenta is, predictably, helping his family with the store.

So only two voices fill the gym: Ryoma’s calm analytical tone and Aramaki’s quieter replies.

Nakahara stays by the entrance, silent.

Inside the ring, Ryoma and Aramaki move lightly. There’s no tension, only a controlled morning flow.

Ryoma’s gloves tap out a rhythm, relaxed and deliberate. Aramaki, compact and tight-shelled like any pure in-fighter, presses forward in small steps. Their footwork sounds more like brushing than moving.

Then Ryoma flicks a jab toward Aramaki’s forehead, stops it just before contact, and exhales.

“Again,” Ryoma says. “But this time, don’t rush the pocket. Let the angle appear first.”

Aramaki wipes sweat off his eyebrow with the back of his glove. “If I wait, he’ll hit me before I get inside.”

“Only if you enter straight.” Ryoma taps his own sternum with a glove. “You walk in on the line, you get punished. You want the inside? Steal it, don’t beg for it.”

They reset, testing out ideas.

Aramaki feints, dips left, and then steps right, a sharp L-step. And Ryoma nods as the angle shifts.

“That one,” Ryoma says. “How’d it feel?”

Aramaki lets out a breath. “Feel cleaner. Less suicidal, hehee…”

Ryoma cracks a small grin. “That’s the goal.”

They move again, repeating the adjustment, talking through spacing, rhythm, and timing. It’s half sparring, half problem-solving.

Nakahara watches without blinking. Ryoma’s form is crisp as always, but something is missing; his punches don’t sound like they carry the weight Nakahara wants. The kid hides it well, but the old man’s trained ear can hear when the power isn’t climbing.

Suddenly, the manager’s office door opens. Hiroshi steps out with a clipboard, yawning, before he spots Nakahara.

But Nakahara immediately, raises a finger to his lips. And Hiroshi shuts his mouth and walks over quietly.

“What are you doing here, Coach?” he murmurs. “You still look pale.”

Nakahara doesn’t answer. His eyes stay glued to the ring.

Ryoma throws a light combo, jab, hook, body jab, nothing more than touches. Aramaki absorbs them, steps forward, tries the angle again.

It’s clean technique, but the sound is still not enough dangerous. Nakahara can’t tell if Ryoma is holding back, or if the new weight adjustment simply hasn’t settled into his body yet.

Finally Nakahara speaks, low and rough. “…What was Ryoma’s weight this morning?”

Hiroshi blinks. “Uh… 63.7. Same as last week.”

Nakahara clicks his tongue softly. He lowers himself onto the bench near the entrance, slow, as if saving strength.

“We need his walk-around weight at sixty-five,” he says.

Hiroshi stops. “…Sixty-five? Not sixty-four?”

Nakahara shakes his head. “No. At the top, nobody’s fighting for points anymore. Every punch is thrown to hurt. Even the jab. If we stay light, we get out-gunned.”

Hiroshi glances back at the ring, watching Ryoma’s precise movement. “Sixty-five is doable,” he mutters to himself. “That’d be maybe… six percent water cut for Lightweight. Within normal range. After weight-in, he can rehydrate in thirty hours and still move well.”

Nakahara nods once. “Most fighters cut five to eight percent. At sixty-five, the cut’s real but manageable. The kid will lose a little leg speed by the added weight, but he’ll gain real power. That’s the Ryoma I want. Not just slick. I want him dangerous.”

Hiroshi absorbs that, eyes drifting back to Ryoma in the ring. “Alright… but where exactly do you want us to build him now?” he asks quietly. “Up until now we’ve focused on legs, hips, core, prepping for that body-hunting bastard he’s fighting next.”

Nakahara doesn’t look away from Ryoma. “There’s still room. So shift the emphasis to his punch engine.”

Hiroshi blinks. “Punch engine?”

“The back,” Nakahara clarifies. “Latissimus. Wings. The whole chain from the scapula down. If we want real power, it has to come from there. His legs and hips are already strong enough to carry it. Now we make the upper connection.”

Hiroshi nods slowly, letting the idea settle. “Alright… so: more rotational pulls, more scapular work, and more lateral activation?”

“And stability work,” Nakahara adds. “No bulky nonsense. Muscle but functional, power he can transfer cleanly, not something that holds him down.”

In the ring, Ryoma stops again to show Aramaki a pivot, guiding him through the angle with patient gestures. Aramaki repeats it like a student following a master’s brushstroke.

Nakahara watches, chest rising slowly. He’s not fully recovered, and he shouldn’t be here at all.

But this quiet June morning, these two boys in the ring, this glimpse of what Ryoma might become, is enough to pull him out of bed before his body is ready.

Nakahara turns to him, eyes heavy with resolve. “Listen carefully, Hiroshi. He’s not chasing a Japanese title. He’s chasing everything beyond it. If we screw this up, we’re the ones holding him back.”

Hiroshi swallows hard, voice tight. “I… I understand.”