VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Hiroshi gives Ryoma a quick check not long after the spar; eyes, balance, speech, reaction. Fortunately, nothing pointed to punch-drunkenness, no warning signs, no delayed responses, only fatigue and the lingering shock from Kenta’s destructive hooks.

Between Kenta’s ribs and Ryoma’s head, neither injury is bad enough to demand a hospital visit, though Nakahara still shuts training down for the rest of the day.

The following morning, the camp resumes at a crawl. Light shadowboxing, slow footwork drills, easy roadwork, nothing that pushes too far, nothing that risks aggravating what has barely started to heal.

The next day adds bag work, the day after introduces mitts session again. Both Kenta and Ryoma’s pain fades little by little; and so does their rhythm, return little by little.

By the end of the week, intensity is climbing steadily back toward normal. That’s when Nakahara returns, this time with backup.

Sera follows behind him, a clipboard like he’s already judging everyone in the room. And trailing them are Okabe and Ryohei, both dressed sharp, both radiating the unmistakable confidence of men who’ve just tasted victory.

Aramaki looks up first. “Oho. Look who survived the semifinals.”

Okabe grins so wide it practically splits his face. “Survived? Dude, I dominated. I bagged the final already, and then… title shot, baby.”

He points at the ceiling as if the belt’s hanging just within his reach. But Ryohei snorts and flicks his towel lightly against Okabe’s head.

“Relax. You haven’t won anything yet,” he says. “You’re acting like they’re printing the poster already.”

“Maybe they should,” Okabe fires back. “You saw that last guy. Didn’t stand a chance.”

Ryoma lifts a brow. “Sorry to ruin the mood, but everyone says you won ugly. Still… confidence is what carries you through the next one.”

Okabe blinks, caught off guard, not by the words, but by the tone. For the first time in months, Ryoma is talking to him like the old days.

There’s no sharp stare this time, no heavy pressure behind his voice, no biting remarks. It’s only the normal, casual Ryoma.

“Of course…” Okabe recovers with a smirk. “Confidence is half the sport. The other half is… obviously me.”

Laughter ripples through the gym. Even Kenta lets a faint smile slip, though a trace of his earlier softness still hangs in the expression. He watches the exchange closely, especially Ryoma’s lighter mood.

And for a brief second, Kenta wonders, was Ryoma just acting this whole time? That intimidating, stone-cold persona… was he just playing character to seize control of the room?

Finally, Nakahara claps once, sharp enough to cut the noise in half.

“Alright, enough bragging,” he calls. “You want a title shot? First, show me you can survive basic training. And since these three lost half their instincts last week, I’m putting you boys to work. Ryohei and Okabe, you’re helping them sharpen up.”

He points around the ring. “Pairings: Ryohei, you rotate between Kenta and Ryoma. Aramaki, you’re glued to Okabe.”

Okabe groans. “Aramaki again? Just warning you… I’m not the old Okabe you bullied around.”

Aramaki waves it off with a lazy flick. “You said you dominated. Let me see that dominance up close.”

Ryohei snickers on his way toward the gear rack. “Good luck surviving that.”

***

The gym shifts back to life, the mood feels warm like the old days.

The quiet recovery week is also gone. The real grind returns; sharper, louder, with new sparks ready to ignite.

Still, Nakahara keeps a close watch. He warns them repeatedly to keep the sparring controlled, to gauge risk, to fire with calculation instead of pride.

“Ryoma!” he barks from ringside. “Don’t sink in that deep. Pull it back a notch! Control first, power later!”

Just a few steps away, Sera adds his own sharp call. “Ryohei! Keep moving! Don’t let him catch you that easy. Your feet aren’t just decoration!”

Both corrections cut through the gym noise, firm and precise. They frame it as a lesson in managing danger, mastering precision without committing too far.

But in truth, they are simply refusing to let anyone push into another near-injury. This camp is still about conditioning, not breaking each other before the real fights even begin.

When night settles over the training camp, the dormitory room glows with the pale light of that flat-screen TV. The beds are shoved aside, everyone crowding forward, some sitting on the floor, some leaning on the walls.

Sera stands beside the TV with a small USB stick between his fingers, already loaded with footage.

Nakahara steps forward first. “Alright. We haven’t prepped for Ryohei and Okabe’s next opponents yet. Your turn will come next week. Tonight, we focus on Ryoma, Kenta, and Aramaki.”

Sera nods and loads the first file. “Opponent one, Hanazawa Matsusuke. Twenty-six. Ranked sixth in Japan Super Featherweight.”

A still image freezes on-screen: a compact, hard-built man, physique dense and stocky. His expression carries a faint cockiness, the kind that comes from surviving too many wars in the ring.

“Look at those brows,” Sera says. “They are thick and slightly misshapen, the skin over his forehead and temples roughened with old grazes. It’s evidence of countless clinches where he drove his head in close, scraping and smothering his opponents.”

Nakahara reads his record. “Had 19 wins, 8 losses, 1 draw. 11 KOs. Never climbed past sixth. Never dropped lower than ninth. Stuck in that purgatory for years.”

“That’s what experience looks like,” Sera murmurs.

The footage rolls. Hanazawa walks forward behind a high guard, absorbing shots to close distance, chin tucked, shoulders tight.

“Good for you, Aramaki,” Nakahara says. “He’s not a runner. Rarely uses his feet unless necessary. Brawler type. Lives in mid-range, eats punches for breakfast.”

Aramaki squints. “So… straightforward?”

Sera shakes his head. “Not that simple.”

He points at the screen as Hanazawa slips a hook and bumps his forehead into his opponent’s chest, smothering a follow-up combo.

“He’s not dangerous, but not harmless either. Balanced striking, decent volume, decent power. What he really excels at is disrupting rhythm.”

The video shows Hanazawa pinning a younger opponent on the ropes, throwing short hooks and uppercuts, nothing flashy, all functional.

“He breaks momentum well,” Sera continues. “Closes space, shuts down leverage, forces exchanges on his terms. And he can take a hit. Really take a hit.”

“He’s durable, stubborn, and keeps walking forward,” Ryoma mutters. “Annoying type. Just like you, Aramaki, given a bit more experience.”

“Exactly,” Sera replies. “He doesn’t care about racking points or running around. He wants to hurt you, slowly, over rounds.”

Nakahara folds his arms. “Aramaki, this won’t be a clean fight. You can brawl with him. Hell, you’re better at it than he is. But he’s got tricks. Head control, forearm bumps, little shifts meant to break your rhythm. If you don’t prepare for that, he’ll drag you into something uglier than you want.”

Sera nods, tapping the screen lightly. “Your power and inside game are enough to beat him. Just don’t walk in thinking it’ll be fun. Hanazawa’s the type who ruins fun. You’ll need to stay sharp and stay meaner.”

The room quiets as they watch on, everyone studying the small habits, how Hanazawa angles his head on the clinch, how he uses his forehead like a third glove, how he breaks momentum with subtle shoulder checks.

Aramaki leans back against the wall, arms folded but shoulders tight. The more footage he watches, the more the weight of experience difference settles on him.

Nakahara notices. He sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and then says quietly, “There’s something I didn’t tell you about my trip to Kobe.”

The room shifts. Even Ryohei stops smirking.

“When I visited their gym,” Nakahara says, jaw tightening, “they didn’t hold back. Said you’re just a mad bull who doesn’t know how to box to save your life.”

Aramaki’s brows twitch, not in anger, more in the way a dog tilts its head after hearing something stupid.

Nakahara continues, “And I’ll be honest… after hearing him talk down on you, I snapped a little. So I made the offer myself. Told him straight, if he beats you, I’ll pay him two million yen out of my own pocket.”

The room tenses.

Aramaki’s mouth parts slightly. “Coach… you what?”

Nakahara nods once, firm. “Yeah. Because I wanted that smug face to take the fight. And because I believe you can beat him. More than he believes he can beat you.”

He huffs, remembering. “And of course he accepted right away. Thought it was free money. Thought you were an easy paycheck.”

Aramaki goes quiet, jaw tightening. Being dismissed as a “sure win” stings badly. But Nakahara’s confidence hits just as hard. Someone believing in him this openly, this fiercely, it knots something in his chest.

He’s about to speak. But Nakahara cuts him off first.

“And the same goes for you, Kenta. If you lose… I’ll pay Liam Kuroda five million yen.”

The room freezes.

“Five million?!” Hiroshi blurts.

Ryohei nearly chokes. “Coach, are you out of your mind?”

Okabe stares like he misheard. And Kenta just sits there, stunned.