VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Three days after Ryoma’s medical check-up, Nakahara visits his apartment in the early morning quiet, expecting to find him resting just as he’d ordered.

He stands in front of the apartment door, presses the doorbell for the seventh time. But the hallway stays silent, no voice of footsteps approaching the door from inside.

After a moment, he exhales through his nose, muttering to himself as he turns away.

“They’re probably already at the barbershop.”

He walks down the stairs, straddles his electric bike, and rides out of the complex. When he reaches the barbershop, he spots Fumiko behind the counter with a broom in hand. But there’s still no sign of Ryoma.

“Oh, Coach Nakahara. Good morning,” Fumiko greets.

“Morning,” Nakahara nods. “Is Ryoma here?”

“Ryoma…?” she says, leaning the broom against the counter. “He’s left the house since dawn. Looked like he was going for his morning run.”

Nakahara forces a polite nod. “I see. Thank you.”

He steps outside again, but the moment the door closes behind him, his jaw tightens. “Three days. Three days only, and he’s already pushing himself,” he mutters under his breath, gripping the bike handlebars a little too tightly.

He kicks the bike into motion and heads toward the Tama River, following the familiar running route Ryoma usually takes.

He rides slowly, scanning the lanes, expecting to spot Ryoma’s silhouette at any moment. But the river keeps flowing quietly, empty of runners, and the trail remains frustratingly still.

By the time he reaches Aramaki’s old hut, he is ready to turn around, until a dull rhythmic thud breaks through the morning calm.

He stops the bike and listens.

Bug, bug… bug!!!

Nakahara also notices a shiver running through a tree at the backyard, leaves trembling with each impact.

He frowns with extreme curiosity. The place should be completely abandoned. But the sound comes again, sharper, heavier, and suddenly the answer feels obvious.

Bug, bug… bug!!!

“Don’t tell me…?”

He parks the bike and walks toward the backyard through the path beside the hut. As he rounds the corner, he actually finds Ryoma there, sweat dripping down his jawline, bare shoulders rising and falling with each sharp breath.

Two tires are nailed to the trunk of a tree, stacked like makeshift body bags. Ryoma drives his fists into them again and again, the rubber absorbing the impact with a harsh dull crack.

Bug, bug!

Bug, bug… bug!!!

Nakahara watches only for a moment before speaking. “Is that your plan?”

Ryoma stops mid-combination. He drops his hands and turns slightly, eyes narrowing just a little in surprise before the recognition settles in.

“Draining Ramos’ stamina with body blows?” Nakahara continues as he steps closer.

Ryoma inhales deeply to slow his breath, and then nods once. “Just part of the plan.”

“You know some of his past opponents tried the same thing,” Nakahara says. “They hammered his ribs for rounds. And they still failed to beat him.”

“I know.” Ryoma’s voice is steady, almost too calm. He turns back toward the tree and tightens his glove. “But there’s more to it than that.”

He squares his stance again, dips his shoulders, and drives a hook into the bottom tire. The tree shudders, and the rubber groans.

The rhythm continues, steady and relentless, as if Nakahara’s words aren’t meant to stop him, only to make him punch harder.

Nakahara watches the movement, the posture, the torque in Ryoma’s hips. It isn’t the style he’s known for, not the Chameleon flow or the clean mid-range counters.

This is close-quarters work like Aramaki’s, compressed power, the kind of infighting that requires a different kind of body and a different kind of intention.

And Nakahara realizes that the boy has already committed to something deeper and far more dangerous than overtraining.

He is trying to turn himself into someone who can fight Paulo Ramos at point-blank range. Someone who can survive it, and clearly someone who can win there.

“Fine…” Nakahara exhales. “If you’re already this deep into your plan, then let’s go back to the gym and continue your training there.”

He doesn’t wait for Ryoma’s answer, simply turns toward the front yard.

Ryoma lets his last punch fall short, the tire swinging gently as if relieved to be left alone. He removes his gloves, and follows after Nakahara toward the electric bike.

***

The gym itself had been closed for over a week, and the silence had settled so deeply it felt like dust on the walls. But now the space slowly breathes again, the faint echo of impact returning as Ryoma drills combinations into a proper heavy bag instead of a tree trunk.

In the office, Nakahara balances his phone between shoulder and ear while scribbling notes across a sheet of paper.

“Yes, Hiroshi, I know… but his plan actually makes sense,” he mutters, jotting down a sequence of strength drills. “He needs rotational strength, anti-rotation… yeah, the Pallof series. We don’t have the setup for that, so I’m ordering one.”

He pauses to underline a section.

“Core endurance too. Sure.”

“Obliques… Uh-huh… and hips…”

“If he wants to hit from that close, he needs the body for it.”

“Naah, it’s okay. You just stay there. Just tell me what he needs to do. I’ll handle his training myself.”

A few more quiet exchanges, and the call ends. Nakahara caps his pen, stands, and steps out of the office.

“I need to go out for a bit,” he tells Ryoma. “Keep working… but don’t push yourself into the ground.”

His tone tries to be stern, but the worry still slips through. Ryoma nods without looking back, still focused on the rhythm of fists meeting canvas.

***

Hours pass, and Nakahara still doesn’t return. Ryoma glances at the clock, wipes the sweat from his neck, and decides it’s enough waiting.

The empty ring looks too inviting, too quiet. So he slips on his gloves, exhales once, and activates Phantom Mode, this time choosing Okabe, not Ramos.

The simulated Okabe appears with that familiar anxious posture, chin tucked a little too deep, shoulders a little too tense.

Ryoma almost snorts. “Alright, big guy,” he mutters, rolling his neck. “Let’s loosen up.”

“Seriously?” it says dryly. “You’re using me for stress relief? You’re kind of a bastard, you know that?”

The spar is nothing intense, nothing like the battles he’s had in that cramped bedroom. It’s casual, almost playful.

Ryoma steps in and pushes Okabe’s guard around with ease, steering him like he’s made of cardboard. He isn’t trying to hurt him. He’s just unwinding.

The Fake Okabe swings wide, desperate. Ryoma dips under it, taps him with a soft check hook, and the phantom collapses in that familiar theatrical way, like Okabe always does in real life when Ryoma bullies him in drills.

And Ryoma laughs under his breath. “Sorry, Okabe. But… you’re good therapy.”

“Screw you…” the Fake Okabe glares up at him, offended and breathless.

And suddenly, Ryoma pops him with another light smack to the face.

Dhuaack!

He breaks into a goofy grin, laughing like an idiot.

“You absolute bastard!” the Fake Okabe fumes, sputtering with indignation.

But before Ryoma can wind up for another playful shot, the gym door rattles open. And his laughter dies instantly.

Nakahara steps inside, a delivery man behind him carrying a large boxed piece of equipment. The metal frame clinks sharply against the floor as they set it down.

Ryoma turns at the sound, and goes still, eyes wide, jaw hanging loose.

“Old man… that’s brand new.”

“Yeah,” Nakahara says, brushing dust off his hands. “Part of your conditioning.”

Ryoma steps closer, almost suspicious. “You actually bought new equipment… just to support my training?”

Nakahara snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. We still have Okabe and Aramaki training here. You’re not the only one who benefits from this thing.”

He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, then sighs with a mixture of irritation and reluctant pride. “But if you’re dead set on chasing this ridiculous idea of yours, I might as well make sure you don’t snap your spine trying.”

The equipment isn’t anything flashy, just a solid steel frame with a cable system, a weight stack, and a rotating handle attachment. But Ryoma recognizes it immediately; a Pallof-press station, simple, brutally effective.

With it, he can train the deep stabilizing muscles along the spine and abdomen, the ones that keep a fighter steady when throwing power from awkward angles or cramped spaces.

Anti-rotation strength, core bracing, hip-to-shoulder power transfer, all the things he needs to fire short hooks and body shots even when someone bigger is crushing his posture.

It’s the kind of tool that looks too basic to matter, until the moment you feel how much force it takes just to keep your torso from twisting.

“Old man’s gone nuts,” Fake Okabe mutters.

Ryoma exhales through his nose, voice low. “Yeah… he’s putting a lot on the line.”

Fake Okabe folds his arms, still glaring. “You better not lose to that Paulo Ramos.”

Ryoma’s eyes narrow just a touch, steady and calm. “I know.”