VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Moments later, one of the fighters Virgil brought from his own gym steps into the ring, headgear on, gloves already laced.

Noguchi and Shiki remain ringside. They say it’s to cool down, but in truth they both just want to watch Ramos spar again.

“Let’s see if he can really keep swarming after the body blows you landed,” Shiki mutters.

After a full minute of break, Ramos leaves his corner and steps forward for a glove touch. They exchange a quick line in their own language.

Virgil also starts calling instructions from the apron in Filipino. Nothing clear except one word, ’Juliano’, the guy’s name.

The fighter nods once, then settles into his stance. His feet glide back and forth over a small patch of canvas, almost like he’s testing the floor.

Shiki’s eyes narrow. “That stance…”

“What about it?” Sekino asks.

“It looks a lot like the stance Ryoma used in his fight with Masuda Kokushi,” Shiki says.

The spar opens slow. Juliano keeps Ramos at bay with loose, half-committed jabs. When Ramos steps in and fires a left, Juliano blocks it clean and immediately slides out of range before Ramos can unleash the follow-up.

Then Juliano halts on a dime, footwork restarting in a tight back-and-forth rhythm. A pendulum step. Soviet-style fundamentals. But when he punches, the rhythm breaks into a more modern out-boxer’s hit-and-run.

The two circle nonstop, filling every inch of the ring, never giving each other a quiet corner. And Ramos, despite already pushing through six hard rounds with Noguchi and Sekino, still keeps that same compact form and steady drive.

Shiki nods, convinced. “They brought this guy specifically to mimic Ryoma’s rhythm.”

Noguchi squints. “I’m not sure I buy that. I’ve watched all of Ryoma’s fights. This doesn’t look like him at all.”

“I know,” Shiki admits. “But pure old Soviet-style boxers are hard to find these days. Even so, the fundamentals behind the pendulum are still used to build rhythm in modern boxing.”

Moment later, he glances at Noguchi and Sekino, then back at the ring, and the picture clicks for him.

Ramos’s camp must know Ryoma’s ability to mimic fighters he’s faced. So they brought Noguchi and Sekino to prepare for that. In case Ryoma copied their tricks, Ramos would already be used to them.

And this Juliano…

“Maybe this is the closest they could get,” Shiki says. “Someone who uses a pendulum step. Not identical, but close enough to Ryoma’s underlying rhythm. Plus he can switch to the Shell and throw flickers.”

“So… it’s not about making a statement, huh?” Noguchi chuckles.

“Statement?” Shiki glances sideways.

“That kid told the press that Ryoma only fought weaker guys,” Sekino says, tilting his chin. “So when he called me and Noguchi out, we figured he was just trying to make a point.”

The spar continues. Ramos still hasn’t slowed down. Second round, third round, the swarming pressure stays intact.

True, his punch volume dips slightly in the third, subtle, almost invisible. But Shiki and Sekino feel the shift.

“That settles it,” Shiki says quietly. “He’s not the sloppy fighter people accuse him of. What he shows us is the fruit of discipline. Only discipline.”

***

The mood in the gym shifts the moment the final spar ends. A small crowd of journalists, most of them waiting since the first round, finally swarm toward Ramos as he slips through the ropes.

Ramos is still looking cheerful. Sweat clings to his shoulders, but his grin is intact, bright and effortless.

A few reporters laugh. Flashlights pop. Microphones push in.

“Ramos, how’d you feel out there?”

“Hungry,” he says, patting his stomach. “Anyone got siomai? Or takoyaki? I’ll take anything round, honestly.”

They laugh again. He keeps feeding them little jokes, leaning against the ropes like sparring was nothing more than a warmup stretch.

Shiki watches as he approaches Virgil Santos, who’s instructing Juliano on cooling down footwork. When the veteran coach notices the younger one, he raises an eyebrow.

“Mita Shiki…” he greets. “You finally got the look of a genuine trainer.”

“Coach Santos,” Shiki says, offering a small bow. “Thank you for today. It was valuable for us. Really.”

Virgil waves it off with a relaxed hand. “Don’t mention it. My boys learn from this too. Sparring’s a two-way street. Actually… if it’s not too much to ask, maybe Sekino can come again next time? Once a week? Twice, if he’s free?”

Sekino, understanding every word, simply shakes his head. “Helping him to beat Ryoma? Nope, no way… That’s not happening.”

Virgil chuckles. “What, to protect Japan’s pride?”

Sekino shakes his head slowly, lazily, like the idea exhausts him. “Nothing that noble. But your champion said Ryoma only wins because his opponents are all weak. Now if I help your champion beat Ryoma… what does that make me? A fool.”

Virgil breaks into a grin, half amusement, half embarrassment. “Ah. That thing he said… you all heard it, huh?”

“Everyone heard it,” Shiki replies with a light, courteous smile.

Virgil sighs and scratches the stubble on his jaw. “Kids, man. He didn’t mean it. Really.”

“Yeah, sure…” Sekino scoffs, smirking as he turns away.

Behind them, Ramos erupts in laughter at something a journalist says, still energetic, still glowing as if the entire spar was nothing more than a warm-up round.

Shiki gathers his gear, gives Virgil a final nod, and lifts a hand in Ramos’s direction before gesturing for Noguchi to follow.

Their work here is done. It’s time to leave. But Sekino feels something twist inside him, an itch he can’t quite name.

“Think I should drop by Nakahara’s gym?” he asks quietly, flicking a glance at Shiki.

“Telling intel to the guy who beat you?” Shiki scoffs. “One spar and you already hate that Filipino kid that much?”

“I hate them both,” Sekino says flatly. Then, with a lazy shrug, “But if that guy beats Ryoma, that makes me look even more ridiculous.”

***

Meanwhile, Nakahara’s gym has become alive again. The group that trained at Mt. Takao returned yesterday, and the familiar noises fill the space as if the week of silence never happened.

Ryoma slips back into rhythm. His pendulum steps glide across the floor, like he’s back to his old outboxer sharpness. Whatever new tools he’s learning, he isn’t abandoning the style that built him.

Across the room, the Pallof station never gets a break. Aramaki grinds through his sets, Okabe complains loudly through his own, and the equipment looks like it belongs to them more than anyone else.

Ryoma’s real preparation, though, stays hidden.

Before opening hours, he trains quietly with Hiroshi; tight-space mechanics, core work, the foundations of a different kind of fighter.

Later, behind a locked door, Nakahara sharpens those same close-range punches on the mitts. To the rest of the gym, Ryoma looks unchanged. Only a handful knows he isn’t.

“So the old man’s turning him into an infighter now?” Sera mutters, stepping beside Hiroshi.

“It’s Ryoma’s idea,” Hiroshi says.

Sera snorts. “I’m not sure I like it. Feels like nostalgia talking.”

“Nostalgia?” Hiroshi asks.

“It used to be Nakahara’s style,” Sera says. “Maybe hearing Ryoma ask for it brings something back.”

Before Hiroshi can answer, the sharp rhythm of punches stops. Nakahara signals the end, steps out of the ring, and then looks toward Sera.

“Come with me. We should watch Ramos’s fights again.”

Sera exchanges a glance with Hiroshi and follows the old coach toward the office.

Meanwhile, Ryoma settles onto the floor, legs folding into a slow stretch as the heat of training drains from his muscles.

And finally, Aki approaches him with a bright smile. She’s the only outsider they allow past the door, trusted completely.

“Can we talk now?” she asks.

“Sure,” Ryoma answers, giving a gentle smile, nothing like the Cruel King persona he wears for the world.

Aki’s expression warms. “You know Ramos has been here almost a week, right?”

“I know. I’ve been following the news.”

“So you also heard him trash-talk you? Said all your wins came from weak opponents?”

Ryoma just laughs softly, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong. If you lose, you were weaker. If you win, you were stronger. Simple.”

“But don’t you think he’s taking you lightly?”

“Maybe. I don’t really care.” He leans forward, stretching deeper. “But don’t fall for his ’talented but lazy champion’ persona. It’s just a gimmick to fool people.”

“A gimmick?” Aki echoes.

“His whole career is misdirection,” Ryoma says. “People think he’s sloppy, uncommitted. Then he enters the ring and turns into a machine. But most people miss the small details he hides in his rhythm. That’s why they fail. Then they blame drugs instead of studying him.”

Aki blinks. “So you’ve really dug into him?”

“Like every opponent,” Ryoma replies. “I’ve studied him of course.”

Aki blinks rapidly, curiosity sparking. “So you noticed something everyone else missed? What is it? Tell me.”

Ryoma shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Come on,” she pleads, pouting. “I won’t tell anyone. Tell me, tell me.”

“It’s a secret.”

“Not even for me?”

“Not even for you.”

Aki pokes and nudges him like a toddler pestering another toddler, trying to shake a clue out of him. And Ryoma laughs, teasing, dodging her attempts.

From the corner, Kenta watches, eyes narrowing. This playful side of Ryoma isn’t one he recognizes.