VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The tension inside Nakahara’s office is thick enough to feel physical. Two philosophies collide in a space meant for quiet analysis, voices kept low but sharpened by conviction. No one raises their tone, yet nothing about the exchange feels calm.

And that tension doesn’t stay contained.

It slips easily through the wide-open door and spills into the gym, where training continues in name only. Aki is still standing with Ryohei, recorder in hand, midway through an interview, but her attention keeps drifting.

A young boxer arguing with a coach is nothing unusual. A young boxer holding his ground against someone like Sera, that’s a phenomenon even this gym is witnessing for the first time.

Aki shifts her weight and glances sideways at Ryohei, lowering her voice. “Is this… normal?”

Ryohei follows her gaze to the office door, then smirks faintly. “Around here? Yeah.”

She blinks at him. “Still… that doesn’t make it normal.”

Ryohei chuckles under his breath. “You haven’t seen the worst of it. But yeah, this is the first time that kid actually looks like he’s winning the argument.”

Aki’s eyes linger on the door. The tension seeps through the crack like heat. She can feel it pressing against the room, bending attention toward it.

Ryoma steps out of the office, and the reaction is immediate. Shoulders straighten, eyes turn away.

Everyone suddenly remembers their drills, their breath, the floor beneath their feet. The gym snaps back into motion as if nothing had happened.

Aki leans closer to Ryohei and whispers, “It’s over… does that mean he actually won the argument?”

Ryohei shrugs lightly. “Looks like it. Don’t ask me what they were really arguing about, though.”

Ryoma doesn’t linger. He heads straight for the locker room.

A few minutes later, he comes back out looking refreshed. His face is damp, and the front of his hair is still wet, clinging slightly to his forehead.

He moves toward the bench, unhurried, and starts packing his gear; wrapping his hand wraps, tucking them into his bag, checking his phone once before slipping it away.

“Leaving already?” Aki calls out. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

Ryoma glances back with an easy smile. “I’ve been here since four before dawn.”

Aki blinks. “That early?”

“I’ll be back at four before dusk,” he adds.

“Oh,” she says softly. “New schedule?”

“Something like that.”

Aki blinks, and then seems to remember something. “Hey… this weekend’s the lightweight champion’s first title defense. Tochigi Prefectural Gymnasium.”

Ryoma doesn’t stop packing. “Yeah, I know.”

“You going to watch?” she asks. “We could all head to Utsunomiya together.”

He lifts his bag onto his shoulder, expression unchanged. “Sorry, I have no interest in kids fighting over candy.”

Aki lets out an awkward little laugh. “If they hear you talk like that, they’ll hate you even more. And the commission definitely won’t be on your side.”

Ryoma slings the bag higher on his shoulder and gives her a sideways glance. “You could write about it,” he says lightly. “Might make a good headline. Stir things up a bit.”

Aki groans under her breath. “You’re terrible.”

He only shrugs and heads for the door, leaving the suggestion hanging behind him like a quiet provocation.

Despite that, the curiosity he leaves behind doesn’t fade with him. The tension still lingers, stretched thin across the gym.

Moments later, Nakahara and Sera step out of the office. Nakahara scans the room once and claps his hands. “Enough sightseeing. Back to work.”

Fighters quickly refocus, shaking off the distraction. Resistance bands stretch tight again, gloves come up to guard, footwork resumes, and the familiar rhythm of training slowly reclaims the gym.

Sera walks past Aki and stops beside Ryohei. “Pendulum drills,” he says. “Don’t lose the rhythm.”

Ryohei nods and moves without comment. And Aki steps back, smiling a little awkwardly, and then she settles in to watch.

The gym fills with motion again, but the sense that something has shifted refuses to disappear.

***

Indeed, Ryoma’s mornings are now spent focusing on close-range work and infighting drills. But like he said, he isn’t abandoning his natural style. By afternoon, he shifts back into his familiar rhythm, training as the out-boxer and mid-range fighter he’s always been.

He actually comes back to the gym a little earlier than the schedule, not long before three. The pros are already leaving, but the younger fighters are here, gloves on, buzzing with nervous energy.

When Ryoma walks past the ring, they straighten without realizing why.

There was a time he’d been hard to approach, the stretch when the Cruel King persona hung around him like a shadow, distant and unwelcoming.

But over the past few days, that edge has softened. Lately, he’s been acting almost like a different person. Approachable, patient, maybe even the nicest guy in the gym.

“Mitt work?” one of them asks, hopeful.

Ryoma nods. “Line up.”

And they do, too fast, bumping shoulders, nearly tripping over themselves.

Working mitts with them isn’t part of his schedule. But he keeps doing it anyway. Actually, he even offered the help himself at the first time.

With these amateurs, the punches come awkward and raw. Hooks swing too wide. Straights drift off-center. Feet lag behind hands.

It’s messy, but that’s the point. Pro fighters are clean, predictable within their systems. These kids have their own unrefined form. Their punches arrive from bad angles, wrong timing, half-baked intentions.

In situations like this, Ryoma adjusts on instinct. He still corrects them, knowing they won’t fix everything at once, and in that process, he turns their mistakes into part of his own training. And it sharpens him.

Satoru, the oldest among the youngsters, steps in last, shoulders tense, gloves coming up too stiffly. Ryoma raises the mitts for him, then nudges Satoru’s elbow inward with a brief tap.

“Relax your shoulders,” he says. “Don’t pose.”

Satoru throws a one-two, stiff and eager.

Ryoma catches it, then suddenly angles the mitt inward, forcing a short hook response. Satoru hesitates, and then swings anyway, ugly, looping.

Ryoma slips inside it without thinking.

“See?” Ryoma says calmly. “Bad punch. Still dangerous though.”

They run it again, and again. Sweat drips, breathing grows uneven.

By the time the bell rings, Satoru is grinning through exhaustion, convinced he’s learned something important, even if he can’t name it yet.

“Had enough of playing coach already?” Sera calls, approaching closer.

Ryoma shrugs, still catching his breath. “They asked for help. As a senior, I help.”

Sera’s expression doesn’t soften. “Just make sure you’ve got enough left in the tank.” He turns away, already heading toward the open space. “I won’t go easy on you.”

Ryoma drops the towel over the bench and follows.

Sera sets the pace with footwork, pendulum steps, measured and precise. Forward, back, narrow rhythm. No shortcuts, no improvisation. Just the fundamentals, stripped clean.

Ryoma falls in beside him, matching the cadence. The evening session begins not with impact, but with movement, quiet, controlled, and relentless.

The drills stack without mercy. After the footwork comes shadowboxing, a resistance band cinched tight around his waist, every step dragging against it, every punch pulled back by elastic force.

His shoulders burn, his calves tighten. Sweat darkens the canvas beneath his feet.

“Too slow,” Sera calls. “Snap it. Make it explode.”

He keeps watching, counting in his head, waiting for the moment fatigue dulls precision. When Ryoma starts to give in, only then does he nod toward the heavy bag.

“That’s enough. Bag work after five minutes break.”

Ryoma moves to it without protest.

Once the bag work starts, Sera’s eyes stay sharp, judging whether there’s intent behind each strike, whether exhaustion has hollowed them out.

***

When night settles outside, Nakahara finally brings the mitts up, and the tempo shifts once more. The grinding pressure of infighting gives way to something familiar; space, rhythm, and distance.

This is Ryoma’s foundation.

“Alright,” Nakahara says, lifting the pads. “Back to where you live.”

The first jab snaps out, crisp despite the fatigue in Ryoma’s shoulders. Nakahara shifts back half a step, testing range. Another jab follows, then a sharp pull and a counter fired from mid-range.

“Good,” Nakahara mutters. “Now don’t admire it. Move.”

Ryoma pivots out, a little slow.

“Messy,” Nakahara cuts in immediately. “Your exit’s sloppy. You’re staying in half a beat too long.”

He snaps the mitts together. “Again. In, counter, out. No hesitation.”

Ryoma exhales through his nose and goes again. Jab, slip, counter. This time he tries to leave sooner, feet sliding wide, angle reopening.

Nakahara steps into him suddenly, pad flashing where an opponent’s glove would be.

“Late. If that’s a real punch, you eat it,” Nakahara says. “Cut in sooner. Don’t wait for the picture to be perfect.”

Ryoma nods once and fires. The counter lands cleaner now, timing tighter, but his shoulders tense as he exits.

“Relax,” Nakahara barks. “You’re boxing, not surviving.”

The corrections never stop; half-steps adjusted, head position nudged, timing shaved thinner and thinner.

By the end, Ryoma’s arms feel heavy, breath scraping his chest, sweat darkening the mat beneath his feet.

It’s the price of greed; learning to take the shape of an infighter without abandoning the out-boxer and counterpuncher he’s always been.

Extra effort. Extra time. Extra dedication.

The good part is, Ryoma never complains.