VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

After the spar ends, early-afternoon light spills into the room, carrying fresh air that chases away the stale heat of training. Ryoma breathes it in, letting the quiet settle where the system’s warnings and phantom blows had been.

The bath comes next. He sinks into the hot water until it reaches his shoulders, muscles loosening inch by inch. The ache doesn’t vanish, but it dulls, turning manageable.

He closes his eyes, counts his breaths, and lets the tension drain out of him. By the time he showers and lies down afterward, exhaustion pulls him under without resistance.

When he wakes, the clock has already crept past four.

Downstairs, the kitchen greets him with familiar stillness. He washes his hands, ties an apron, and begins preparing dinner out of habit, enough for two, like always.

But halfway through, with knife paused above the board, he stops.

“…Why not invite them too,” he mutters.

A peaceful smile crosses his face as he adjusts the portions, pulls out extra ingredients, and continues cooking, this time with a quiet sense of purpose.

When everything is set, he wipes his hands and heads down the hall to see the new neighbors.

Aramaki’s apartment is only a few doors away. Once the door is open, Kaori’s surprise flickers into a warm smile.

“Oh, Ryoma… Please, come in. Aramaki, Ryoma’s here.”

Inside, Aramaki is on the floor with Nanako making exaggerated faces as she laughs.

“Look, Nanako. Uncle Ryoma’s here to see you. Go greet him.”

The scene draws another soft smile from Ryoma. The child looks settled here; safe, surrounded by warmth. It’s a much better sight to see.

The apartment feels more spacious than he remembers from the previous tenant, though that’s mostly because there’s barely any furniture; a mattress, a low table, little else.

“Sit, sit,” Aramaki says, gesturing to the mattress. “Kaori, tea?”

But Ryoma shakes his head. “I won’t stay long. I came to invite you all for dinner.”

Kaori pauses at the kitchen doorway. “Ah, that’s right. I heard from your mom you’re cooking?”

Ryoma nods, smiling.

Her eyes brighten. “I’ve always wanted to try your food.”

“Great…” Ryoma says, stepping away. “I’ll head back first.”

“So soon?” Aramaki asks.

Ryoma stops. “Why don’t come with me instead. I’m planning to watch Shinichi’s title fight. We’ll grab some snacks.”

Aramaki’s interest sparks immediately. “Sounds fun.”

He hands Nanako to Kaori, grabs his jacket, and they head out together.

They stop by the barbershop first. Ryoma leans in, calling by the door. “Mom, dinner’s ready. I invited Aramaki and his family. Close early today.”

Fumiko blinks in surprise, but before she can ask further, Ryoma and Aramaki are already stepping away.

The convenience store comes last. They leave with bags heavy in their hands, snacks packed without much thought, the small kind of preparation that feels almost festive.

***

It’s just a simple dinner, nothing plated for show, nothing meant to impress. Rice, soup, a few shared dishes set between them, passed hand to hand without ceremony.

It’s the kind of meal shaped by long days and tired bodies. There is an understanding in the room, born from knowing what it means to make do and still choose to sit together at the same table.

The warmth doesn’t come from the food itself, but from the fact that it’s shared.

For a brief while, the world narrows to that table. To full bowls, steady breaths, and the rare ease of being surrounded by people who don’t demand anything more than presence.

Afterward, Kaori stands at the sink beside Fumiko, sleeves rolled up as they move through the dishes in an easy rhythm.

In the living room, Ryoma and Aramaki settle in front of the television as the undercard bouts begin to roll across the screen. Nanako sits on her father’s lap, eyes half-focused on the flashing lights and movement.

Aramaki leans back slightly, eyes on the screen. “Feels quiet,” he mutters. “Look at all those empty seats.”

Ryoma glances up. “It’s still the undercards. No way a title fight stays like that.”

And slowly, the camera pans begin to change. Between rounds, more people are shown filing in, coats draped over arms, programs tucked under elbows. Seats fill, row by row, though not in a rush but in a steady trickle.

Still, when the lights dim and Hisashi Murai’s name is announced, Aramaki can’t help frowning again.

“…Still a lot of empty spots,” Aramaki says with an awkward smile. “We sure this is the right fight?”

Ryoma snorts softly. “What are you talking about? That’s Murai already.”

Then the music shifts, and Sinichi Yanagimoto steps into view.

“See,” Ryoma says. “That’s the champion.”

The cheer swells, louder than before, warmer. But it crests early, never quite reaching the roar Aramaki expects.

Aramaki’s brows knit. “That’s it?”

Ryoma doesn’t answer right away. He keeps watching, waiting as the ring clears. The referee calls them in. Instructions are given. Corners empty.

And then…

Ding!

The bell rings, and the wide shot returns; half-filled stands, pockets of empty blue seats still glaring under the lights.

“It must be the location,” Ryoma says quietly. “This isn’t Tokyo. Even if you take the train to Tochigi, you still need a taxi just to reach Utsunomiya Gymnasium. Half an hour. That alone turns people away. One of the reasons I’m reluctant to go there.”

Aramaki shakes his head. “Still. He’s been top three for years. Even before the belt. You’d think he’d have some local fans.”

Ryoma exhales. “Back then, everyone was looking at Renji Kuroiwa. The rest were just extras in comparison. And Sinichi… as good as he is, he’s too reserved. He never really built diehard fans.”

“And this,” Ryoma adds quietly, “is why you have to excite the crowd. Winning alone isn’t enough. People buy tickets to be entertained. And we are the entertainers.”

The punches begin to snap on-screen, crisp but restrained. Murai circles carefully, probing with jabs that stop just short of commitment, always ready to step away. He fights like a man aware of the belt in front of him, careful not to reach too far, not to make the mistake that costs everything.

Sinichi answers in kind. His movements are sharp, textbook clean, but there’s a weight in them. Each punch seems measured not only against Murai, but against the title itself, the expectations that come with it.

It’s as if he’s still learning how to wear the role of champion, burdened by it more than empowered.

Round after round, the fight unfolds with almost exaggerated courtesy. It’s a match built on fundamentals and restraint, on two men carefully proving they belong where they are.

Neither seems willing to risk being the first to reach beyond what’s safe. The exchanges are clean and measured, but distant, as if the real goal is survival rather than dominance.

Ryoma watches without a word. It isn’t that the boxing is bad. But it leaves him cold, not excited. The fights that stir him are not like this, but the ones where the ring stops feeling like a sport and starts feeling like a confession.

Where fear and need slip through tiny mistakes. Where every exchange carries the same silent question: does my life move forward after this, or does it end right here?

“Whoever wins this,” Ryoma says at last, eyes fixed on the screen, “it won’t change much for Japanese boxing. Renji moved up, but everyone still sees him as the real champion.”

Aramaki scoffs and glances over. “And you think it’d be different if you were in there?”

Ryoma’s face twists into something almost playful. “Of course. They need someone like me. Their loss for pretending otherwise.”

Aramaki doesn’t argue. He knows how Ryoma’s fights draw people in, how they stir the whole community, not just on fight day but long after the ring is empty.

When the Champion and contenders keep avoiding him, it isn’t just Ryoma who loses. The sport does too.

“Once I take the OPBF title,” Ryoma suddenly speaks, leaning back. “I’m going to challenge the Japanese belt again. Unify them.”

His gaze never leaves the fight. “That’s when I make my point clear… to all of them.”

“Yeah, right…” Aramaki chuckles, but not dismissively.

It could sound arrogant, but to Aramaki it feels more like a teammate being honest in sharing his dream.

***

They fall quiet again, ignoring the commentators’ strained attempts to stir excitement.

But then, late in the sixth round, Murai finally finds his timing, snapping a heavy right across Sinichi’s face. The champion stays upright, but the arena gasps.

The mood changes instantly. Sinichi answers with urgency, fighting like something precious is suddenly at risk.

And midway through the seventh, Ryoma’s eyes narrow.

“He’s switching stances,” he murmurs.

Aramaki leans in. “Ah, you are right. He’s orthodox now. Wait… he’s back to southpaw again?”

“If Murai doesn’t realize this…”

The sentence dies in Ryoma’s throat. Seconds later, Murai collapses, floored by a counter he never saw.

Ryoma exhales softly. “That settles it. He’s not switching stance out of desperation. He’s refined it. He’s turning himself into a true switch-hitter. I don’t know, but… he might just be preparing for OPBF title.”

Aramaki glances at him. “Why you think so?”

“Because the OPBF champion is a switch-hitter,” he says.