VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

During the recovery week, Ryoma spends most of the day at his mother’s barbershop; sweeping hair, taking payments, chatting with regulars, running errands, handling the small work so she doesn’t have to.

On off days like this, he takes over as much as he can, letting her rest.

Only in the early afternoon, around two, does he head to the gym. Not because he’s rushing his recovery. He isn’t hurt badly enough to justify hiding at home, but Nakahara still refuses to let him train.

It’s for something else.

By then, the youngsters are warming up, and the professionals are finishing their work. Ryoma steps in quietly, rolls up his sleeves, and helps where he’s allowed: holding mitts, fixing stances, correcting timing.

It isn’t training his body. But it keeps him inside the ring anyway.

The gym has only grown livelier lately. More kids now. Word travels fast, and by this point there are over ten youngsters crowding the floor.

Satoru isn’t among them anymore. He’s already secured his pro license, but his absence feels like proof rather than loss.

With this many bodies, mitt sessions bottleneck fast. Someone is always waiting, gloves dangling, footwork going cold.

He notices the familiar sight; kids lined up, gloves already on, energy piling up with nowhere to go.

“Hey, you guys,” Ryoma says, casual. “You’re just standing around anyway. Why don’t we use the time?”

They move at once, partners forming without questions, as if they know what kind of drill he’s going to give.

He raises a hand. “Alright. Same thing as usual. Technical rounds. No power. Work the shape.”

They slip into it smoothly. Gloves up, feet light. One initiates, the other responds.

Jab, slip, guard, return, everything is pulled short. No intent to land, no attempt to dominate. Just timing, balance, and distance.

“Form first,” Ryoma says, stepping between pairs. “You’re not trying to hit him. You’re helping him. And don’t rush it. Feel it.”

This isn’t new. He’s already taught them the structure; basic punch sequences, how to present gloves when receiving, how to read and answer without panicking. Now it only runs on rhythm.

From afar, it looks like sparring. Up close, it’s slower, almost careful, each exchange stretched just enough for correction.

Ryoma’s eyes keep moving as he walks the floor, scanning pairs, listening to gloves brush air. Until he spots something; a pattern, maybe a habit.

He steps closer and lifts a hand. “You two. Take a break.”

Both boys stop instantly, backs straightening like they’ve been called to attention.

“Relax,” Ryoma says. “I’m not going to scold you.”

He looks at one of them. “Masao. I’ve been watching you.”

Masao swallows. “Y-yes?”

“Every time you jab,” Ryoma says, “you pull your head to the right. Same angle. Same distance. You do it even when you’re attacking.”

Masao blinks. “Is… that wrong?”

Ryoma tilts his head. “Wrong or not depends on why you’re doing it.”

Masao thinks, and then answers quickly, like he’s been waiting for the chance. “A senior at school told me to keep my head moving. Make it a habit so the opponent can’t get a clean target.”

Ryoma frowns. The logic isn’t wrong. But the understanding is.

He glances around, and catches it. A few others are doing something similar. Not as precise as Masao, not as ingrained, but the same idea.

After shaking his head, he gestures them over.

“Come here.”

They gather, confused, trading looks.

“Yes,” Ryoma says, anticipating the question. “Training builds muscle memory. So you can move without thinking. That part’s right. But there’s a difference between moving without thinking… and moving without purpose.”

Their faces look blank. They glance at each other in confusion. Noticing it, Ryoma sighs softly and then turns to Masao.

“Show me again. Same drill. I’ll be your partner.”

Masao hesitates for a moment, then nods and raises his gloves, feet settling into position out of habit.

They begin at an easy pace. Masao steps in with a jab, just like before, and his head slips to the right in the same narrow practiced line.

Ryoma has already read it. His right hand flashes out, clean and precise, cutting through the space Masao’s head is moving toward, only stopping a hair’s breadth from his nose.

Zrrf!!!

Masao locks up, breath caught in his throat, color draining from his face. Ryoma withdraws his fist and lowers it, the lesson hanging in the air between them.

“You said you wanted to make your head harder to hit,” he says calmly. “But what you’re doing is telling me exactly where it’ll be.”

Recognition spreads across their faces, confusion thinning as Ryoma’s point finally begins to sink in.

“Habit without intent turns into a pattern,” Ryoma continues.

Suddenly, a boy appears out of nowhere, interrupting him by showing a board and a pen while bowing.

“What the… who are you, kid?”

“Takeda-san… Please, an autograph. I’m a huge fan of yours.”

Ryoma studies the boy for a while, before his attention shifted to the three people standing near the entrance.

He then turns back to the boy, snatches the board and the pen, give him and autograph.

“A fan, sure…” he says, tone cold. “But you should mind your boundary. You can’t just interrupt people while talking. Here!”

The boy lifts his head, accepts the board and the pen, and bows again a few time, apologizing.

Ryoma waves him off, and turns back to Masao and the others.

“Where were am I?” he asks.

“Habit without intent turns into a pattern,” Masao says.

“Yes, habit without intent turns into a pattern,” Ryoma repeats. “And patterns get read fast. I want to tell you this now, before it hardens into something you can’t fix later.”

The boy lingers, eyes sparkling, even taking the interest to take note of Ryoma’s words.

“There’s nothing wrong with moving your head,” Ryoma continues. “It’s your body, use it however you want. Just make sure you’re doing it on purpose. The moment you stop noticing it, it stops protecting you. And if you repeat the same thing the same way every time, someone will eventually punish it.”

Masao nods, as do the others. That one boy, however, keeps nodding while scribbling furiously in a small notebook.

Ryoma catches it, and his brow tightens.

“Oi,” he says, drawing his face closer. “What are you doing there?”

The boy doesn’t stop writing, mumbling under his breath as he copies.

“Oi… what are you…”

Then it hits him. He looks up, eyes wide, snaps the notebook shut, straightens, and bows, once, twice.

“Thousand apologies! I thought it would be rude to forget…”

Ryoma grabs him by the shoulders before a third bow can happen.

“No, no. Stop that. I’m asking what you’re doing.”

“I… I’m a huge fan of yours,” the boy blurts out.

“You already said that,” Ryoma replies. “And?”

“He wants to join the gym,” someone says from behind the boy.

Ryoma squints at the newcomer. “And you are?”

Before the man can answer, Nakahara smacks the back of Ryoma’s head with a towel.

“That’s Fujimoto-san from Aqualis Labs,” he says. “One of the three companies that sponsored our last event.”

Ryoma blinks. “Ah… sorry. I really didn’t know.”

Nakahara sighs and throws the mitts at Sera. “Take over. I’ll talk with Fujimoto-san.”

As Nakahara gestures toward the office, the boy tugs lightly at the old man’s sleeve.

“Grandpa… can I stay and watch?”

Fujimoto considers it, and then nods. He glances at the two staff members beside him.

“Mika. Morishima. Keep an eye on him.”

Mika and Morishima nod in understanding. Fujimoto, meanwhile, turns back to Ryoma, a serene smile settling on his face.

“Takeda-kun,” he says politely, “I would be honored if you’d join me for a short talk.”

Ryoma hesitates.

Now that he knows the old man is a seasoned businessman, his gaze shifts, quietly reading every nuance in Fujimoto’s expression, weighing intent behind the calm.