VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma could barely stay still; eyes bright, blinking too often, already thinking what he can do to improve the gym’s quality.

“We could use some of the money, Coach,” he beams, grinning naively almost like a kid. “New equipment. Modern stuff. Okabe and Ryohei still have four days before the Class-A final. Might as well let them try better tools before the fight.”

Ogawa looks at him, caught off guard. “four days isn’t much time, I believe.”

“I know,” Ryoma says easily. “But it’s not just about performance. It’s morale. Confidence. If they walk into that ring feeling backed, that matters too.”

Ogawa exhales quietly. “Takeda-kun,” he says, “if your intention is to purchase a share of the gym’s assets, we can’t skip the valuation process.”

Ryoma blinks. “Valuation?”

“Yes. We need to assess the gym’s current value before determining equity.” Ogawa pauses. “A proper valuation would take… twenty to thirty days.”

“That long?”

“At minimum.”

Ryoma clicks his tongue, dissatisfied. “That’s too slow. Then just use some of the money first. Buy the equipment. Do the calculations later. You can decide how much percentage I get after.”

He turns to Nakahara. “What do you say, old man? Um…Coach? You’ve been quiet. Don’t tell me you don’t like the idea.”

Nakahara shakes his head quickly. “No, no… That’s not it.” He hesitates, then looks Ryoma straight on. “I appreciate your interest in adding to the gym’s capital. It’ll help us. A lot. I’m positive about that.”

He glances at Ogawa. “So… the valuation can wait, right?”

Ogawa studies them both for a moment, then gives a small nod. “If you’ve both agreed,” he says, “and understand the risks, then yes. We can proceed that way. Takeda-kun will invest first. The funds can be used immediately if needed. Equity and the legal formalities will follow.”

Ryoma smiles again, already picturing new equipment lining the floor; clean steel, fresh mats, machines the gym had only ever talked about in passing.

Ogawa checks his watch, already half a step ahead of the moment, mind shifting smoothly into schedules, documents, and numbers yet to be written.

“I’ll excuse myself here,” he says, turning to Nakahara with a measured bow. “I’ll begin drafting the capital contribution documents today, maybe outline the valuation scope too, and prepare the asset inventory templates we’ll need.”

His tone is calm, efficient, already in motion. “Once that’s in place, we can proceed without confusion.”

Nakahara straightens and nods in return. “I’ll leave it to you, Ogawa-san.”

Ogawa allows himself a brief professional smile. “You can. I’ll contact you once the framework is ready.”

With that, he turns and walks off down the street, phone already in his hand, mind clearly elsewhere.

Nakahara watches him walk away, and then lets out a slow breath. His shoulders sag just slightly, fatigue seeping in, not from doubt, but from the sheer speed of it all.

Keeping up with Ryoma means running forward without pause, and he is already feeling it.

***

By late afternoon, the gym is still alive with motion.

The younger members move through drills under Kenta’s soft gaze, while Hiroshi hovers near the racks, correcting grips and posture, and Sera watches from the corner, presence steady and unquestioned.

Okabe, Ryohei, and Aramaki should have left hours ago. Instead, they linger near the lockers, glancing at the clock, whispering to each other, the confetti stuffed awkwardly into gym bags and jacket pockets.

“They’re taking way too long,” Okabe mutters.

“Maybe traffic,” Ryohei says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Now I’m getting worried…” Aramaki exhales. “What if they couldn’t reach an agreement? You know Ryoma. He can be hard to deal with sometimes.”

They’ve already heard the news; Ryoma’s first real sponsor, the kind that changes how people look at you. Their plan was simple: wait, surprise him, make a mess, laugh about it later.

They’ve been waiting for hours. But Ryoma and Nakahara haven’t come back.

***

As the afternoon stretches, the younger kids begin to trickle out, bows quick and voices loud with leftover energy.

Sera and Hiroshi exchange a look, then start tidying up; pads stacked, gloves lined, loose bottles tossed, habits born from years of closing up late.

Just as Okabe considers calling the surprise plan off, a taxi pulls up outside the gym. He spots Ryoma and Coach Nakahara through the window instantly, and his breath catches.

“They’re here,” Okabe hisses, rushing back to Ryohei and Aramaki. “Now. Get ready.”

They scramble to the wall near the entrance, pressing themselves flat, confetti clenched tight.

Across the gym, Kenta steps out of the locker room with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp, the sharp scent of soap trailing behind him.

He takes in the scene; the three of them flattened against the wall, faces tense, fists full of confetti. He lets out a quiet scoff, shaking his head.

“Idiots,” he mutters under his breath. “Grown up already.”

Seconds pass. Too many seconds, yet Ryoma still lingers outside.

And then, instead of the door opening, a low engine rumble cuts through the air. A delivery truck eases to a stop out front, its rear doors already unlatching.

Moments later, a delivery man steps inside the gym carrying a long black-wrapped frame, followed by another with boxed steel parts.

“What… is this?” Ryohei whispers.

Aramaki swallows. “Did we… miss something?”

Okabe’s smile falters as more men enter, hauling equipment past the threshold one by one.

Meanwhile, Ryoma and Nakahara still linger at the back of the truck, their heads slightly tilted upward, counting, checking, talking quietly.

The surprise dissolves into stunned silence as the gym fills, not with cheers, but with the unmistakable weight of something new.

And then, the first black-wrapped cylinder clears the doorway, thick chains clinking softly as it’s lowered to the floor.

Okabe’s eyes widen. “Wait… those are…”

“New heavy bags?” Ryohei breathes, disbelief edging into his voice.

Another follows. Then another. Boxes of plates, steel frames, padded platforms.

The deliverymen move back and forth with practiced efficiency, filling the gym with unfamiliar shapes and weight.

The confetti slips uselessly from Okabe’s fingers. None of them throw it. They just stand there, forgotten ambushers turned spectators, watching in silence as their own surprise gets completely steamrolled.

Finally, Ryoma enters the gym, arms loaded with three stacked boxes balanced against his chest. He slows when he spots them frozen near the entrance.

“You guys still here?”

Then his eyes flick down to the confetti clenched in Aramaki’s hand, brow creasing.

“Aramaki? What are you doing with that thing?” he asks flatly. “It’s a little early for Christmas.”

Aramaki opens his mouth, then closes it. “Ah… no. This is for tomorrow. Yeah, Christmas, tomorrow.”

Ryoma exhales, already walking past them. “Then help outside. There’s more stuff to unload.”

The three of them blink in unison, caught mid-stupidity, before falling silent. Ryoma doesn’t even look back.

“What are you waiting for?” he adds. “Get your asses moving.”

***

By the time the last crate is dragged inside, the gym barely resembles the place it was that morning.

Three brand-new heavy bags rest along the far wall, their vinyl still uncreased, chains untouched by sweat.

A single-stack cable machine waits near the corner, still wrapped, expanding the gym’s existing rotational work beyond what bands and Pallof presses alone could offer.

Extra pads, fresh gloves, medicine balls, and bundled bands fill the gaps in between. There’s nothing flashy in them, just volume, weight, and intent.

All of it, purchased in haste and confidence, totals just under two million yen.

Ryoma hasn’t spent everything, not even close. This is only what could be secured in a single afternoon, what could arrive immediately. More equipment is already scheduled for the coming days, but the rest of the money stays untouched, set aside for events, purses, and the fights yet to be arranged.

This isn’t an overhaul. At this state, it’s just a statement.

“Coach…” Okabe lingers behind Nakahara. “You bought all this stuff?”

“To help you get conditioned before the Class-A final,” Nakahara says, still watching the deliverymen arrange equipment under Ryoma’s instructions.

Hiroshi approaches slowly, eyes moving over the new equipment before settling on Ryoma. His emotion is clear in his trembling lips, not really crying, but holding his excitement.

Okabe blinks, eyes already glassy. “For… my fight? But there are only four days until the weigh-in.”

Nakahara turns to him. “What, you want me to sell it back?”

Okabe blinks again, fast this time, like he’s forcing the tears away, then grins. “Nah. You already brought it in. Might as well make good use of it.”

Ryohei steps closer, voice firm. “We can’t lose now, Okabe. Not when the gym’s been upgraded like this.”

“Yeah, right,” Okabe snorts. “Old man always knows how to pile on the pressure before a fight.”

Nearby, Aramaki watches quietly, noticing how both of them look moved, fired up, almost overwhelmed.

Ryohei scoffs, trying to sound casual. “Don’t tell me you spent all the profit from the Ota event on this.”

Nakahara shakes his head. “Not really. It’s Ryoma’s money. His signing bonus from Aqualis Labs.” He pauses, and then adds, “This isn’t all of it. More will come.”

The words hit harder than the equipment. Okabe freezes, swallowing hard. Ryohei’s scoff dies mid-breath. Even Aramaki forgets to hide his reaction.

Their gaze drifts slowly over the new gear before settling on Ryoma, as if seeing him differently for the first time.

They had planned a surprise for Ryoma, confetti and all. But in the end, Ryoma turned the day upside down and surprised them instead.