VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

January 14th, 2016 — evening.

Shinshu Sports Medical Center, Orthopedic Wing.

Sagawa sits on the examination bed, shirt removed, posture careful. His left side is taped and partially wrapped, the adhesive pulling slightly every time he breathes in too deep.

He shifts slightly, then stops, jaw tightening. “Feels worse sitting still,” he says.

Fumihiro stands near him, hasn’t taken off his jacket since the training camp.

“Better than moving,” he scoffs lightly.

Sagawa gives a small nod. “You think it’s just bruising?”

Fumihiro doesn’t answer right away. He’s run through the possibilities; bruising doesn’t leave blood at the mouth, not like that. Something inside took damage, something deeper than muscle.

But he keeps the thought to himself. “We’ll hear what the doctor says.”

Sagawa chuckles. “Guess that’s a no.”

Neither of them says anything after that, until the door opens a moment later.

The doctor enters without ceremony, tablet tucked under one arm. He nods once to both of them, and then turns to the screen.

“I’m Dr. Mori,” he says. “Orthopedics.”

He taps the screen. An image appears, gray and white, ribcage outlined in clean contrast.

“This was taken earlier today,” Mori says, voice steady. “CT scan and X-ray.”

He gestures with a pen, circling an area along the left side.

“This here is the eighth rib,” he continues. “You can see the break clearly.”

Fumihiro leans forward. “Broken…”

“Yes,” Mori says.

Sagawa doesn’t react. His breathing stays measured, shallow but controlled.

Mori shifts the image slightly, toggling to another view. “And here… this is the ninth rib. It’s not fully broken through, but it’s badly fractured. There’s displacement.”

Fumihiro’s jaw tightens. “Two ribs?”

“Adjacent,” Mori confirms. “Which matters.”

He sets the pen down and turns slightly, now addressing Fumihiro more than Sagawa.

“Ribs don’t just protect organs,” he says. “They move constantly. Breathing, rotation, impact. In a sport like boxing, they’re under stress even when you’re not being hit.”

He pauses, then adds, “Especially when you are.”

Sagawa shifts on the bed, a small adjustment that still draws a faint hiss of breath from between his teeth. He stops moving immediately after, as if annoyed with himself for letting it show.

“Is there any organ damage?” Sagawa asks.

“No,” Mori says. “No puncture. No internal bleeding. In that sense, you’re fortunate. But this isn’t something you can stabilize with painkillers and tape. Especially not with rotation and repeated impact.”

Fumihiro exhales slowly. “Surgery?”

Mori shakes his head. “Not at this stage. Rib fractures typically don’t require surgical intervention unless there’s severe displacement threatening internal organs. That’s not the case here.”

He lets that settle before continuing.

“But that doesn’t mean this is minor.” He changes the image again, zooming in. “The healing time for a clean fracture is six to eight weeks for basic union. Longer for full strength. And that’s without re-injury.”

Fumihiro doesn’t interrupt, though his shoulders have stiffened, his expression set in a way that betrays the effort to stay composed.

“With a second rib fractured alongside it,” Mori continues, “the timeline extends. Any impact before proper healing risks worsening the displacement. A hit in the wrong spot could turn this into something surgical.”

Sagawa finally speaks, voice even. “What about training?”

Mori looks at him for the first time directly. “No sparring,” he says. “No contact. No rotation under load. You can do light cardio once the pain allows, but nothing that stresses the rib cage.”

Fumihiro already knows what’s coming. But he still waits for it.

Mori sets the tablet down on the counter. “If you’re asking whether you can fight on February twenty-fifth, the answer is no.”

The room goes quiet again.

Sagawa lowers his gaze. His right hand tightens around the edge of the bed, fingers whitening against the vinyl.

Fumihiro doesn’t say anything. And for a few moments that feels hours, no one speaks.

Dr. Mori clears his throat softly. “I’ll give you some time,” he says, already stepping toward the door. “If you have further questions, the nurse will call me.”

The door closes behind him with a muted click. And silence settles again.

Moments later, Sagawa lets out a short uneven breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Six weeks… that’s what he said, right?”

Fumihiro stays quiet.

“That’s doable,” Sagawa continues, forcing the tone lighter than it wants to be. “The fight’s on February twenty-fifth. By then, it should be healed. At least enough.”

“What about training?” Fumihiro cuts in. “What about weight management? What if the ribs aren’t fully healed by then? What if they say they are, but they’re not?”

Sagawa opens his mouth, but Fumihiro cuts him immediately.

“We can’t just pull out at the last minute,” Fumihiro says. “Even if you are not fully healed, they’ll push you into the ring. And against someone like Jade McConnel, that’s not just a loss. That’s your career. Worst case, it’s your life.”

Sagawa’s grip tightens on the bed. “But Coach… You know how long I’ve worked for this.”

“I do,” Fumihiro says.

“We moved on from the Japanese belt because I couldn’t get past Renji,” Sagawa says, the words coming faster now. “We rebuilt everything for this. Every camp. Every ranking fight. Now I finally get the shot, and you’re telling me to forfeit?”

“This isn’t about quitting,” Fumihiro says. “It’s about timing. If we withdraw now, the champion can still save the event. They’ll find a replacement. No lawsuits. No sanctions. No damage that sticks to us.”

He pauses, then adds, “If we wait too long, they won’t accept it. They’ll demand compensation. They’ll make it ugly. And it will do much worse on your career.”

Sagawa stares at the floor. “You think another chance will come?”

Fumihiro doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is firm.

“I’ll make it come. No matter what it takes.”

***

The training camp ends without ceremony. Sagawa returns home to recover, movement limited, his days reduced to rest and controlled frustration.

And for the first time in years, Fumihiro is alone with his thoughts inside his office.

The room is small, cluttered with fight posters curling at the edges, paperwork stacked higher than it should be.

Evening light filters in through the blinds, striping the desk in pale bands. He sits there long after the gym has emptied, jacket still on, staring at nothing in particular.

He keeps telling himself, If Sagawa withdraws early, the damage is manageable.

But the champion’s camp will need a replacement. It’s an overseas event, venue booked, broadcast contracts signed.

They won’t accept just anyone. Rankings matter, but so does marketability; style, profile, narrative, a story strong enough to sell the event.

And it needs to be a Japanese challenger, if Sagawa is ever going to find his way back.

“Japanese challenger…. marketable…”

Fumihiro’s thoughts circle the same point, again and again, until there’s nowhere else to go.

Eventually, he reaches for the phone. And the call connects on the third ring. A man answers, his voice calm with faint Australian lilt.

[Mark Holloway speaking.]

“Mr. Holloway… this is Noya Fumihiro,” he says. “I’m calling regarding Hirobumi Sagawa.”

[Yes… We heard about the injury. So, how’s he doing? I hope it isn’t too bad.]

“Unfortunately, it’s a bad one,” Fumihiro says. He doesn’t dress it up. “Medically confirmed. I wanted to inform you directly. We are forced to withdraw.”

[That’s unfortunate. But I appreciate the early notice.]

Fumihiro nods to himself. “I know this puts you in a difficult position.”

[It does. The event’s already in motion.]

“I understand,” Fumihiro says. “That’s why I wanted to discuss a replacement.”

[We were hoping you’d say that.]

Silence stretches between them.

[Well? Who did you have in mind?]

Fumihiro doesn’t answer immediately. He steadies his voice.

“Ryoma Takeda,” he finally says. “Currently ranked fourth in the OPBF.”

There’s a short sound on the other end, not quite laughter, but close.

[Funny you mention him. We actually had an understanding with his camp already.]

Fumihiro’s brow furrows. “An understanding?”

[If Jade defended against Sagawa, we were prepared to take Takeda next. Made sense for everyone.”

“So you’re open to him now?” Fumihiro asks.

[Open? Hahaa… We like him. Japanese challenger, aggressive style, good numbers. Business-wise, it might even be better.]

[If his camp’s ready. we’re happy to make it work.]

Fumihiro closes his eyes for just a moment.

“When it comes to Takeda’s camp…” he says, choosing his words carefully, “I know Kenji Nakahara well. We’ve known each other a long time. If anyone can explain this situation without it turning ugly, it’s me. I’m not saying he’ll accept. But he’ll listen.”

[You’re willing to do that?]

“Yes,” Fumihiro says. “Sagawa pulling out puts all of us in a difficult position. Let me handle this part. If there’s damage to be managed, I’d rather it fall on me.”

[…All right. That helps us a lot.]

“I’ll speak to them,” Fumihiro replies.

The call ends.

Fumihiro stares at the phone as if it will laugh at him.

I know Nakahara well.

The thought leaves a bitter taste. After everything he’d said to Yoshizawa, after the way he’d spoken ill about Ryoma, this is the line he never imagined himself using.

He exhales slowly, disgusted not by the lie itself, but by how easily it came out.