VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile at Nakahara’s camp, the gym feels suspended between plans.

Aside from Ryohei’s title fight scheduled for May and Satoru’s preparation for the upcoming rookie tournament, there’s nothing concrete on the board.

No dates circled in red. No countdowns taped to the wall.

The rest of the pros move through their routines without urgency, training because that’s what they know how to do when nothing else demands them.

And Ryoma? He exists in that in-between space.

And while there’s nothing particularly newsworthy about waiting, Aki still finds a way to work.

She doesn’t chase Ryoma today, not directly. Instead, she points her recorder outward, toward the people orbiting him, trying to understand the shape of the man by the shadows he casts.

“You came for Ryoma again, huh?” Kenta mutters, half to himself, as he unlaces his gloves.

And Aki inches closer, recorder raised. “So… what kind of person is Ryoma Takeda?”

Kenta exhales through his nose. “That’s a big question.”

Aki nods, eyes bright. “You see… people think of him as controversial. For everyone who likes him, there’s someone who doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Kenta says after a moment. “I get why they hate him.”

Aki tilts her head. “So you agree with them?”

He laughs softly. “There were times I didn’t like him either.”

Her recorder shifts closer. “When?”

“Like… before his fight with Masuda Kakushi,” Kenta says. “Masuda was polite. Respectful. And Ryoma still managed to make an enemy out of him.”

Aki smiles faintly. “Mind games…”

“Yeah. Mind games.” Kenta nods. “But it wasn’t just the press conferences. He stayed like that for weeks. Quiet. Distant. The atmosphere around him felt… off.”

“Off how?”

“Not annoying,” Kenta says quickly. “Just unpleasant. Like a ticking bomb you don’t want to stand too close to. But even then, I didn’t think that was the real him.”

“So which one the real Ryoma is, then?”

Kenta blinks, caught off guard. He wipes his face with the towel, thinking longer than he means to.

“That’s the thing,” he finally says. “I feel like I know him well. Then I think about it, and… I’m not so sure.”

He shrugs. “He keeps changing. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s strategy, media stuff, or just impulse. It’s like dealing with a teenager having an identity crisis.”

Aki laughs, a little awkwardly, then clicks off the recorder. “I’ll try talk to Okabe and Ryohei next. Who knows they have a better answer.”

Kenta nods, smiling as wipes his face again. He heads for the locker room without looking back.

Aki moves to the next target, expecting a better perspective from the two gym mates, who appear far more sociable than Kenta.

But it doesn’t get easier.

Ryohei leans against the wall, hand on his chin, brow furrowed. “That’s hard to answer,” he murmurs.

“He’s always shifting,” Okabe adds. “Calling it mood swings isn’t enough. They call him the Chameleon. I’m telling you, that’s not just nickname. Kid has too many skins.”

They then talk easily about Ryoma’s background, his family, stories from childhood, even the incident involving his father.

Facts are simple. History is solid. But Ryoma’s true personality slips through their fingers.

“If you think he’s acting,” Okabe says, “then he’s played too many roles. And he plays them too well. Makes you wonder if he’s acting at all.”

“The Cruel King persona is the strongest,” Ryohei says. “But sometimes he’s almost… gentle. Like a naïve kid.”

“Other times,” Okabe continues, “he’s cold… Detached. Old-man calm. Like he’s older than Sera himself.”

Aki blinks. “As old as Nakahara?”

Okabe nods with a convincing face.

“He’s hard to read,” Ryohei says. “But the scary part…”

Okabe grins, and whispers. “He reads you.”

Ryohei suddenly leans in closer. “Hey. Want a secret?”

Aki stiffens. “A secret?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone,” he says. “This helped me win my last fight.”

She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. I promise.”

“Ryoma can read lips.”

Aki blinks. “Seriously?”

Ryohei smiles. “Why don’t you look behind you.”

She turns, and there Ryoma stands across the gym, gaze already on her, sharp, assessing, and unreadable.

Ryohei leans in to her left ear, voice low and amused. “He knows you’ve been studying him. And he doesn’t like it.”

Then he laughs as he walks away. Okabe follows, shaking his head.

Aki stays where she is, recorder still in her hand, suddenly unsure whether she’s been observing, or being observed.

***

Aki swallows. And Ryoma is still looking at her. Not openly hostile, not curious either, just aware.

As if he’s been aware the entire time.

She takes a step forward, fingers tightening around the recorder. She should say something, apologize maybe, explains that she’s not trying to trap him into a narrative he doesn’t own. That she just wants to clear the fog that keeps following his name.

She opens her mouth, “Um…”

But the gym door slides open. Footsteps follow, measured, and unhurried.

Aki turns before she realizes she’s doing it.

The man who enters carries himself differently. His jacket is neat, posture straight, eyes already scanning the space with a promoter’s habit of reading rooms for value.

It’s Noya Fumihiro.

The temperature in the gym shifts, subtle but real. Ryoma turns as well. His gaze sharpens, focused.

Fumihiro’s eyes meet his for a fraction of a second. He gives a small nod, nothing more. Then he looks away, already walking toward the ring’s edge.

Sera is there, clapping lightly as he guides Satoru through footwork drills.

“Good day, Nakahara-san,” Fumihiro says politely.

Sera freezes, then turns around with an awkward smile. “Ah, sorry. I’m Sera. Not Nakahara.”

He gestures toward the office just as the door slides open behind him. Coach Nakahara steps out, towel over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face.

“Oh… Isn’t it Fumihiro-san?” he says, already moving forward. His voice is warm, deferential. “Why… what brings you all the way to my little gym?”

Fumihiro slows, uncertainty flashing through him. The man approaching doesn’t match the image he’s built, too modest, too unassuming. Too old, even, to fit the role he imagined.

“Nakahara-san?” he asks.

“Yes,” Nakahara replies with a small bow. “I’m Nakahara. Please, come inside. You must be tired, coming all the way from Gifu.”

The irony passes unnoticed by everyone except the reader. Unlike Fumihiro who lied about him knowing Nakahara well, old man Nakahara does know who he is, if not too close.

“Hiroshi,” Nakahara calls, already turning. “Could you prepare some tea for our guest?”

He gestures toward the office, ushering Fumihiro inside.

Once inside, Fumihiro stands for a moment by the door. The room is small, old. The furniture mismatched, the shelves worn smooth by time. Nothing here suggests success at first glance.

He sits across the low coffee table, posture still guarded, eyes wandering. Then he notices the trophies.

Only two; one recent, Ryohei’s Class-A tournament win. The other older, its plaque slightly dulled: 2015 Rookie Tournament, East Block Champion.

It’s Ryoma’s trophy, only been placed there carefully, recently.

Fumihiro looks at it a second longer than he means to. The gym, it seems, isn’t quite what people say it is anymore.

To break the silence, Nakahara begins politely. “I heard Sagawa has a fight coming up with Jade McConnel. How is he doing? Training going well?”

Fumihiro nods, the motion a fraction too quick. But the smile that follows lingers a moment longer than it should, and then fades.

Nakahara notices. “…Did something happen?” he asks gently.

Fumihiro exhales. “During sparring. He injured his ribs.”

Nakahara’s expression darkens immediately. “Oh…”

“It’s serious,” Fumihiro admits, nodding once. “Broken. Fractured. Doctor’s orders.”

“I see…” Nakahara murmurs. His gaze drops briefly, then returns. “That’s unfortunate.”

Fumihiro explains the rest without drama; medical results, timelines, the overseas event already locked in.

And Nakahara just listens carefully without interruption, nodding now and then, his sympathy unforced.

“That’s why I’ve come,” Fumihiro says at last. “To ask whether Takeda might be available as a replacement. It’s a difficult position for everyone. I tried to convince McConnel’s camp not to look elsewhere. At the very least, I wanted a fellow Japanese boxer to take the opportunity.”

Nakahara nods slowly. “I understand. And yes, we’ve been aiming for the OPBF title.”

Fumihiro’s posture straightens, confidence returning. “I’ve followed him. He’s exceptional. That’s precisely why I wanted to ask… if Ryoma wins the title, would you consider giving Sagawa priority for a challenge next?”

“But, Fumihiro-san…” Nakahara raises a hand.

“Sagawa isn’t young anymore,” Fumihiro continues, voice careful, almost pleading now. “He’s worked too long to wait indefinitely. As trainers, you understand what that means.”

Nakahara exhales quietly. “It’s not that,” he says. “But… one month is too short. Conditioning, weight, strategy… it’s dangerous. February twenty-fifth is too soon. Even without this, the champion already gave us his word.”

Fumihiro’s jaw tightens. In his mind, numbers begin to stack; compensation clauses, venue penalties, broadcast losses.

Then suddenly…

“Just accept it, old man,” Ryoma calls out from the ropes.

He’s been following the conversation even from out there. Now he finally walks toward the office, unhurried.

Aki blinks. “…Wait. Was he listening to all of that from here?”

“So you were following our conversation?” Nakahara asks.

Ryoma stops by the doorway. “I was.”

Nakahara shakes his head. “It’s too risky.”

“So what?” Ryoma says. “Worst case, I lose. Not my career.”

Fumihiro stiffens at his words.

“If this fight gets canceled,” Ryoma continues, “Sagawa’s camp pays for it. I know how boxers think. He won’t let that happen. He’ll force himself to fight.”

Ryoma’s eyes flick briefly to Fumihiro, then back to Nakahara.

“And that’s not just a loss. That’s his career. Or worse, his life.”

Silence follows as Fumihiro studies Ryoma closely. This isn’t the reckless mouth Yoshizawa described, not the image he himself had repeated.

Fumihiro feels something shift, not really trust, but recognition. Ryoma Takeda, it seems, is not nearly as simple, or as dangerous in the way they’d said.