VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next day, the rhythm of the gym shifts. Ryoma’s schedule is adjusted for sparring day. Strength work is cut in half, just enough to keep his body awake, not enough to steal rounds from the ring.

Conditioning stays sharp but conservative. Nakahara wants lungs, timing, and awareness. Not fatigue for its own sake.

By early afternoon, the ring is already occupied.

Aramaki moves across from Ryoma, headgear snug, gloves light. They’re working mid-range, measured and deliberate.

It isn’t the infighting Nakahara wants yet, but Aramaki has grown comfortable here, too comfortable. His jab snaps out, not heavy, but persistent.

He spears it to the body, then lifts it to the head, then changes the angle with a half-step pendulum that keeps Ryoma busy without ever fully committing.

Then he tries his luck again…

Tud.

The jab grazes Ryoma’s skin, more reminder than damage. Ryoma shifts back just in time, distance intact.

Around the gym, training slows. Fighters pause between sets. Sera watches from ringside, arms crossed. There are also three familiar faces linger, journalists who’ve learned when not to get in the way.

Aki scribbles quietly in her notebook. Sato leans against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Tanaka watches the ring without blinking.

By the benches, two unfamiliar figures have already arrived. Oyama Sosa, the southpaw Nakahara invited, sits beside an assistant coach, Kozue Otojiro. They’ve come early, well before the agreed time.

“So this is the kid everyone’s been talking about lately?” Kozue says, voice low.

Oyama chuckles. “Lately?” He watches the ring. “He’s been stirring things up since his debut. Almost two years now.”

Kozue doesn’t say anything further. His attention sharpens, eyes tracking Ryoma’s feet.

In the ring, Aramaki’s spearing jabs keep coming, not powerful but annoying. He mixes them with small feints, threatening a cobra shot that never fully fires, hinting at a gazelle punch that forces Ryoma to dip early.

Every option exists just long enough to demand respect.

And Ryoma reads them all. He pulls back when the cobra shot threatens. Ducks cleanly under the phantom gazelle punch. Slides his head just far enough to avoid the pull-off counter.

But every correct answer costs him ground. He tries to step in, but Aramaki’s jab interrupts him. Again and again.

They circle. Exchange light punches. Rarely commit.

From the outside, it looks restrained, almost rehearsed. Even until the bell sounds, nothing dangerous happens yet.

“Man… Aramaki,” Ryoma says as he walks to the corner, shaking his head, lips curling into a grin. “I didn’t know that spearing jab would make you this annoying.”

“What?” Aramaki snorts. “Wasn’t this your idea? I thought you’d have something ready to break it.”

Ryoma laughs softly. “I spent all my time figuring out how to perfect it. Didn’t think about how to deal with it.”

Aramaki may be orthodox, but he’s an infighter by habit, making him a necessary stand-in. Jade’s switch hitting allows him to settle orthodox at will. Even if mid-range is his home, he remains dangerous when the fight compresses.

Nakahara’s plan is to drag the fight into close range, where Jade’s switch hitting matters less. But even against Aramaki, Ryoma hasn’t found a clean way inside yet.

“For someone fighting for an OPBF title,” Kazue mutters, frowning, “he doesn’t look that impressive.”

“Maybe he’s holding back,” Oyama says. “They’re close. You can hear it. I bet he’s just being polite.”

The spar resumes for the third round.

One minute in, Ryoma finally forces his way inside. The range collapses into tight space. Shoulders collide. Gloves scrape.

But even here, it’s messy. Their arms tangle, clinches form and break often. Short punches land, but none with authority. It’s workmanlike, lamost equal.

And Kozue’s expression doesn’t change. “No refinement,” he says quietly. “Too much hugging. Anyone can do this.”

He glances at Oyama, then pauses, something crossing his mind. A faint almost amused crease forms between his brows.

“If this is how he fights against an orthodox,” Kozue says, “then… Oyama, you might actually have a chance.”

Oyama blinks. “Me?”

“Why not?” Kozue shrugs. “He’s never fought a southpaw. And you’re a higher-class fighter. I’m not underestimating him, but with a bit of luck…”

He smiles thinly. “You could do something interesting. Get noticed. Get popular. Then you may secure better fights. Better deals.”

Oyama keeps his eyes on the ring. He doesn’t answer right away, watching Ryoma step back into range, patient, almost too restrained.

Kozue’s words linger longer than he expects. And a small confidence begins to take shape. Not certainty, but possibility.

Kazue isn’t the only one feeling it.

The three journalists still watch in silence, but their expectations quietly adjusting. They had come expecting dominance from Ryoma, controlling the ring the way he usually does.

It isn’t that they underestimate Aramaki. They’ve followed his rise closely: the steady wins, the knockouts, the way his infighting breaks opponents down over time.

Aramaki is proven, sure. But seeing him hold Ryoma here, trading on even ground, is still far from what they imagined.

“Could it be weight management?” Sato says at last, eyes never leaving the ring. “He doesn’t look like himself.”

Aki shakes her head. “I heard Hiroshi ask about his weight this morning. He’s still at sixty-five.”

“You can tell just by looking,” Tanaka adds. “He hasn’t started cutting any weight yet.”

Sato frowns deeper. “Then why does Aramaki look this hard to deal with?” After a pause, he then nods toward the ring. “Even Coach Nakahara doesn’t look convinced.”

“Could be fatigue,” Tanaka says, voice low.

Aki blinks. “Fatigue?”

Tanaka exhales slowly. “I’m still not so sure, but…Ryoma fought Ramos just last month. And Ramos wasn’t an easy opponent.”

He keeps watching Ryoma circle, careful, measured, still struggling to get inside.

“If he were padding his record with small fries, it wouldn’t matter,” Tanaka continues. “But he hasn’t been. Masuda landed on him, even if it ended early. And you know Masuda is known for his destructive punches. Then Ramos…”

“Tanaka trails off, the memory heavy.

“An undefeated champion,” he continues. “A pressure fighter who never stops throwing punches. And don’t forget, they traded some heavy punches too.”

anaka’s words linger heavier than he intends. They don’t sound dramatic, but they settle in quietly, reframing everything they’re seeing, turning mild doubt into something closer to unease.

“Ryoma hasn’t lost even once so far,” Aki murmurs, more to herself now, the realization finally catching up. “And all his wins are so convincing, you start mistaking them for easy fights. But what if…”

“Yeah,” Tanaka nods. “What if none of them were easy? What if he’s been pushing himself to the edge every time, just making it look effortless?”

He keeps his eyes on the ring.

“A fight after four months is fine. Three months, maybe doable,” Tanaka continues. “But not over and over for a full year. And this time… in two months.”

Sato folds his arms, eyes still fixed on the ring. “Back in the day, guys like Mike Tyson and Muhammad Ali fought more than fifteen times a year in their early careers.”

Aki’s face wrinkles. “You’re comparing him to the two of greatest boxers in history? Really, Sato-san?”

Tanaka also lets out a short scoff, looking at Sato with a dead pan look. “Don’t treat fighters like they’re built from the same mold. Everyone has a limit. Different bodies, different recovery rates.”

He glances back toward the ring, where Aramaki’s cobra shot finally sneaks through Ryoma’s guard.

Ryoma absorbs it, rolls with the impact, and steps out before the follow-up can find him.

“I don’t doubt his talent,” Tanaka says. “But resilience isn’t something you can assume. Not everyone heals like a machine. And I’m not convinced Ryoma has that kind of recovery.”