VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara goes quiet, the thought settling heavier than he expects. He watches the empty doorway a moment longer, jaw tight, before Hiroshi passes by the edge of his vision. Nakahara reaches out without thinking.

“Hiroshi,” he calls. “Come here.”

Hiroshi stops at once. “Yes, Coach?”

“Adjust Ryoma’s conditioning plan,” Nakahara says, voice low but firm. “Lower the load. He fought too recently, and another fight this soon is dangerous.”

Hiroshi studies his face, catching the worry behind the order, then nods without hesitation. “Understood. I’ll change it starting tomorrow.”

Sera watches Hiroshi move away, unease tightening in his chest, doubt lingering there until he can no longer keep it to himself.

“Won’t that affect his performance too?” Sera asks at last. “Lowering the load this close to the fight… he might feel dull.”

Nakahara nods once, not denying it. “Yeah. It might.” He exhales slowly. “But it’s still less risky than letting hidden fatigue catch him mid-fight. A sharp mind can cover a lot. A drained body can’t. If we have to choose, I’d rather he feels a little undercooked than break down when it matters.”

Starting the next day, Ryoma’s schedule shifts, quietly, without announcement, no explanation.

Oyama continues coming in twice a week for sparring days, and on those days especially, the rest of Ryoma’s workload is pared down further.

The rounds in the ring stay the same. What changes is everything around it. Heavy lifts are replaced with lighter weights, fewer sets, just enough to keep his body awake.

Conditioning is trimmed to maintenance, not growth. Roadwork shortens, intensity dialed back. The focus is clear: save everything for the ring. Preserve sharpness without burning fuel.

From the outside, the gym feels unchanged for Ryoma. But underneath, the rhythm has softened, less grind and more control, protecting what can’t be measured while letting the sparring speak for itself.

Ryoma himself has already noticed it since the first day with the new routine. Not because anything feels wrong, but because everything ends sooner than it should.

The bar is stripped earlier. The timer for his footwork drills stops faster. When he finishes his last repetition, he feels his body still has more to give.

He racks the weight and exhales. “I can do one more set.”

But Hiroshi shakes his head without looking up. “That’s enough.” He taps the clipboard lightly. “Overhead press. Light load. Focus on control.”

Ryoma doesn’t argue at first. He’s always trusted Hiroshi regarding fitness training, even with this drastic change.

During the final set of his weight routine, after Hiroshi calls a full break, Ryoma finally speaks up.

“Feels lighter today,” he says offhandedly, like he’s commenting on the air. “Three days in a row now. You really think this is enough for an OPBF title?”

Hiroshi doesn’t look surprised. “Coach Nakahara’s call,” he replies. “We’re dialing it back.”

Ryoma drops the dumbells, breathing steady. “So I’m not building anything new?”

“No need to,” Hiroshi replies. “Just keeping you fit. We’ll save the real work for the weight cut.”

Ryoma tilts his head. “When?”

“Later when we arrive at Melbourne. Last ten days.”

“Only ten?” Ryoma asks, eyebrows lifting.

Hiroshi checks his clipboard. “What was your weight this morning?”

“Sixty-five point two,” Ryoma says.

Hiroshi lets out a short breath. “That’s basically your fight weight. I’ll give you credit for that discipline. Hold it at sixty-five for now.”

Ryoma frowns, still unconvinced. “Ten days?” he says. “It’s winter. Feels colder than ever lately. Sweating that much won’t be easy.”

“Four kilos in ten days is doable,” Hiroshi says. “Especially there. It’s the peak of summer in Melbourne. You’ll sweat easier than here.”

Ryoma nods, face calm and unreadable, but the doubt doesn’t fade. By the time he leaves the gym, he’s already planning longer roadwork, quietly adjusting his mornings on his own.

Before dawn the next day, he runs farther than usual along the Tama River, breath steady in the cold air, feet eating up the empty path.

He doesn’t rush. He just keeps going, letting distance do its work.

And on the way back, he stops by Aramaki’s abandoned hut. Ryoma steps inside, dust drifting in the dim light, and retrieves the old gloves he once left there.

He slips them on without ceremony. At the backyard, he plants himself before the tree trunk and starts swinging.

The tires slam hard, dull thuds echoing into the morning.

BUGH!

BUGH! BUGH! BUGH!

He focuses on weight transfer, on letting his hips drive through impact, on forcing power out without hesitation.

The tires shudder against the tree trunk, rubber biting into bark with every short, violent impact.

No combinations. No rhythm drills. Just raw punches, thrown from inches away.

Hooks. Compact uppers. Everything built for chest-to-chest war.

>

Ryoma’s shoulders tense, but he keeps punching.

>

BUGH!

>

He grits his teeth, breath fogging in the cold air.

>

BUGH!

The gloves thud again, knuckles buzzing.

>

Ryoma finally exhales sharply, irritation bleeding through the silence.

“Shut up,” he mutters, driving another punch into the tire. “I know what I’m doing.”

>

He pauses for half a second, forehead resting lightly against the glove, breath uneven now.

“…Can you leave me alone for a moment?”

The system doesn’t answer immediately. The quiet stretches, thin and uneasy.

Ryoma straightens, eyes hardening as he resumes punching.

BUGH!

>

>

“Would you stop nagging,” Ryoma says under his breath, voice low and sharp, “if I really did kill him?”

He slams again. The tires absorb the next blow without judgment.

***

Day after day, the routine repeats.

Longer roadwork before sunrise. The quiet stop at the hut. The sound of rubber and wood absorbing everything he doesn’t say out loud. And the system’s nonstop nagging

He tells no one, not Nakahara, not Sera, not Hiroshi.

Not even Aramaki himself.

It continues until his final day in Tokyo, when Nakahara finally orders him to stop and take a full day of rest before their flight. And only then do the tree and the battered tires get their quiet, peaceful break.

***

February 13th, 2017

Morning comes early. And Ryoma is already packing when the light slips through the curtains, pale and cold.

His mother moves around the apartment with practiced ease, checking his belongings as if her hands remember better than her eyes; passport, documents, wraps, spare tape.

She adjusts the way his clothes are folded, presses down on the zipper, neatens what doesn’t need fixing.

“You’ll forget this,” she says, placing an item into his bag.

“I won’t,” Ryoma answers, but he lets her do it anyway.

The apartment feels smaller today. Every sound feels louder than it should, still familiar, but heavier.

When everything is ready, Ryoma shoulders his bag and steps toward the door. Then he stops, hand resting on the handle. He stares at it like it might resist him.

“It’s just two weeks,” Fumiko says, gently. “And I’ll be there during the last one, right?”

Ryoma nods, though the worry doesn’t fully leave his face.

The door opens. Cool morning air spills in. Outside, Aramaki is already there, hands in his jacket pockets. Kaori and Nanako stand nearby, there to see him off as well.

“Ready?” Aramaki asks.

Ryoma hesitates again, glancing back.

Fumiko steps forward and rubs his cheek, slow and deliberate, the way she did when he was still small and stubborn.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she says softly. “Kaori and Nanako are here.”

She meets his eyes and gives him a single nod, telling him to go. And that’s enough. Ryoma bows once, deep, then turns and steps outside.

They walk together only as far as the street. From there, the families stop, watching as Ryoma and Aramaki continue on alone.

Ryoma pulls two bags, another slung over his shoulder. Aramaki carries only an old travel bag on his back.

Around them, the neighborhood is quiet, but not asleep. As they pass Shimizu’s soba shop, a familiar voice calls out.

“Oi… Ryoma!” Old Shimizu-san steps out, squints, then grins. “So it’s today, huh? Melbourne?”

“Yes, sir,” Ryoma answers lightly.

Shimizu nods, proud. “Title fight. Big one. Don’t rush it… finish it clean. But the most important thing, come home safe.”

Ryoma smiles. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all any of us can ask,” Shimizu says. Then, louder, “Come back safe.”

Word spreads faster than Ryoma expects.

A door slides open. Someone else steps out. A woman from down the block raises a hand. A man on his bike stops, nodding once. A few people gather at the roadside, not loud, not dramatic, just being there.

“Good luck, son!”

“Bring it home, kid!”

“We’ll be watching the fight from here.”

Ryoma slows, taken aback. He bows once, and then again, each time a little deeper.

For a moment, the street feels suspended, like a town watching a lone rider leave for something bigger than all of them.

Then Ryoma straightens and keeps walking.

The gym waits ahead. Narita after that. And beyond it, a ring far from home.