VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Early afternoon settles into Nakahara Boxing Gym with a different kind of energy than the morning sessions.

Ryoma hasn’t left. He lingers near the far ring, sleeves rolled up despite the chill, his attention is fixed on Satoru.

“Slow it down,” he says, voice steady. “Pendulum. You’re bouncing again.”

Satoru adjusts immediately, feet rocking forward and back, weight shifting more smoothly this time.

Ryoma circles him, eyes sharp, catching small things even Sera sometimes lets slide during busy sessions.

“Don’t lift your heels so much,” Ryoma adds. “You’re telegraphing when you want to move. Stay closer to the floor.”

It’s become normal, in recent months, for Ryoma to be the one overseeing Satoru’s progress. Nakahara hasn’t said it outright, but the responsibility has quietly shifted.

Ryoma corrects, demonstrates with his shoulders, taps the floor with his shoe to mark angles. Satoru listens with a seriousness that goes beyond respect. He knows who he’s learning from.

Eventually, habit takes over and Satoru reaches for the mitts. Ryoma lifts his hands halfway, receives the mitts, and then stops himself.

“Can’t,” Ryoma says, almost apologetic. “Hands are still injured.”

Satoru hesitates, trying not to sound disappointed. “I mean… I can still go light.”

Ryoma smiles faintly. “That’s how bad habits start.”

Satoru lowers his arms, lips pressed together. He looks away for a second, then back. “It’s just… your mitts feel different. Everything lines up better.”

“Careful…” Ryoma clicks his tongue, amused. “Say that any louder and you’ll offend the old man.”

From behind them, Nakahara’s voice cuts in dryly. “I heard that.”

Satoru straightens immediately as Nakahara steps forward, mitts already in hand. “Come here,” the old man says. “If you think his are good, you haven’t suffered enough yet.”

Satoru swallows, nods, and moves toward him without another word.

As Satoru jogs over, a few of the other amateurs linger nearby, pretending to stretch, pretending not to stare.

They want to ask Ryoma questions, want him to watch their footwork too, but none of them quite cross the line.

Ryoma notices. He smiles faintly and steps away. “I’m heading out early,” he says to Nakahara. “They’re all yours.”

Outside, the cold air greets him sharply. Ryoma exhales and slips his hands into his pockets as his phone vibrates.

He stops when he sees the notification.

¥10,000,000 transferred.

His expression brightens, just a little. “Ten million every international win. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

After a few steps, he chuckles quietly. “Maybe I should tell the old man to line up more overseas fights.”

Only days ago, his body had paid the price for rushing. And yet the thought slips in anyway: more fights, tighter schedules, faster climbs.

The money makes it sound reasonable. And the cost it may bring has been forgotten already.

***

By the time Ryoma reaches his mother’s barbershop, his phone vibrates again. He stops just short of the door, and checks the screen before answering.

“Yes, Morishima-san.”

There’s a brief pause as he listens.

“The bonus? Yeah. I just received it.”

There’s another pause, and then his brows lift slightly.

“A meeting with the president? Tonight?”

Ryoma glances down the quiet street, then back at the door. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I don’t really have anything planned.”

The call ends a moment later. He slips the phone back into his pocket and stands there for a second longer than necessary.

He tells himself not to think too much about it. Tries to keep his expectations flat. But it doesn’t work.

Images come anyway, quiet ones, reasonable ones. Acknowledgment. Trust. Something more than just money. Proof that what he’s done is being seen.

But the system breaks the mood, the voice cuts in, unhurried.

>

>

Ryoma exhales through his nose, almost amused. “I know, I know.”

Then he reaches for the door, the bell chiming softly as he steps inside.

***

Before dusk, Ryoma packs the dinner he’s made and brings it over to the barbershop. He sets it down quietly where his mother can see it through the mirror.

“Eat while it’s still warm,” he says. As he turns to leave, he adds, “I’ve got a meeting tonight. Someone important.”

Fujimoto chose a quiet kappo restaurant tucked behind a narrow Ginza street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone brought you there.

Ryoma pauses at the entrance, breath fogging faintly as he exhales into the cold night. He’s bundled in a thick jacket, hands buried in the pockets, shoulders slightly hunched from the chill.

The noren hanging above the door is plain, unmarked except for a small, worn crest. No flashy signage, no valet, only a narrow wooden door and a single warm light glowing from inside.

He glances at it again, mildly surprised. It’s modest, almost stubbornly so.

Back then with Kirizume, everything had been designed to impress, to overwhelm, to suggest a world Ryoma didn’t yet belong to but could, if he just reached out. But this place doesn’t reach out at all.

After a brief moment, he slides the door open and steps inside. Warm air washes over him, carrying the scent of dashi and grilled fish.

The space is quiet but not tense. A wooden counter runs along one side, a few tables set deeper in, each spaced comfortably apart.

At one of them, Fujimoto is already seated, not in a suit, but only a dark sweater under a coat folded neatly beside him.

Across from him sits Kaito Morishima, jacket still on, tablet nowhere in sight. Kaito notices Ryoma first and lifts a hand with an easy smile.

“Over here, Takeda-kun.”

Ryoma approaches, bowing instinctively. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Fujimoto waves it off. “You’re on time,” he says, voice lighter than usual. “Sit. You must be freezing.”

Ryoma takes a seat and shrugs out of his jacket, his system already running in the background, quietly scanning for anything that might turn the moment against him.

But up close, he notices it even more clearly now, the absence of that sharp assessing gaze Fujimoto usually carries. Tonight, he looks like an old man settling into a favorite routine rather than a company president weighing outcomes.

“This place,” Fujimoto adds, reaching for his tea, “hasn’t changed in thirty years. That’s why I like it. No one here cares who you are. Only whether you eat properly.”

Ryoma finds himself smiling back, tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying easing out of his shoulders.

He settles in more easily than he expected. The food comes out in small courses. Nothing extravagant, nothing staged.

Fujimoto pours for everyone himself, insisting with a flick of his wrist when Ryoma tries to stop him.

The conversation drifts; about the cold lingering too long this year, about travel fatigue, about how Ginza used to be quieter at night.

At some point, the edge disappears entirely. It stops feeling like a meeting and starts feeling like three people sharing time they don’t need to justify.

Then, halfway through a dish, Fujimoto chuckles to himself. “You know,” he says, chopsticks hovering midair, “I never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth.”

Ryoma looks up. “What words?”

Fujimoto tilts his head, amused. “The airport interview. Climb the ladder first.”

Ryoma blinks, then exhales lightly through his nose. “Ah. That.”

“I almost replayed it,” Fujimoto continues, tapping the air with his chopsticks. “Couldn’t believe it.”

Ryoma shrugs, casual. “That’s just how it is. I can’t decide who I fight. If they want the belt, they have to climb the ladder first.”

Fujimoto points the chopsticks at him, grin widening. “Exactly. That’s why it was funny. You used the same argument they once used on you.”

Ryoma’s eyes widen slightly. “…Eh.”

Kaito’s gaze flicks between them, already sensing where this is going.

Fujimoto leans back, laughing. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t realize.”

Ryoma rubs the back of his neck, thinking. Then his mouth curves upward, slow and genuine.

“Now that you mention it…” He lets out a quiet laugh. “They must be furious right now, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Fujimoto says, laughing harder now. “Livid.”

Kaito tries to hold it in, shoulders shaking, but fails, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as he wipes at the corner of his eye.

The laughter lingers, warm and unforced, before naturally fading. After a moment, Fujimoto looks at Ryoma again, more curious than probing.

“So. You’re not going to fight Yanagimoto?”

Ryoma tilts his head. “Old man,” he says lightly, “you seem pretty eager to see me fight him. Why? I didn’t know you followed boxing.”

Kaito stiffens slightly at the choice of words, eyes darting to Fujimoto. But Fujimoto only waves it off.

“I don’t, really. Not following him, anyway.” He sighs. “There’s someone at the office who won’t shut up about Yanagimoto. Talks about him like he’s the future. I got tired of hearing it.” He smiles thinly. “Thought if you beat him, maybe he’d finally stop.”

Ryoma chuckles. “Is that so? Then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

Fujimoto raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“It won’t happen,” Ryoma says calmly. “I just don’t think he’ll hold his Japanese title much longer.”

There’s a brief pause. Then Fujimoto nods slowly, smiles again, understanding clicking into place.

“That’s what you meant,” he says, “losing the belt in the most humiliating way. He has a title fight coming up. But his attention’s already somewhere else.”

Fujimoto exhales, almost sympathetic. “Yeah. That would be bad for them.”

He’d heard the talk how Ryoma was becoming a polarizing figure, difficult to place. But sitting across from him now, Fujimoto sees the line of thought beneath the words.

And for Fujimoto, that clarity is enough to confirm he placed his bet on the right man.