VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Coach Nakahara arrives at the Tochigi Prefectural General Sports Center earlier than Kenta and the group. Not because he planned it that way. Train, then taxi, and somehow it was faster than coming by van.

The taxi pulls away the moment he closes the door, leaving him alone in a wide inconvenient stretch of concrete and low buildings. Nakahara adjusts his jacket and looks around.

The station isn’t far, but it’s not close either. Anyone without a car has to transfer, then catch a taxi, then walk the last stretch.

“This kind of access,” he mutters, “kills attendance.”

He glances at the arena again, already running numbers in his head. Being a promoter himself, he should take a lesson from this. You want people to show up early, stay late, buy concessions. So you don’t make them calculate routes.

He shakes the thought away and straightens, eyes drifting instinctively toward the parking area.

He’s looking for the van, more specifically, the one with the Aqualis logo.

Fortunately, no such minivan for now, no idiots piling out, no Okabe waving his arms, no Ryohei laughing too loud.

Nakahara exhales, tension slipping from his shoulders. “Good,” he mutters. “They must be still stuck on the road.”

He adjusts his cap, lowers his head slightly, and heads inside at once, moving like a man who definitely didn’t come early on accident.

Inside, the arena is quiet, too quiet for a title fight. The undercard bouts are still running, and the crowd is sparse, entire sections sit empty.

Nakahara chooses a seat off to the side, not too close, not too visible. He sits alone, arms folded, eyes forward.

It’s perfect, except…

“Hey,” Tanaka murmurs, stopping short. “Isn’t that…?”

Sato squints. “That’s Coach Nakahara.”

Aki follows their gaze. Her lips curl. “Well. That’s interesting.”

Tanaka and Sato turns to her, baffled.

“The old man said he didn’t have any interest with this fight,” Aki says, giggling.

“Yet he came all the way from Tokyo,” Tanaka muses, before turning his attention back to Nakahara.

After a moment, they decides to move, approaching Nakahara casually. And Coach Nakahara senses it a second too late. He shifts in his seat, raises his collar, suddenly very invested in the ring apron.

“Ahem,” Tanaka clears his throat.

“Nakahara-san,” Sato says brightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Nakahara looks up, deadpan. “…You again.”

Aki grins. “Thought you weren’t interested in watching the fight.”

“I’m not,” Nakahara replies instantly.

Aki tilts her head. “Then why are you here?”

He pauses. “I had business.”

“Here,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

“At this arena.”

“…Yes.”

“During Shimamura’s title fight.”

He scowls. “I said I’m not watching. I’m sitting.”

Sato snorts. Tanaka bites his lip.

Aki beams. “Don’t worry. With this crowd, no one will notice.”

Nakahara clicks his tongue. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Applause ripples through the arena, uneven at first, then growing louder as the undercard comes to an end. The referee raises a glove, the fighters bow, and the ring crew is already moving in, stools scraped back, sweat wiped away.

Around them, seats begin to fill. Not a rush yet, but a steady trickle. Jackets come off, drinks are set down. Conversations swell, anticipation creeping back into the room as the lights over the ring brighten.

Nakahara lifts his head, attention pulled back to the canvas. He watches the fighters step out, then mutters, almost to himself, “Who’s up next?”

Aki glances at her program. “A JBC-ranked bout. Super featherweight.” She looks up, voice slipping into work mode. “Sonoda Eizan. Ranked fourth. Tachibana Boxing Gym.”

Nakahara’s brow furrows slightly.

Aki continues, “Versus Takata Eisaku. Ranked first. Narisawa Boxing Gym, out of Tokyo.”

Nakahara clicks his tongue. “Is that a title eliminator?”

“Not officially,” Aki replies. “But everyone’s treating it like one.”

“Narisawa’s boxer…” Nakahara mutters, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t know they had someone like that.”

Tanaka chuckles softly. “You should, Nakahara-san. Same division as Aramaki.”

Sato leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Leonardo Serrano’s lined up for a title shot against the new champion, Miyamoto Rikiya,” he adds. “And unlike other divisions, super featherweight’s a mess right now, in a good way.”

Aki nods. “Tightly competitive. Champions don’t stay long. Rankings shift every few fights.”

Nakahara’s gaze returns to the ring as the next pair begin their warm-ups, gloves thudding lightly against pads.

“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s how it should be.”

Tanaka folds his arms, eyes still on the ring as the next bout is being announced. “If Takata wins this,” he says casually, “he probably stays at the top of the rankings.”

Nakahara doesn’t respond right away. His gaze doesn’t leave the canvas. “Mm.”

Sato chuckles softly. “And Rikiya versus Serrano… that one’s ugly to predict. Experience on one side, momentum on the other.”

“Class A winners are dangerous,” Nakahara says. “They fight like they don’t know how to lose yet. And Serrano… he has the talent and back up from someone like Kirizume.”

Tanaka nods, pleased. “Exactly. But whoever wins the title, Aramaki should challenge the loser.”

That gets Nakahara’s attention, not a head turn, just a slight shift of his eyes.

“Former champion, or a Class A winner fresh off a title fight,” Tanaka continues. “Either way, it’s a name the committee can’t brush aside.”

Sato adds, “Beat one of them, and even if it’s not an official eliminator, the rankings rearrange themselves.”

Nakahara exhales slowly through his nose. “You make it sound like a puzzle.”

Sato smiles. “That’s because it is. The board just doesn’t like calling it one.”

There’s a brief pause. The crowd noise swells slightly as more people file in, the arena slowly filling.

“I’ve been tied up lately,” Nakahara says at last. “Ryoma’s OPBF fight. Ryohei’s title bout coming up. Hard to watch every division at once.”

Tanaka laughs under his breath. “That’s a good problem to have, Coach.”

Nakahara doesn’t deny it. “Still,” he mutters, “Super featherweight’s getting crowded.”

Sato glances at him. “Crowded divisions don’t forgive hesitation.”

Nakahara finally turns his head, meeting Sato’s eyes. “I know.”

***

At the entrance, things are not moving nearly as smoothly. The van doors slide shut behind them, and the group marches toward the ticket counter, only to stop short when Ryohei hesitates.

“…Huh.”

“What?” Kenta asks.

“They dropped,” Ryohei says, genuinely surprised. “The price is halved.”

The ticket seller, a middle-aged man in a staff jacket, stiffens slightly but keeps his neutral expression.

Okabe laughs, loud and unfiltered. “Guess not many people bought the tickets.”

Ryohei nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. Super featherweight title fight, but it’s Tochigi. Kinda far.”

“True,” Okabe agrees. “If it was Tokyo, it’d sell out faster.”

The seller’s smile twitches. Behind him, an official in a JBC armband clears his throat.

“We could’ve waited and bought tickets later,” Okabe continues, utterly oblivious.

The seller finally speaks, voice tight. “Would you like… one ticket?”

“Oh, yeah,” Okabe says cheerfully. “Just one. For now.”

Aramaki bows apologetically as he hands over the money. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the seller replies, though the words come out clipped.

They step aside to wait for the ticket to print.

Ryohei peers back toward the arena doors. “Still empty inside.”

Okabe shrugs. “It’ll fill up for the main event.”

The official exhales through his nose. “We certainly hope so.”

The group disappears past the entrance, tickets in hand and laughter echoing behind them. The ticket seller leans back toward the official, shoulders sagging as the forced politeness drains from his face.

“…Gym people,” he mutters.

The official sighs. “They always talk like the whole world is a locker room.”

Inside, oblivious to the damage they’ve done, Okabe slaps Aramaki on the back.

“Relax. If you’re fighting here someday, we’ll make sure it’s sold out.”

Aramaki barely reacts. His eyes have already drifted past the concourse, locking onto the ring as the announcer calls the next bout.

He frowns. “…Wait.”

Sonoda Eizan, ranked 4th. And Takata Eisaku ranked 1st.

He knew both names, of course. Anyone in super featherweight did. He just hadn’t expected this to be the night they crossed paths.

Lately, his attention had been elsewhere, following Ryoma through the OPBF grind, not tracking every shift in his own division.

Ryohei nudges his elbow, grinning. “See? Good thing you didn’t turn us down.”