VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Coach Kiet rests his forearms against the railing and turns his attention back to the ring below, where the rhythm of training has shifted into something heavier and more punishing than drills meant for speed or polish.

Down on the canvas, Thanid Kouthai braces his stance while a partner steps in close, driving alternating knees into the midsection and ribs with practiced cruelty, each impact answered by a short breath forced out of hardened lungs.

The sound is dull and intimate, flesh meeting flesh without the echo of gloves or pads, the kind of conditioning most kickboxers accept early because it teaches the body not to panic when pain arrives unannounced.

Kiet watches the fighter’s abdomen tense and release with every blow, noticing how the man never breaks eye contact with his partner, never negotiates with discomfort.

He has seen that same refusal to negotiate before, though not in this gym. And the memory surfaces without invitation as his gaze stays fixed on the ring.

Ryoma Takeda, stepping into a boxing ring with a terrible conditioning, and still breaking Jade McConnel piece by piece.

Kiet remembers the reports clearly, because they circulated everywhere, detailing how McConnel left the ring with a shattered nose, cracked ribs, and a jaw broken so badly that they questioned whether he would ever return to the ring.

What unsettled Kiet was not the damage itself, but the context that followed it, the uncomfortable consensus that Ryoma had done all of that while carrying a body that should never have survived twelve rounds.

“That fight,” Kiet says, his tone settling into something hard and deliberate, “was Ryoma Takeda at his worst, and he still dismantled a reigning champion until the man’s career collapsed under medical reports.”

“That’s exactly why we can’t let him arrive whole,” Lawson says.

Kiet turns slightly, just enough for Lawson to see the intensity on his face, sharpened by something closer to respect than fear.

“If he enters the ring fully conditioned, fully healed, and properly prepared,” Kiet says, “then all the rules in the world won’t save whoever stands across from him.”

Lawson nods once, no longer bothering to hide the calculation behind his expression.

Below them, another knee drives into a waiting body, and Thanid absorbs it with a controlled grunt that never rises into protest or collapse.

***

Kiet watches until the round ends, then straightens and heads down the steps without another word.

By the time he reaches the canvas, Thanid is already stepping back, chest rising steadily, eyes clear and untroubled as if the drill had merely confirmed something he already knew.

“Enough,” Kiet says, and gestures toward the corner where a dull metal pole rests against the wall, its surface scarred from years of use.

Thanid nods once and lifts it without ceremony, bracing one shin against the mat before pressing the pole into the bone with deliberate pressure.

The motion is slow and grinding, not striking but rolling, metal dragged along hardened flesh until the skin tightens and heat builds deep beneath it.

Thanid’s jaw sets as he works the length of the shin again and again, training the bone to accept pain as background rather than signal.

“When do I start real boxing preparation, Coach,” he asks, eyes lowered.

He exhales through his nose and speaks without stopping, his voice flat and dry as the pole continues its work.

“Because I don’t plan to use my shin to break the champion,” he continues.

Kiet does not answer immediately, watching the rhythm of the motion and the way Thanid never rushes through discomfort.

“The fight isn’t confirmed yet,” he says at last. “You heard his condition. He broke his own knuckles after what he did to the former champion.”

Thanid lets out a quiet chuckle that barely interrupts his breathing, the pole still grinding along the length of his shin.

“Then I’d rather not be the next victim,” he says evenly. “Confirmed or not, there’s no harm in being ready before he is.”

Indeed, this grinding to the shin carries little value inside a boxing ring where kicks are forbidden and distance is measured differently.

It is a habit Thanid carries over from another rule set, a remnant of a discipline that values endurance as much as violence.

He will not be using that shin to break an opponent in a boxing ring, but the work carves tolerance into the body and quiets the mind against pain.

Kiet has no intention of stripping that away, because forgetting who a fighter is has ended more careers than broken bones ever did.

He studies him for a moment longer. Then finally, he raises a hand and brings the grinding to a stop.

“That’s enough. Now forearms,” he says, pointing to the mat. “Plank position. Pin the pole under your forearms and move your body, not your arms.”

Thanid nods once and lowers himself immediately, placing the metal pole on the mat before setting his forearms over it, his full weight pressing bone into steel.

He locks his body straight and begins to slide forward and back, core tightening as the pole grinds along his forearms, from wrist toward elbow, every controlled inch driven by his own mass.

The movement forces his abdomen to carry the load while his bone on both forearms grinds against metal, conditioning the wrists, the ulna, the radius, all the way up toward the elbow with every controlled inch.

“This one matters,” Kiet says. “It hardens your forearms so you can absorb his punches without breaking form, and it builds your core and sides so pressure has nowhere to go.”

Thanid’s breathing stays even as sweat hits the mat, metal biting into his forearms with every pass. But only a brief twitch of his brows marks the pain, and his body never loses its line.

“He can try to break you as much as he wants,” Kiet continues, measured and certain, “even if he breaks his own knuckles doing it, but he will never break you.”

Thanid does not answer, and he does not slow. His body keeps moving forward and back, grinding, enduring, already treating the coming fight as something inevitable rather than hypothetical.

And Kiet watches without interruption, already seeing the end result taking shape in front of him, a fighter being molded into something that does not give ground easily in any division.

***

Back in Tokyo, the Nakahara Boxing Gym carries a quieter kind of violence.

Ryoma stands inside the ring with his wrapped hand tucked close, correcting Satoru’s stance with his voice and his eyes, spending his hours shaping others while his own body waits.

“Turn your lead foot in,” Ryoma says, his voice steady as his eyes track Satoru’s balance rather than the punch itself.

He gestures lightly with his wrapped hand, stopping short of contact. And Satoru adjusts, shoulders tightening as he tries to hold the correction.

After a few exchanges, Satoru hesitates, gloves lowering a fraction as his gaze flicks to the bandage.

“Senpai… your hand still hasn’t healed yet?” he asks, the question slipping out with more concern than curiosity.

Ryoma nods once. “The swelling’s mostly gone,” he says evenly, “but the bone inside isn’t done mending yet.”

“You really punched him that hard, huh?” Satoru lets out a short awkward laugh, scratching the back of his head with his glove.

“Stop laughing,” Ryoma cuts in flatly. “Your form’s been terrible lately.”

Satoru stiffens and resets, but the movement lacks its earlier confidence, and his eyes drift back to Ryoma despite himself.

“…I mean,” he says more slowly, concern settling into his expression, “aren’t you wasting time on me like this, Senpai? Won’t it mess with your own rhythm?”

Ryoma exhales through his nose and finally allows himself a small smile, one that carries more familiarity than reassurance.

“Every fighter worries about that before their own fight,” he says, “and I’m not immune. I still train in the mornings, but I can’t use my knuckles to hit anything, and for a boxer, that’s a terrible feeling.”

His gaze sharpens again on Satoru, calm but unyielding. “So take care of yours too,” he says. “You won’t appreciate them properly until you can’t use them.”

There is an irony to it that hangs in the air unnoticed by everyone.

While his next opponent sharpens himself through punishment meant to harden bone and resolve, Ryoma moves calmly through recovery, teaching Satoru balance and restraint as if the pressure circling his own name belongs to someone else.

He looks untroubled at this moment. But that calm does not reach Nakahara, who remains still in the office doorway, arms folded, unease sitting heavier on him with every glance at Ryoma’s wrapped hand.

After a moment, Nakahara turns back inside. “Anything from the commission yet?” he asks, keeping his voice neutral.

Behind the desk, Sera refreshes the inbox again, the screen flickering as his finger taps F5 with a rhythm bordering on obsessive.

“No,” he mutters, leaning back with a frown that mixes boredom and impatience, “there’s no reason this should take this long unless someone else is leaning on them harder than we are.”

He refreshes once more, eyes scanning the same page as if willing an answer to appear through repetition alone.

“If they’re stalling,” Sera adds quietly, “it’s not because they’re undecided, and that’s what worries me.”

Nakahara stays silent, a tight unease settling in his chest as the thought forms uncomfortably clear.

If Thanid’s camp has already leaned on the commissioner, then Ryoma will be pushed toward the same corner as Melbourne, where bad timing and worse conditioning nearly broke him before the bell ever did.