VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Meanwhile, that van with the Aqualis logo moves through the winter streets of Tokyo at a steady pace, its windows fogging slightly as traffic thickens near the afternoon rush. Kenta drives in silence, following directions from memory, while Nakahara sits beside him with a folder resting on his lap.

Nakahara does not open the folder. He already knows what is inside. He knows the names, the capacities, and the numbers that refuse to line up cleanly.

He has no contact list for major arenas. His gym has never operated at this scale before. When he booked venues in the past, he dealt with people he could call directly. This time, the only option left to him is to show up in person and ask.

They begin with the smallest place that still makes sense.

Arena Tachikawa Tachihi stands modern and compact against the gray sky, its structure clean and efficient.

The arena can seat around 6.000 spectators, which makes it almost perfect on paper. The space is large enough to justify the purse bid, but small enough that a full house would look intentional.

Inside a modest administrative office, an official flips through a printed schedule while Nakahara explains the date.

“August twenty-fourth,” the man says. “That weekend is already reserved.”

“For what event?” Nakahara asks.

“A regional volleyball tournament,” the official replies. “Multi-day use. Setup starts on the twenty-second.”

Nakahara nods slowly. “There is no flexibility?”

The official shakes his head. “None.”

Nakahara bows and thanks him before turning away.

When they return to the van, Nakahara allows himself a long breath. This was the one he wanted to work. This was the one that made sense. But sadly, it’s out of option now, and the arena name on the list is crossed.

“Let’s visit Chiba,” he says.

Kenta nods, pulls back onto the road without comment, heading east.

Chiba Port Arena rises heavier and older than Tachikawa, with seating that reaches closer to 7.500. The size already makes Nakahara uneasy, but the venue remains within reason. A crowd of six thousand would still look respectable here.

The official listens carefully while Nakahara speaks.

“August twenty-fourth,” the woman says, scanning her screen. “There is a corporate sports festival scheduled.”

“One night only,” Nakahara says. “We would need the venue for a single evening.”

“The event occupies the entire weekend,” she replies. “Setup, rehearsal, teardown.”

Nakahara presses his lips together and nods. He thanks her and steps away. Back in the van, he stares out the window as buildings slide past.

“Both were booked months ago,” he says quietly.

Kenta keeps his eyes on the road. They return toward Tokyo proper. And Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium comes next.

The arena holds over 10.000 spectators, and Nakahara already knows the answer before he asks. Still, he walks inside and makes his case.

The official confirms the schedule with professional efficiency. “National tournaments,” the man says. “Multiple days.”

“Ah, I see,” Nakahara says, forcing a smile. “Thank you for your time.”

Nakahara leaves the office, steps back into the van with his shoulders slightly lowered, as if the building behind him has taken something with it.

Kenta starts the engine and waits for instructions before pulling out.

“Where next?” he asks.

Nakahara shakes his head once. “It’s too late,” he says. “Most offices will be closing by now.” He looks out through the windshield, watching the traffic crawl. “Go back to the gym. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Kenta nods and turns the wheel toward familiar streets.

***

By the time they arrive, dusk has already settled over the neighborhood. The gym lights glow from the inside, but the usual noise is gone. No skipping ropes slap the floor. No gloves thud against bags.

Kenta heads straight toward the managerial office, his footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet space.

Nakahara slows near the ring, but his attention drifts past it.

On the gym floor, Ryoma moves alone, with a single weight plate placed on the rubber mat, centered beneath him.

He uses it as an anchor, planting one foot on the metal while performing pendulum steps, rocking back and forth along a straight line. His movement stays rhythmic, controlled, and precise.

After several repetitions, Ryoma widens the pattern. He begins circling the plate, still keeping one foot fixed, still maintaining the same tempo.

But then Nakahara notices the change.

Ryoma shifts his stance without breaking rhythm. He keeps his left foot on the plate while his right foot slides forward, switching his lead. He repeats the motion several times, smooth and deliberate, before reversing the placement.

And then, Ryoma sets his right foot on the plate and brings his left from the rear forward, switching stance again, and then continues the pendulum motion.

Nakahara stays silent, but a question forms anyway.

A stance-switching drill?Did Sera tell him to work on this?

Ryoma tightens the drill further. This time, he moves diagonally now, first from left to right, then from right to left, each movement paired with the same back-and-forth rhythm.

With every change of angle, he switches stance again, using the plate as a constant center point.

The repetition continues without hesitation. And Nakahara watches without interrupting.

Only when Ryoma finally steps away, breathing harder now, does he look up and notice the presence by the ring.

“Oh, Coach… You’re back?”

“I’ve been here for almost half an hour,” Nakahara replies.

Ryoma blinks. “That long?”

Nakahara lifts an eyebrow. “You were fixated.”

Ryoma rubs the back of his neck, still catching his breath.

“So,” Nakahara says, nodding toward the plate. “You’re switching stances now. Is this really necessary against Thanid Kouthai?”

Ryoma sits on the bench and reaches for a bottle of Surge Blue, twisting the cap open before taking a long drink.

“Not really,” he says after swallowing. “Thanid’s style is simpler than my recent opponents.”

“Then why?” Nakahara asks.

Ryoma exhales and looks down at his hands. “I’m bored,” he says. “I can’t hit the bag yet. And I still have too much energy.”

Nakahara says nothing. He keeps his eyes on the weight plate resting quietly on the canvas, as if it has revealed something he was not looking for, but cannot ignore anymore.

Nakahara gives him a small nod. The gesture carries neither approval nor objection. He just turns away and walks toward the managerial office, his shoulders visibly sagging under a weight that has nothing to do with training.

Ryoma watches the old man’s back for a moment longer than necessary, understanding what that posture means.

Even in his previous life, he had known that boxing never ended at the ropes. He had known, in theory, about the negotiations, the risks, the money that vanished before it ever reached the fighter’s hands, and the people who complicated everything without throwing a single punch.

Back then, it had all remained distant, imagined. But this time, it isn’t. In this second life, he holds a title, also holds a stake in the gym’s investment. The burden is no longer abstract; it presses in real places, with real consequences.

That is why he has never questioned the old man about the gaps in his own training since securing the OPBF belt. Some fights, he knows now, happen far from the ring.

***

Inside the managerial office, Nakahara steps in just as Kenta is in the middle of explaining their failed search for an arena. Once they notice the old man standing by the door, the room quiets immediately.

“So,” Sera asks carefully, “are we going back to Ōta Gymnasium?”

Nakahara walks to the sofa, lowers himself onto it, and exhales slowly, as if the air has been sitting in his chest all day.

“I told you,” he says. “Anything under 6.000 seats would be an insult to Hirotaka Fujimoto and his company.”

“But do we have any other options?” Hiroshi asks.

Nakahara looks down at the folded list in his hand. He opens it, and begins to read the names weakly.

“Ariake Coliseum. Nippon Budokan. Yoyogi National Gymnasium. Ryōgoku Kokugikan. Yokohama Arena.”

He pauses, then adds the last name even more quietly. “And Tokyo Dome.”

The names alone drain the color from the room. Hiroshi swallows and glances at Sera. Sera lets out a short strained laugh and takes the list as a cruel joke.

“You can’t be serious,” he says. “All of those hold over ten thousand people. And Tokyo Dome?” He shakes his head. “Even if we sell six thousand tickets, it will still look empty. It will make us a global joke.”

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” Nakahara says. “My hope was Arena Tachikawa Tachihi. Exactly six thousand seats.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “But it’s already reserved.”

Then he opens them again. “I’ll try again tomorrow. Ariake Coliseum. Hope that will be the end of my quest.”

“Even Ariake will bleed us,” Sera says. “The rent is five million yen a day. A day. And we can’t just walk in and walk out. Setup, rehearsal, at least two more days. Utilities go up. Staff goes up. And once the venue’s bigger, everything else gets bigger too. Lighting, security, broadcast systems. Every line item creeps higher.”

He looks straight at him. “We have about thirty-three million yen. If we sink all of it into one event and it fails, the gym is done.”

“With sponsors,” Nakahara says, “we might reach forty.”

“That still won’t cover it,” Sera says. “We’ll need at least forty-five.”

“Then I’ll borrow from the bank,” Nakahara says. His eyes are flat and cold.

The room goes quiet again.

Sera’s eyes widen, and for a moment he cannot find a response. He understands now that this is no longer a discussion about feasibility.

The old man has chosen to gamble everything the gym has on a single night. He is prepared to spend it down to the last yen, even if it means there will be nothing left to rebuild with afterward.