VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Korakuen Hall is already awake when they arrive. The lobby buzzes with the low noise of preparation; staff moving clipboards, fighters lining up with towels over their shoulders, and a small cluster of boxing journalists hovering near the entrance.

For a rookie tournament weigh-in, the press presence is modest. Most of them are young, eager, still learning how to stand their ground without getting in the way.

One of them is Aki. And she spots Ryoma and Satoru almost immediately.

“Ryoma,” she calls, lifting a hand as she steps closer. “You’re finally here.”

She turns to Satoru next, eyes bright with curiosity. “First big stage, right? Are you nervous?”

Satoru scratches his cheek and nods. “A little.”

“That’s normal,” Aki says with a smile. “It’d be strange if you weren’t.”

Then her gaze shifts past Ryoma’s shoulder. She pauses, looking once, then again, as if expecting someone to materialize.

“…Just you?” she asks, turning back to Ryoma. “Where’s Coach Nakahara? Sera? Hiroshi?”

“They’re tied up at the gym,” Ryoma answers. “There’s still a lot to handle. The old man hasn’t had a free moment lately, and I didn’t want him burning himself out over this. So I told him to stay at the gym.”

Aki exhales softly and nods. “I figured.” Then she hesitates. “But Satoru needs a team representative. Or at least the coach who’ll be in his corner tomorrow.”

Before Ryoma can answer, Satoru steps forward. “Ryoma-senpai will be my second.”

Aki blinks. She looks from Satoru back to Ryoma, clearly caught off guard. She has seen them train together countless times, but this is different.

“You?” she asks carefully.

Ryoma smiles and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a folded document bearing the emblem of the Japan Boxing Commission and shows it to her.

Aki scans it once, then twice. Her eyes widen.

“…A Chief Second license?”

“I handled the paperwork during Ryohei’s last fight,” Ryoma says. “Back then, I only held a B-level cornerman license. This is the updated one.”

He shows her the card. His name sits neatly beneath the title.

For a moment, Aki can only stare. For someone his age, someone with fewer than ten professional bouts, to go through the licensing process is rare. It isn’t glamorous work. It demands time, patience, and a willingness to learn from the ground up.

“…I didn’t expect that,” she admits.

Ryoma gives a small shrug. “You know how things are at the gym. We’re short on hands, and hiring more just isn’t an option right now.”

Aki nods with understanding. Then they move into the weigh-in room together.

***

The space is crowded now. Rookie fighters stand in lines with their teams, managers murmuring instructions, trainers watching the scale like it might betray them. And then the atmosphere shifts.

Whispers ripple through the room. Heads turn.

Ryoma Takeda’s presence draws attention whether he wants it or not. An OPBF champion at a rookie weigh-in feels out of place, and recent rumors about him have sharpened that feeling into something uneasy.

Some see it as theatrics. Others see intimidation.

Kaga Shigetaka, Satoru’s opponent, clicks his tongue quietly and leans toward his team. “Trying to scare us by bringing an OPBF champion here,” he mutters. “Doesn’t change anything. At the end of the day, I’m still fighting the guy with one fight and one loss.”

His chief second, Sonoda Arinori, doesn’t respond right away. His gaze drifts toward the entrance instead, expecting another figure to appear.

But Coach Nakahara doesn’t arrive. And Arinori hides his disappointment behind a neutral expression.

He knows Nakahara’s name has never carried weight in record books. But since Ryoma claimed the OPBF belt, Nakahara Boxing Gym has been impossible to ignore.

Every event tied to the gym has sold out. Every card has moved. Momentum like that creates opportunities, even for people who used to stand in the margins.

A relationship with Nakahara now could mean future undercards, shared events, or simply being remembered when space opens up.

Instead, only Ryoma stands there. And Arinori adjusts his posture, recalibrating his expectations.

But his assistant, Toshiro, steps forward with a thin smile, the kind that dresses condescension as courtesy.

“What an honor,” he says, voice edged with mock politeness. “An OPBF champion lowering himself to cheer on a rookie. Or is this desperation? Trying to save your junior’s career by scaring everyone else?”

Ryoma turns calmly. “Good day, Toshiro-san,” he says.

The assistant stiffens, not expecting Ryoma would answer him with such politeness.

Ryoma’s gaze shifts. “How are you, Arinori-kaichō?”

Arinori straightens and bows slightly. “I didn’t expect an OPBF champion to know my name.”

“Please don’t exaggerate,” Ryoma replies, bowing in return. “I’m not here as a champion. I’m here as a young coach who still has much to learn.”

He glances at Satoru. “This fighter is my responsibility. So I thought it proper to study his opponent… and his coach.” He bows again, genuinely.

Sonoda’s eyes narrow, surprised. “Don’t tell me you’re…”

“Yes,” Ryoma says simply. “I’ll be in his corner.” He bows once more. “I look forward to learning from you.”

The effect is immediate. For a brief moment, the weigh-in room forgets how to breathe.

Officials from the JBC exchange glances, professionalism intact but curiosity unmistakable. A registered OPBF champion serving as chief second at a rookie weigh-in is not a violation. But it is rare enough to demand a second look.

Across the room, rookie fighters pause mid-conversation. Some straighten unconsciously. Others whisper, eyes flicking toward Ryoma before quickly returning to their own corners.

Teams from different divisions react differently; some look impressed, some skeptical, some clearly irritated by the imbalance of presence.

Among the younger journalists, the reaction is the loudest in silence. They came here to track beginnings, to put names to faces before the world noticed. But instead, they have stumbled into something else entirely.

Cameras come up, not aggressively yet, but instinctively. Notebooks open, and pens move faster.

A few of them hesitate, glancing toward Satoru and other rookies, aware that this is still their day. Courtesy wars with opportunity.

But in the end, professionalism holds, at least for now.

***

The weigh-in proceeds.

Names are called. Numbers are read. Fighters step on the scale one by one.

Satoru steps forward without ceremony. At 171 centimeters, his frame settles naturally into the division, no need for weight cut, no drama. The scale barely wavers. And he clears the limit easily.

A few officials nod. One of the journalists makes a quiet note.

Then attention drifts again, not to the rookies, but to the man standing calmly behind one of them.

When the final weight is recorded and the formalities conclude, the room begins to break apart. Corners pack bags, and fighters are ushered away.

That is when restraint collapses. The journalists move fast, spilling out into the corridor, urgency overtaking decorum.

“Takeda-san!”

“Ryoma Takeda!”

“Champion, just a moment!”

Ryoma keeps walking, but does not avoid them. He later stops near the van, hands relaxed at his sides.

Then the questions come rapid-fire.

“Is it true you’ll be in the corner tomorrow at Korakuen Hall?”

“Kaga Shigetaka is undefeated, all knockouts. How do you plan to approach that?”

“Satoru is considered an underdog. Do you agree?”

Ryoma uses this moment carefully, offering just enough to satisfy curiosity while shaping a narrative that helps the gym.

Every measured response builds quiet momentum, for Satoru, for Nakahara, and for his own fight ahead.

“I’m there to support my fighter,” he says. “Kaga is strong. But this is a rookie tournament. Growth matters more than records.”

“And Satoru?” someone presses.

“He’s prepared,” Ryoma says evenly. “You’ll see something different from him tomorrow. That much, I can promise.”

Beside him, Satoru stiffens, and then steadies, the weight of those words settling deep in his chest. Fear is still there, but now matched by pride and a resolve he hasn’t felt before.

Then a different voice cuts in. “Champion Takeda… about your title defense. The half-million-dollar purse…”

Ryoma’s expression does not change, but his tone closes. “That’s not for today,” he says. “Please wait for official announcements. I’ll see you tomorrow at Korakuen Hall.”

He bows once, polite and final, then turns toward the van. The questions linger behind him, unsatisfied. But the story, he knows, already has enough fuel.

His title defense remains unfinished business. For now, he fills another ring, with another name beside him.

Tomorrow is Ryoma Takeda’s return to the rookie stage, wearing a different role, chasing a different purpose.