VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The streetlights of Tokyo begin to glow one by one as Ryoma and Aramaki walk side by side, leaving the gym behind after an afternoon spent coaching the youngsters.

The cold dusk air seeps through Ryoma’s jacket, and every so often he lifts his wrapped hands and breathes into them, as if warming something more fragile than skin.

“Do you remember our fight at the rookie tournament?” Aramaki asks, eyes fixed forward. “You won, but your right hand was wrecked. You had to fight Kanzaki using only your left.”

Ryoma lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. A memory I’d rather forget. It felt like smashing a hammer into a concrete wall… except the hammer cracked instead.”

“And now it’s happening again,” Aramaki mutters. His gaze flicks to Ryoma’s gym bag. “Those gloves you use in the gym… aren’t they the same ones from back then? Maybe it’s time you change your weapon.”

Ryoma slows slightly, then looks down at the bag slung over his shoulder. The thought settles uncomfortably.

Those gloves have been with him since his professional debut. He stopped using them in official bouts, but during sparring and bagwork, they never left his hands.

The padding has thinned over the years, compressed by thousands of punches, no longer built to absorb the force his body now produces.

“You’re probably right,” Ryoma admits quietly. “I might need something new.”

“Why not now?” Aramaki says, a hint of relief in his tone. “Old man Sato’s sports shop should still be open.”

***

The moment they step into the large sports store in the district, the air changes. Conversations trail off, and heads turn. A second passes, then whispers ripple outward.

“Is that… Ryoma?”

“The new OPBF champion?”

Before he can react, Ryoma is surrounded.

A couple of amateur boxers ask for autographs on their training shirts. Others simply want to shake the hand that shook the lightweight division.

Ryoma handles it with quiet politeness, smiling, signing, bowing, until an elderly man with thick glasses emerges from behind the counter and waves him over.

“Come on, come on,” old man Sato says, ushering him toward the boxing section. “Let’s give the champ some space.”

They stop in front of a long wall lined with gloves of every color and size. Ryoma studies them, his eyes lingering on the higher-end models.

“I need something that can protect my hands,” Ryoma says simply.

Sato nods, already understanding. News travels fast in this world, especially after a title fight like the one Ryoma had with Jade McConnell.

“You really punished that Australian champion,” Sato says with a soft laugh. “I watched the fight. Brutal, but clean. Still, hands pay the price for that kind of power. Come, let me show you.”

He reaches up and takes down a pair of gloves with a slimmer profile. “These are competition-style gloves. Dense padding, firm feedback. Good for precision, but they transfer a lot of shock back to the knuckles. Fighters love them because they feel sharp, but they’re unforgiving.”

He replaces them and picks up another pair, bulkier, with visible layers beneath the leather. “These are training gloves with layered foam. Better shock absorption, easier on the hands, but still not ideal for someone whose power has jumped as fast as yours.”

Sato moves further down the rack and stops at a section reserved for premium models. He lifts one with care.

“Now these,” he says, tapping the padding with his thumb, “are high-cushion gloves. Multi-layered foam and gel. They spread impact across a wider surface. Less feedback, but much kinder to injured hands. Some fighters complain they feel like pillows. Others say they extend careers.”

Ryoma listens closely, this might be the one he needs the most at the moment.

“For a young fighter still adapting to his own strength,” Sato continues, “protecting your hands is not weakness. You can always train power. But you can’t easily replace bones.”

“Sounds good,” Ryoma says. “Give me a pair.”

“This one,” Sato says, nodding approvingly. “A wise choice for someone with hand injuries.”

Aramaki elbows Ryoma with a grin. “If you start using those pillow-gloves, sparring with you might finally stop being terrifying. I won’t have to worry about my nose breaking just because you sneeze.”

Ryoma slips one glove on, flexing his fingers. It feels different, muted and safe.

“Hopefully,” he says, smiling faintly, “this lets me punch with a clear mind, without sending my coach or sparring partners to the hospital.”

***

The next day at the gym, Ryoma stands in front of the heavy bag, already wearing his new high-cushion gloves.

He takes a deep breath, rotates his hips, and fires a strong right straight.

Puff.

The sound isn’t sharp. There’s no crack, none of the familiar impact that usually spikes his adrenaline.

Ryoma tries again, a hook–uppercut combination. But it feels like punching into a stack of mattresses.

To his right, Ryohei is working the bag as well. And then the system speaks inside his head, mocking him in a flat demeaning tone.

>

Ryoma stops altogether, any motivation draining out of him.

Nakahara notices and approaches, “Something wrong?”

Ryoma shakes his right hand, frustration clear on his face. “Honestly, Coach, I really don’t like this. I can’t feel my punches at all. My rhythm’s off because I don’t know whether my shots are landing clean or not.”

He demonstrates by throwing a full-power punch into the bag.

Puff!

“See?” he says. “That’s my best, and the impact still feels dull. Safety-wise, yeah, it’s great. But efficiency? It’s terrible. I have to spend twice just to get the same result.”

Nakahara nods slowly. “That’s exactly the problem. Yesterday I told you to control your output, not to hand that responsibility over to a pair of gloves. With those on, you’re forcing your body to work at 100 percent for 60 percent results. That’s wasted energy.”

He gestures toward the bag. “With standard gloves, and proper control, you can get 60 percent impact with 60 percent effort. Smarter. More economical. And you can differentiate targets; full explosion to the body, restraint when you’re aiming for the head.”

Ryoma looks down at the expensive gloves, conflicted. “Maybe I should just throw them away…”

“Don’t,” Nakahara cuts in. “Use them for sparring so you don’t injure your partners. But for bagwork and mitts, go back to standard gloves.”

“Coach is right, Ryoma,” Hiroshi says as he approaches. “And there’s a biological reason for it. Ever heard of Wolff’s Law?

Ryoma glances at him. ”

“Human bones are adaptive,” Hiroshi continues. “They become denser when exposed to measured stress.”

He points at Ryoma’s fist. “Your problem is that your muscle growth and technique have skyrocketed over nine pro fights, while your bone density is still closer to a beginner’s level. If you coddle your hands with extra cushioning like this, your bones never get the stimulus they need to harden. You’ll always have fragile hands.”

He lets that sink in before adding, “You need the stress from standard gloves for that adaptation to happen.”

“But there’s one condition,” Nakahara adds. “You have to learn to be your own throttle. Control your power so you don’t destroy your fists before they finish developing.”

Ryoma stares at his fists. He finally understands. Great power doesn’t mean releasing everything without restraint. Great power is knowing when to hold back.

He removes the high-cushion gloves and leaves them on the bench. Then he walks to the locker room, and takes out a familiar pair of standard gloves. The same ones he wore when he brought down Jade McConnell.

He steps up to the heavy bag.

PAKK!

The sharp crack echoes across the gym.

This is it.

He punches again.

BAGH!

The harsh sensation travels from his knuckles, through his wrist, up to his shoulder. He starts moving, releasing combination after combination.

His rhythm quickens. His speed and explosive force threaten to spill out of a body now denser at 68 kilograms.

“Enough, Ryoma! Stop!” Nakahara shouts, cutting him off.

Ryoma snaps back to awareness. “Sorry, Coach. I got… carried away.”

“The bag won’t complain if you hurt it,” Nakahara says as he grabs the focus mitts from the rack. “Come here. Let’s do mittwork. Let’s see how well you can control that power valve of yours.”

Ryoma takes his stance in front of him and starts with light jab–straights.

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap. Tap!

Nakahara frowns and lowers the pads. “What was that? Are you caressing a girl’s cheek? Are you that concerned about these old hands?”

Ryoma gives a wry smile. “I just don’t want to take unnecessary risks, Coach.”

“Don’t insult me. Give me your maximum output at the end of the combo!”

Ryoma nods. He fires a fast three-punch combination, finishing with a left hook that detonates into Nakahara’s right pad.

BOMM!

Nakahara staggers back half a step, forcing a grin despite the heat flaring through his wrist.

“Damn it… That functional muscle isn’t just for show.”

He resets his stance. “Now give me exactly half of that. Fifty percent.”

Ryoma adjusts, loosening his shoulders, focusing on hand speed instead of weight.

Plak! Plak!

“A little harder,” Nakahara orders.

Pakk! Pakk!

“A little harder!”

PAKK! PAKK!

Ryoma raises the output in small increments, beginning to feel the subtle differences in muscle contraction at each level. It’s like learning to control the volume on an incredibly powerful instrument.

“Hold it there!” Nakahara shouts as the sound turns sharp.

“Maintain that level!”

PAKK! PAKK!

“That’s a good sound! That’s what I want!”

Nakahara keeps circling, forcing consistency.

“Focus on the sound, kid! Maintain that output!”

Sweat pours down, but Ryoma feels razor-sharp. He’s no longer just punching. He’s communicating with his hands.

He starts to recognize the safe zone: enough power to put an opponent down, yet still within the tolerance of his bones.