VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryohei stiffens for a brief moment after Ryoma’s words land, and the confidence on his face tightens rather than disappears.

His smile remains, but his eyes lose their casual shine as reality begins pressing through the cracks of his bravado.

He exhales sharply through his nose and nods once, as if dismissing the warning, yet his posture grows more rigid than before.

Ryohei rises to his feet, and the sparring resumes.

“Come on, Champ! I’m not done yet.”

He moves immediately, light on his feet, circling with practiced ease as he reclaims initiative through motion. But Ryoma stays exactly where he is, rooted at center ring.

From the outside, the contrast looks unsettling.

Okabe leans slightly toward Aramaki and lowers his voice.

“Is it just me,” he whispers, “or is Ryoma not throwing anything at all?”

Aramaki narrows his eyes as he follows the exchange closely. “He isn’t,” he murmurs. “But Ryohei still looks uncomfortable.”

Ryohei throws again, testing angles, snapping punches toward Ryoma’s exposed head.

Ryoma raises his gloves at the last possible instant every time, blocking and parrying without shifting his feet or rolling his shoulders.

The lack of head movement creates the illusion of vulnerability, but the timing steals every opening before it can form.

Ryohei increases his volume as frustration creeps into his breathing. He doubles his jab and mixes in a right, then exits quickly, yet no clean impact reaches its target.

The ring feels larger to him now, emptier, despite Ryoma occupying so little space.

Okabe exhales softly. “It feels wrong,” he says. “Ryohei is controlling the ring, but Ryoma is controlling him.”

Aramaki nods slowly. “It looks like Satoru,” he adds. “That patient kind of defense that waits you out.”

Ryohei continues pressing, and the realization settles deeper with each failed exchange.

Damn. He’s not joking around.

He really fights like Umemoto.

The stillness, the anchored stance, the invitation to attack that turns every offense into a liability. Ryoma copies Umemoto Kimitada with unsettling accuracy.

Ryohei tightens his jaw as his confidence sharpens into focus rather than arrogance.

He remembers every tape he studied, every moment he dismissed as simple. He convinces himself that this style should be manageable.

***

In the second round, Ryohei changes his approach.

He targets the body now, dipping his punches downward before snapping them back upstairs.His feet keep moving, and his breathing remains controlled.

Yet the wall in front of him refuses to crack. Ryoma absorbs the pressure without retreat. Despite the lack of offense, control never belongs to Ryohei.

Okabe frowns as his arms cross tighter. “He’s doing nothing,” he whispers. “So why does it feel like Ryohei is losing?”

Aramaki answers without hesitation. “Because Ryoma decides when something happens.”

And that moment arrives without warning.

Ryoma steps in.

The movement explodes from complete stillness into sudden acceleration, and the distance collapses instantly. Ryohei reacts on instinct and retreats, but the reaction places him permanently one step behind.

Ryoma steps again, efficient and direct, and the ropes rise behind Ryohei like an ambush. He begins unleashing pressure without technique or disguise. His punches crash into gloves, forearms, and shoulders with raw force that compresses space itself.

Ryohei’s guard bends under impact as each blow pushes him further off balance. A final punch drives into his abdomen, and the air leaves his lungs in a sharp gasp.

And again, he drops to the canvas with both hands clutching his stomach.

“Damn kid…” Kenta shakes his head, a weak laugh escaping him. “He’s not restraining himself even a little.”

Ryoma removes his headgear as his breathing remains calm. He looks down at Ryohei with steady eyes and no hint of triumph.

“Two rounds,” he says evenly. “Zero clean blows. And you said you studied your opponent.”

Ryohei cannot bring himself to look up or meet Ryoma’s eyes. His gaze stays fixed on the white canvas beneath him, as if an answer might be hiding there, as if an excuse might still surface if he stares long enough.

He knows Ryoma’s level is far above his own. That truth is something he has wrestled with for a long time, ever since his junior surpassed him

He has learned to live alongside that reality, no matter how bitter it tastes. Ryoma is special, undeniably so.

But this is different. Being told that he was not even facing the OPBF champion, that what just dismantled him was merely an imitation of Umemoto’s level, cuts straight into his pride.

That comparison hurts more than the fall itself.

***

It’s just two rounds, but Ryoma already steps away, moving toward where Sera stands.

He slips down from the apron, then turns back and looks at Ryohei one more time, his expression calm but unyielding.

“So?” Sera asks quietly. “Does he really have no chance?”

Ryoma answers without hesitation. “In terms of level, I think they’re the same,” he says. “But he needs to stop treating Umemoto like a simple fighter.”

Sera exhales slowly. “There are only two weeks left. Do you think that’s enough time?”

“Thankfully, he doesn’t need a weight cut,” Ryoma replies. “Let me spar with him a few more times. I’ll try to help. But in the end, it depends on him.”

The gym falls into an unnatural silence. Even the usual background chatter seems to evaporate, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

Around the ring, no one rushes to fill the gap. Okabe pretends to retighten his hand wraps. Aramaki wipes sweat from his neck a second time, even though he already did it moments ago.

Everyone feels it. That invisible pressure left behind by Ryoma’s words.

Then finally, the door opens and a cheerful girl breaks the silent.

“Good work today, everyone!”

Aki’s voice cuts through the stillness, bright and cheerful as always. She steps into the gym with her usual energy, a smile already in place, her bag slung over one shoulder.

Several heads turn instinctively. A few people manage half-hearted greetings.

“Hey, Aki.”

“Welcome.”

“What news you bring today?”

Aki waves casually as she walks in, her smile unwavering at first.

But after a few steps, her pace slows. Her eyes flick from face to face, reading the room. The tension does not escape her for long.

Her smile softens, and then turns slightly awkward. She approaches Ryoma who’s sitting on the bench.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” she asks, lowering her voice.

“Nothing,” Ryoma says evenly, unwrapping the tape from his hands with methodical calm. “Everyone’s just tired after intense training.”

Aki tilts her head, clearly unconvinced, but she lets it go. She shifts her weight and brightens again, as if remembering something important.

“Oh, right!” she says. “Actually, I just came from work, and I have something interesting.”

She pulls out her phone and shows it to Ryoma. “I came to interview Umemoto before. He said some pretty harsh things.”

Ryoma finally looks up, his interest piqued. “About Ryohei?”

Aki winces slightly. “That’s the weird part. It’s mostly about you.”

Ryoma blinks once. “Me?”

She nods and hands him her phone. “Why don’t you read it youself.”

Ryoma reads silently as Aki watches his face.

“I respect Ryoma. He is a genius. But the boxing ring is not a video game where you win by pressing command buttons from the corner. Ryohei is not here because he is a great fighter, but because he has a good remote control.”

Ryoma’s brow furrows slightly. “Why is he suddenly dragging my name into this?”

Aki suppresses a laugh, pressing her lips together. “That’s exactly why I thought it was ridiculous.”

She takes the phone back and scrolls. “So apparently, a journalist brought up Ryohei’s Class A final. They were talking about that last punch, the one that looked… strange. Umemoto agreed that it was just a lucky punch.”

She turns the screen toward him again, and Ryoma reads it.

“You call it a ’legendary counter’? I call it a fortunate accident. Ryohei won the lottery last December. The problem is, I am not an opponent you can defeat with luck.”

Aki pulls the phone back once more, her eyes gleaming. “But wait, there’s more.”

She scrolls again and lets out a small, nervous laugh. “This one’s already making the rounds,” she says. “But this part here… it’s actually my question. I was trying to push back for you, you know.”

Ryoma raises his eyebrows. Aki clears her throat slightly, then reads.

“But Umemoto-san, video analysis shows that it wasn’t just a lucky punch. It was a very deliberate setup. Many observers believe it was Ryoma’s strategy. Aren’t you worried if Ryoma is back in Ryohei’s corner?”

Ryoma forces a laugh. “You don’t have to defend me. Really.”

“But wait… look at this,” Aki says, still eager as she scrolls further. “Read what he said after that.”

Ryoma no longer finds it particularly interesting, even though he keeps a faint, amused expression on his face. Aki’s enthusiasm leaves him little choice, so he reads anyway.

“Ryohei is like a wooden puppet, fitted with a machine by Ryoma to make him look alive again…”

Umemoto’s answers go on and on, rambling, each line carefully recorded in Aki’s notes.

But Ryoma doesn’t finish reading them. His eyes drift up instead, following Ryohei as he walks slowly toward the locker room.

From the way the article is shaping up, he can already tell that if Ryohei reads this, their relationship will only sour further.

“You haven’t published this yet?” Ryoma asks.

“Not yet,” Aki replies. “I wanted your reaction first, before I write the full piece.”

Ryoma exhales softly. “I’m sorry, Aki… but could you not run this one?”

Aki blinks. “Huh? Why?”

“I don’t care about the rest,” he says.”But this part… can you leave it out?”