VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Indeed, Ryoma is still at the gym. Aramaki and Kenta too, remains on the far side of the floor, helping Hiroshi correct the amateurs’ foot placement, his voice steady as he walks them through basics they have not yet mastered.

Coach Sera and Coach Nakahara are nowhere in sight, busy behind the closed door of the managerial office.

Satoru has already left. He came in much earlier than the younger fighters, finished his work, and disappeared without ceremony.

So now Ryoma sits alone by the window. The late afternoon light filters through the glass, falling across the bench where he rests, his back slightly hunched.

His attention is completely absorbed by the video playing on his smartphone. The sound is muted, but the images loop again and again: a man standing flat-footed in the ring, gloves low, movements sparse, timing merciless.

A few minutes later, the office door opens. Sera steps out first, rolling his shoulders, fatigue etched clearly into his posture. He exhales and stretches his neck, then notices Ryoma still sitting there.

Without saying much, Sera walks over and drops down beside him on the bench. He leans forward, eyes naturally drifting to the phone screen.

They watch in silence for a moment. And that is when Ryohei appears, standing behind the glass, his reflection faintly overlapping Ryoma’s figure inside.

He does not step into the gym right away. He watches instead, drawn to the sight of Ryoma replaying the same exchanges again and again.

His eyes narrow, and realizes that Ryoma is watching Umemoto’s fight, clearly trying to dissect the champion.

“Found anything?” Sera asks quietly.

Ryoma exhales through his nose. “If we’re talking about weaknesses,” he says, “there’s almost nothing Ryohei can exploit.”

Sera hums in acknowledgment. “That’s rare for you not finding any weaknesses in a fighter.”

“His style is simple,” Ryoma continues, eyes never leaving the screen. “But he’s strong, fast, and his instincts are sharp. He doesn’t overthink. He just fights.”

“That figures,” Sera says. “A guy who clawed his way up the ladder for years without depending on tricks, that alone would sharpen his instinct to its limit.”

He pauses, then adds, “I heard he used to lead a gang back in high school. Street fights every week. No rules, no breaks.”

Outside the window, Ryohei listens to the exchange. And none of it surprises him.

He has already learned all of this. He has studied Umemoto’s background, his record, his habits. There is nothing new in what they are saying, nothing that sparks insight or comfort.

He turns away from the window and starts toward the entrance, his thoughts fixed on one thing only, reclaiming what has been taken from him.

But then his steps slow. Before he reaches the door, he stops, leaning his back against the wall beside it. His head tilts slightly as another realization presses in.

Ryoma has his own title fight coming up in August. And yet he is here, spending his free time dissecting Umemoto’s fights, studying frame by frame, not for himself, but for Ryohei.

The resentment does not disappear. Ryohei still hates living under Ryoma’s shadow. But blaming everything on him suddenly feels wrong now.

Ryoma has helped him too much. Especially in the Class A final, like it or not, a large part of that victory exists because of Ryoma.

They have known each other for years. Ryohei knows about Ryoma’s eyes. The same curse that haunted his mother. The same sharp perception that Ryoma chose to wield not just for his own career, but to lift the gym alongside him.

At last, Ryohei swallows his pride. He pushes off the wall, steps inside the gym, and walks toward the bench. The bitterness does not vanish, but it softens.

“So,” he says bluntly, stopping in front of them. “Do I really have no chance of beating him?”

Ryoma and Sera both look up, momentarily caught off guard.

“Oh,” Sera says. “You’re back.”

Ryohei clenches his jaw, holding his emotions in check. “I read the news,” he says. “He’s been talking a lot lately. And it stings.”

His gaze fixes on Ryoma. “So tell me, kid,” he continues. “Is there really no way for me to beat him? Or am I already too late?”

Ryoma does not answer right away. He locks his phone and slips it into his pocket, his expression calm, unreadable.

The gym feels quieter again. And for the first time, Ryohei is not asking out of pride, but out of need.

***

Ryoma falls silent for a moment, carefully weighing his words. He has no desire to wound Ryohei’s pride any further.

Earlier, when arrogance still clung to him, knocking him back to earth felt necessary. But now, Ryohei standing here stripped of bravado, Ryoma knows better than to press him down any deeper.

“First thing you need to understand,” Ryoma says at last, his voice steady, “is that winning the Class A tournament proves you deserve to be number one in the division.”

He pauses for a beat before continues, “But being number one and being a champion are two very different things.”

Ryohei’s brow twitches. He still sees Ryoma as a kid. And yet, once again, the kid speaks like someone older than Sera himself.

The worst part is that Ryohei cannot simply brush it off or argue back. So instead, he lowers his pride further, and drops to the bench, listening.

“I’ve only just become one myself,” Ryoma continues. “And I haven’t defended the belt even once. I haven’t proven that I truly deserve the title yet.”

His gaze drifts toward Nakahara’s office, unfocused. “There’s a pressure that comes with it,” he says. “A weight that’s hard to explain. People start talking about you nonstop. They question whether you’re worthy. They pick apart every word you say, every decision you make. You get attacked from every direction.”

Then he lets out a quiet chuckle. “Sometimes even from your own gym.”

Ryoma looks back at Ryohei, sharp-eyed, as if he can see straight through him, as if he understands the resentment Ryohei never voices aloud.

“And that’s what a champion carries every day,” Ryoma goes on. “You struggle to climb to the top. But when you finally reach it, that’s when the wind hits hardest.”

He lowers his voice slightly. “That’s the weight Umemoto has been carrying on his shoulders. So ask yourself this… are you ready to beat him, just to take that burden from him?”

Ryohei cannot answer. The words land hard, not as an insult, but as a truth he has never considered.

He has been treating Umemoto lightly, dismissing him because his boxing looks simple compared to the opponents he has beaten so far.

But now, that simplicity feels heavier than anything he has faced before.

For the first time, Ryohei understands that the fight ahead is not just about winning. It is about whether he is prepared to carry what comes after.

After a moment, he inhales deep, and pushes himself up from the bench, rolling one shoulder as he stretches his arm across his chest. The stiffness has not left his body yet, but neither has the heat in his blood.

“I actually came back for one reason,” he says, voice steady. “If you’re not too tired… I want another spar.”

Ryoma blinks once. “With me?”

He glances around the gym. Kenta and Aramaki are still helping Hiroshi with the amateurs. A few youngsters are working the bags nearby, half-aware, half-curious.

“With them around,” Ryoma adds calmly, “are you really okay with me knocking you down again?”

Ryohei exhales through his nose, and then reaches for the hem of his jacket. He shrugs it off, followed by his long-sleeve shirt, folding it carelessly before tossing it onto the bench.

“They already know you’re the best in this gym,” he says. “At this point, there’s no shame in losing to you.”

He walks toward the rack and pulls out a roll of tape, tugging at the edge with his teeth before wrapping his left hand.

“And besides,” he continues, eyes lowered to his knuckles, “I still want to smack that cocky nose of yours. Even just once.”

Ryoma watches him quietly for a moment. Then a faint smile touches his lips, more tired than amused.

Sera, still seated beside the window, lets out a low hum. “Keep it clean,” he says without looking up. “Three minutes. One round.”

Ryoma stands and reaches for his gloves, this time taking a standard pair instead of the high-cushion ones. He tightens the straps with practiced ease, and then puts on the headgear.

“If this is just about pride,” Ryoma says as he steps toward the ring, “you’re going to get hurt.”

Ryohei finishes taping his right hand and looks up, meeting Ryoma’s eyes. “Then hit me,” he says. “If I’m going to carry that weight you talked about… I want to feel it first.”

They climb into the ring together. Around them, the gym grows quieter. The youngsters slow their drills. Aramaki glances over, sensing something different in the air.

This is not about hierarchy anymore. This is a man stepping forward, not to challenge a champion, but to test whether he can endure what a champion stands beneath.