VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The next morning brings a different rhythm to the gym, one that settles in quietly but firmly, like a pulse everyone can feel without needing to name it.

Ryoma and Aramaki arrive first, as they always do, legs already warm from miles of roadwork. They could have taken a break after this, but they do not.

When they reach the gym, they start again, deliberately slowing their pace so they can merge with Okabe, Ryohei, and Kenta as the rest of the fighters filter in.

There is no visible command pulling them together, yet every athlete moves with the same sense of urgency today, as if determination itself has synchronized their bodies.

Jump ropes begin to spin beneath Hiroshi’s watchful eye, the sound of rubber striking the floor settling into a clean, shared rhythm that fills the space.

Ryoma jumps effortlessly, breathing even, while Aramaki exaggerates his bounce just enough to draw attention.

“If you trip, I’m not carrying you,” Ryoma says without looking over.

Aramaki snorts, rope still cutting air. “Relax. I only trip when you’re watching.”

“That explains a lot,” Ryoma replies dryly.

Hiroshi clicks his tongue. “Both of you. Focus.”

They fall back into rhythm, but Aramaki’s eyes drift sideways. Okabe and Ryohei jump in the same line, their ropes moving cleanly, efficiently, without wasted motion.

Neither of them speaks. There is no trash talk, no casual grumbling, no half-hearted jokes about sore calves or skipped meals, which is weird considering their nature.

Footwork drills follow, and Sera takes control of the floor, his voice steady as he lays out the pattern. His instructions remain unchanged despite the differences in weight class, temperament, and fighting style standing before him.

To Sera, footwork is not merely a tool but the backbone of the gym’s philosophy, something that transcends individual flair. They move together, advancing and retreating as one, shoes whispering against the canvas.

Aramaki glances again at Okabe and Ryohei, noticing how tightly both men carry themselves, how neither breaks formation even for a second.

He leans closer to Ryoma during a brief reset and lowers his voice. “Hey,” he mutters, “don’t you feel it? Something’s off with those two.”

Ryoma follows his gaze briefly, taking in Okabe’s clenched jaw and Ryohei’s unusually sharp focus.

He exhales, then shrugs lightly as they resume the drill. “At least, they finally look like they’re taking things seriously.”

Aramaki raises a brow. “That’s what worries me.”

Ryoma smirks faintly, sliding into position as Sera calls the next sequence. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Aramaki does not answer right away. He watches Okabe drive forward with rigid precision, Ryohei matching the movement step for step, both of them moving like men who have already decided something and refuse to be shaken from it.

***

Shadowboxing comes next, resistance body suits strapped tight around their torsos. The added weight forces discipline into every motion, and no one rushes through it.

Each jab, each slip, each rotation of the hips is controlled. The gym’s facilities now allow them to work simultaneously, turning what could have been chaos into something compact, synchronized, and oddly satisfying to watch.

When they transition to bag work, they line up without discussion, heavy bags swaying almost in sync as gloves strike leather.

“Burnout set,” Hiroshi calls out. “Thirty seconds. Nonstop straight punches. Go.”

They launch into the drill together, fists snapping forward in rapid succession, each punch driven straight into the center of the bags without pause. The canvas trembles beneath their feet as they maintain pressure, shoulders burning, breathing tightening.

When the thirty seconds end, Hiroshi calls for active recovery, forcing them to keep moving, circling lightly, shaking out their arms without allowing their bodies to settle.

The cycle repeats, again, and then once more, until sweat darkens the floor beneath them and the rhythm of impact grows heavier.

Then Hiroshi raises his voice again. “Three minutes,” he says. “Body blows only. Dig deep.”

And the sound shifts instantly. The sharp cracks of straight punches give way to dull, brutal thuds as fists bury themselves into the lower half of the bags.

BOOM!

BOM! BOM! BOOM!!

BOOM!

BOM! BOM! BOOM!!

The tempo remains synchronized, but the weight behind each strike increases, turning the shared rhythm into something oppressive, almost frightening.

It’s as if the gym itself is absorbing the punishment alongside them.

Nakahara returns to the gym during the second round, stopping near the entrance instead of heading straight to his office.

He watches them work, his gaze lingering longer than usual, with pride stirring quietly in his chest. This is the first time he has seen them move with such unified intent, not out of obligation, but conviction.

Sera notices and steps up beside him. “So,” he asks, keeping his voice low, “what did Narisawa say?”

Nakahara exhales, fatigue settling visibly into his shoulders. “They asked for a purse of one and half million yen.”

Sera’s face wrinkles. “I get why they would demand a high purse. Losing to Okabe, ranked ninth, carries risk for Wakabayashi. Still, that number is already far beyond a title challenger’s purse.”

Nakahara inclines his head. “Fortunately, Okabe gave me something to work with. Wakabayashi humiliated him in public yesterday. And I used that.”

“And?” Sera presses.

“They agreed to one million,” Nakahara says. “But with conditions.”

Sera turns to face him fully. “Conditions?”

“If Ryohei wins the title,” Nakahara explains, “he must defend it within 120 days against their Hamakawa. Narisawa wants that fight placed on our Yoyogi event, turning it into a double main event night. And the demanded two million yen.”

Sera’s eyes flick back to the fighters, still pounding the bags in steady rhythm.

“That actually sounds appealing,” he says. “Ryohei and Ryoma defending their titles on the same night.”

“It only works if Ryohei beats Umemoto,” Nakahara replies calmly. “If he doesn’t, Hamakawa fights Umemoto instead. And Okabe versus Wakabayashi never happens.”

Silence settles between them as the implications sink in. And Sera understands quickly what they trying to do.

“So they are aiming for a gym-versus-gym scenario,” he says. “Like we did with Raging Fox Gym. And on our biggest stage. Wakabayashi and Hamakawa together.”

“Yes,” Nakahara answers. “And with worse intentions than that. They want to break this gym publicly, by defeating both Okabe and Ryohei on Ryoma’s event.”

Sera says nothing for a moment. He watches the fighters, sweat-soaked now, still perfectly aligned in their effort.

For a while now, he has imagined all five of them standing together in Yoyogi, proof of what Nakahara Boxing Gym could produce.

It would be a bold declaration. But it would also be a terrible gamble.

If they lose, the damage will not end with money. Momentum will shatter, reputation will crumble, and years of hard-built history will collapse under the weight of that single failure.

And Narisawa is aiming precisely for that outcome, confident enough to use Nakahara’s own event, and Nakahara’s own money, as the stage for it.

Narisawa Boxing Gym has always been built differently, always producing champions across generations. They have every reason to believe they can seize this moment and end Nakahara’s rise.

“So,” Sera finally asks, turning back to him, “did you accept?”

Nakahara’s lips curl into a thin smile. His face looks worn, almost pale by the risk of it, but his eyes remain steady.

“Of course,” he says simply.

Sera’s face tightens, eyes widening just enough to betray the scale of it. Fear flickers there, sharp and real. But beneath it lies something else; resolve hardening in place, challenged by the madness.

Behind them, the sound of gloves striking heavy bags continues without pause, as if the fighters already sense the scale of what lies ahead.