VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

For Ryohei fighting at super lightweight, it may look comfortable from the outside. But it doesn’t mean he takes it without real effort. Fighting in this division at 173 centimeters does not exempt him from dieting or weight control.

On the scale, he must meet the limit at 63.5 kilograms, only to step into the ring at around 66 to stay competitive.

It is not as severe as Ryoma’s cut, who must drain himself down to 61.2. For Ryohei, the task is to shed roughly 2.5 kilograms over two weeks, slowly, trimming 200 grams daily until the weight-in day.

There is no extreme dehydration, and without excruciating hunger. But a strict routine is still needed.

“Again,” Sera snaps, snapping the mitts together. “That’s what you call a punch now?”

Ryohei steps in and fires a few combinations, the impact duller than it should be.

Sera’s eyes harden immediately. “Stop.”

He lowers the mitts just enough to glare at him. “You think you can beat Umemoto with punches like that?”

Ryohei clenches his jaw and resets his stance. “I’m trying my best here.”

“Don’t look at me like you’re tired,” Sera continues, voice cutting. “You’ve only cut two hundred grams today. So don’t you dare hit like you are dying.”

The mitts come up again. “If this is all you’ve got, you’re just there to make his defense look easy.”

Ryohei exhales through his nose and throws again, harder this time.

He doesn’t have much time left. This week is Ryohei’s final week for sparring. After that, everything shifts to conditioning.

So, sparring with Ryoma is only two rounds today, with Ryoma wearing high-cushion gloves, just enough to help Ryohei grow accustomed to Umemoto’s rhythm and pressure.

Unlike yesterday, Ryoma fights more aggressively. There is still little head movement, almost no feints, and no pivoting to change angles. But he closes the distance with far more intent, pouring on pressure the moment he steps in.

“Read the timing, and fight him,” Sera calls.

But every time Ryoma makes that sudden advance, Ryohei loses his composure. His first instinct is always to protect distance, to retreat before the danger fully arrives.

And Sera never likes that. “Stop trying to fight clean all the time, Ryohei,” he snaps from the apron. “You’re facing the champion. Don’t think you can take Umemoto’s belt without hurting yourself.”

Ryohei hears it, but his body still reacts on instinct, the out-boxer’s habit carved deep into his blood.

Ryoma cuts the space again, a quick step followed by a solid one-two, as if he has no concern for creating openings at all.

Dug.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Ryohei blocks it. But instead of holding his ground, he immediately retreats. He steps back, jabs twice, pivots, and then uses his legs to reclaim space.

It’s clean boxing, beautiful footwork. But he hasn’t landed a single meaningful shot, and his legs keep working only to escape.

Eventually, he traps himself on the ropes. And Ryoma crashes into his guard, then dips a left hook into the body.

Thud!

Pain blooms across Ryohei’s side. He stumbles laterally, and Ryoma herds him straight into the corner.

“Oh, isn’t that good?” Sera says, almost like praise, though irritation sharpens his voice. “You’re cornered now. You can’t run anymore. So hold your ground and fight back.”

Ryohei’s eyes flick around, searching for an exit instead.

But Ryoma doesn’t give him one. He steps in again, pounding the guard repeatedly.

Dug. Dug. Bugh! Dug.

Then he resets. “Aren’t you going to throw anything?”

Ryohei snaps and finally fires back. But…

Dhuack!

Ryoma’s counter lands first, snapping against Ryohei’s head before his punch can fully extend.

The headgear and the cushioned gloves soften the impact. Ryohei manages to stay upright, bracing himself as more shots dig into his ribs until Sera slams the bell.

Ding!

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Sera says sharply. “You can’t keep running forever. Do you really think you can stay clean for twelve rounds and win on points alone?”

Ryohei stares down at the canvas, dissatisfied with himself. Then his gaze lifts to Ryoma, irritation flashing openly.

“What was that counter?” he asks. “If you are going to copy Umemoto’s style, he isn’t a counter puncher, I believe.”

“It doesn’t take a natural counter puncher to do that,” Ryoma scoffs. “It’s good you finally found the nerve to fight back. But you can’t lose your cool.”

He loosens the straps on his headgear. “Yes, you need to be ready to get hurt. But do it with resolve and a clear plan. Not desperation.”

Ryohei falls quiet, the irritation still simmering in his chest, heat lingering beneath his ribs where Ryoma’s punches landed. The anger does not vanish, but it loses its direction.

He is no longer an amateur who can afford to cling to one safe approach. He has been through too many fights, stood in the ring too many times to pretend otherwise. And now he understands what this moment really is.

This is the test that decides whether he can step into an entirely different realm, the realm of champions. To pass it, clean boxing alone will never be enough.

He has to use everything he has built until now. Not just the long footwork of an out-boxer, but the pendulum rhythm he once struggled to master, the old Soviet beat drilled into him through repetition, the counter variations he rarely trusts enough to commit to.

All of it. Every layer, every scar, every lesson paid for in sweat and pain.

Finally, Ryohei lifts his head.

“Wait,” he calls out.

Ryoma pauses at the apron and looks back.

“Let’s do it again,” Ryohei says. “I’m not done yet. Give me another round. No… two.”

Ryoma glances toward Sera. And Sera, after studying Ryohei for a moment longer, gives a small nod.

This time, the look on Ryohei’s face is different. It is the look of a man ready to lay every weapon he has on the table, prepared to trade everything he owns just to test whether he is truly ready for what waits ahead.

***

May 17th, 2017. Swissôtel Nankai Osaka.

The sunlight beats down on the asphalt in front of the hotel, bending the air into faint ripples that blur the edges of everything in sight.

Then a black van bearing the Aqualis Labs logo rolls to a careful stop. The sliding door opens, and the scent of Osaka rushes out at once.

Coach Nakahara steps out first, straightening his suit with practiced efficiency. Sera follows immediately, a medical bag slung over his shoulder. Hiroshi comes next, arms full of sealed mineral water bottles sponsored by Aqualis Labs.

Then Ryohei steps down onto the pavement. His tracksuit jacket is zipped all the way up despite the rising temperature, his cheekbones standing out beneath taut skin.

For a brief moment, the scene holds steady. But then, once Ryoma steps out of the van, the balance shifts.

The OPBF champion moves with relaxed confidence, posture loose, expression calm. And the effect is immediate.

“It’s him…”

“It’s Ryoma Takeda, the half-million dollar OPBF champion.”

Journalists who had been standing around in idle clusters suddenly surge forward as one.

Voices overlap, flashes detonating in rapid bursts. White light floods the space, washing over the pavement and faces alike.

“Takeda-san! Is it true you were offered half a million dollars for a title defense in August?”

“What’s your response to Las Vegas promoters showing interest?”

Ryohei is nearly erased from the frame, pushed into the periphery by lenses hungry for Ryoma alone. Ryoma notices it, and simply lifts a hand slightly, offering a formal smile that holds no warmth, only control.

“Please,” he says evenly. “Save that for another time. I’m here today as an assistant coach. Nothing more.”

The words do little to slow the barrage, but he keeps walking.

Ryohei draws a deep breath, the heavy air settling into his lungs. He focuses instead on the doors ahead, on the quiet certainty that this is only the first battlefield.

Behind the tinted glass of the van, Kenta remains seated, watching silently. He lets the core of the team advance alone, toward the scale, toward the weight of what comes next.

***

Inside the weigh-in hall, the air-conditioning chills the skin, but the atmosphere remains tense, compressed with unspoken hostility.

At one corner, Shin-Osaka Teppan Boxing Gym has already staked its claim.

Chairman Goro Ishimaru stands with arms crossed, his broad frame unmoving and authoritative. Beside him, Kogane Yasuoka scrolls through an iPad, murmuring cynical remarks under his breath.

And at the center stands the national super lightweight champion, Umemoto Kimitada.

He gives Ryohei only a brief glance, dismissive and hollow, as if the challenger is nothing more than paperwork before a routine victory.

Then Umemoto’s eyes shift. They lock onto Ryoma behind Ryohei.

The indifference vanishes. His posture stiffens, chest lifting, hostility radiating openly now. Ryohei ceases to exist in that moment, reduced to an obstacle blocking Umemoto’s view of something greater.

“Heh… so the Tokyo’s Golden Boy really showed up in Osaka,” Umemoto mutters.

Goro Ishimaru’s gravelly Kansai drawl cuts through the tension. “Oi, Umemoto! Eyes forward. Handle this skinny kid tomorrow first. After that, you can glare at the OPBF champ all you want.”

Umemoto does not answer. His thin smile remains, eyes still burning toward Ryoma, burning with ambition that ignores the fact they do not even share the same division.

Ryohei’s fists tighten inside his pockets. The hunger and thirst he has endured for weeks harden into something colder.

Everyone here looks past him. Even the champion treats him like an inconvenience. But tomorrow, that will end.

When this hall empties and the noise dies, Osaka will remember only one name: Ryohei Yamada.