VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Late May air hangs thick inside the Nakahara Gym. Five heavy bags hang in a disciplined line beneath the high steel rafters. Kenta, Ryoma, Aramaki, Okabe, and Satoru strike in rhythm, leather cracking in steady succession.

Ryohei’s place remains empty. His body is still repairing itself after that war with Umemoto. For that same reason, the training camp is postponed.

August looms ahead like a mountain, and each fighter carries the same heavy silence beneath its shadow. Only Satoru stands slightly apart from that weight, because his Rookie Tournament semifinal arrives in just two weeks.

Sera’s voice cuts through the rhythm without needing to rise. “Don’t admire your work,” he says sharply. “Snap it back. Guard returns to your cheeks every time.”

He steps behind Kenta first, watching the rotation of his hips. “Kenta, turn the shoulder more. You’re punching with your arm, not your body.”

Then his gaze shifts to the left. “Aramaki, shorten that right. You’re reaching. Stay compact.”

The rhythm tightens under his supervision. Each adjustment takes effect almost immediately. The heavy bags begin to swing with cleaner arcs, and the sound of impact grows sharper and more synchronized.

Kenta’s shoulders rotate with better discipline. Aramaki’s punches snap back to guard without delay. Even Okabe finds a steadier base beneath his aggression. Sera watches them for several seconds, measuring the tempo with narrowed eyes.

Sera gives a small approving nod. He turns his head toward Hiroshi, who stands near the ring apron with folded arms.

“They’re yours,” Sera says calmly. “Keep the pressure consistent.”

Hiroshi nods once in return. He steps forward as Sera steps away. The authority shifts without ceremony, like a baton passed mid-race.

But the moment the managerial office door shuts behind him, Okabe’s rhythm begins to fracture under an invisible weight. His combinations lose their snap, and his guard starts to sag between heavy breaths.

Aramaki pauses and smirks without warmth. “Why?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you’re already out of gas.”

Then he ignores him, and resumes punching before waiting for an answer.

Okabe forces himself back into motion. But his shoulders tense, and his timing falls apart again. Nakahara’s undercard announcement replays inside his head. The poster confirms that he opens the entire event.

He stops once more and leans closer to Aramaki. “Honestly,” he whispers, “I kind of regret asking Coach Nakahara for Wakabayashi.”

Aramaki blinks and turns fully toward him. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove.

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” he asks. “You were the one who seemed most fired up about this event yesterday.”

Okabe lowers his voice further. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asks. “Nakahara is targeting at least ten thousand spectators at Yoyogi. If the crowd is thin, the gym loses money. But if the target is reached…”

Aramaki grins loosely. “Yeah, I never imagined fighting in front of that many people,” he says. “I am a simple man. I started this sport as a hobby. Now I just fight to feed my wife and kid.”

Okabe nods, but he does not feel lighter. “You will be fine,” he says. “Your footwork looks elegant now, and your counters are improving. But unlike you, I only know how to fight like a madman in the mud.”

“But the fans love that,” Aramaki replies. “For an opening fight, that is exactly what we need.”

Despite Aramaki’s words, the pressure on Okabe refuses to lift. His brawling style is a local fan favorite, but on the international stage, he fears looking like a clown and bringing shame to the gym.

That is, of course, if he can even win. But thinking about facing a technician like Wakabayashi, who sits far higher in the rankings, Okabe’s mind is a storm of worst-case scenarios.

He returns to the heavy bag, but his intensity lags behind the others. Even Satoru looks sharper than him right now.

***

Ryoma is the first to stop. He moves away from the bags toward the bench to strip off his gloves. The others notice, but no one stops or shows concern.

It has become a common sight lately. Ryoma starts early and finishes early, giving himself just enough time to recover before shifting his focus to training Satoru.

After stowing his gear and taking a few swigs of Surge Blue, Ryoma approaches Satoru to oversee the session. He stands there, his gaze sharp and analytical.

“Keep your chin tucked, Satoru! If you drop your lead hand on the exit, you’re begging for a hook,” he says, punctuating the air with short, precise gestures.

Satoru nods, sweat pouring down his face as he mimics Ryoma’s movements with disciplined focus.

Having once been the baby of the gym himself, Ryoma’s transition to licensed trainer looks surprisingly natural. And that fact only stings Okabe more.

“Faster on the pivot,” Ryoma commands, oblivious to the eyes watching him.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Okabe approaches. He hesitates, his usual bravado replaced by an unsure shift of his weight.

“Hey, Ryoma… think you could teach me some of those counters? The ones you’ve been drilling with Satoru?”

Ryoma doesn’t even look up from Satoru’s form. “Sorry, Okabe. I’m afraid you’re just not right for this.”

Okabe’s face flushes. The dismissal feels like a slap. “Not right for it? I see you giving Satoru the blueprint every day. Are you saying I’m not even on his level?”

“That’s not it,” Ryoma says, finally meeting his eyes with a flat, calm gaze. “It’s not about your talent or your potential. It’s your character. Teaching you counters right now would be like throwing you off a cliff.”

Bitter and unconvinced, Okabe scoffs. “Whatever. If you won’t help, I’ll go to someone who actually wants this gym to win.”

From across the room, Hiroshi watches the exchange with bewilderment. He opens his mouth to shout at Okabe to get back to his bag. But seeing the dark cloud over the man’s head, he decides to stay silent and see how this train wreck unfolds.

Okabe storms into the managerial office, interrupting a serious discussion between Sera and old man Nakahara.

“Old man! Would you teach me counters?” he demands, his voice tight.

Both coaches blink, caught off guard by the intrusion.

Sera sighs, leaning back. “We can’t do that, Okabe. Counters are not for you.”

“Not you too!” Okabe snaps, the feeling of being belittled boiling over. “You guys treat me like I’m some amateur who can’t handle a technical shift!”

Nakahara doesn’t even look up from his papers. “If you have a problem with the training, go talk to Ryoma. Now leave, and shut the door behind you. We have too much on our plates for this.”

Okabe kicks the office door shut behind him, and marches straight back to his heavy bag. His face carries the tight mask of wounded pride. He does not resume training; he detonates.

He unloads on the bag with reckless abandon. Each punch lands without structure, driven by something far uglier than discipline. The chain rattles violently above him.

“Dammit!” he snarls between ragged breaths. “Everyone is moving on! Even Satoru is turning into a rising star. People look at this gym differently now. We are not the local underdogs anymore. We are supposed to be elite.”

He throws a wide hook that overextends his shoulder and spins the bag off its line. The punch would leave his chin exposed in a real fight.

“And look at me!” he continues, voice cracking. “While they are upgrading their games, I am still the same old Okabe. I am still the same idiot who trades punches with his own face just to land one.”

The gym falls into a strained silence as his voice carries across the canvas. Okabe does not lower his volume. He slams his forehead against the leather and lets it rest there for a second.

“I am the only one stuck in the mud while the world runs past me.”

Across the room, Kenta slows his rhythm. Aramaki avoids eye contact. Satoru pretends to adjust his wraps.

No one steps in, because Okabe’s frustration feels too naked to interrupt.