VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Nakahara studies the figures one last time before reaching for his phone. He dials Mihara Kazuhiro without hesitation, and the call connects quickly.

“Mihara-san,” Nakahara says evenly. “I’ve reviewed the sponsorship structure. I think we need to adjust a few points.”

A brief pause on the other end, then a polite reply.

[Of course. We are open to revisions anytime. If you are available, please visit our office. It would be easier to go through the structure in person.]

Nakahara glances at the clock. “I can come now,” he says. “We’ll be there before noon.”

[That works perfectly. Let’s set it for early afternoon. We’ll prepare the meeting room.]

Nakahara ends the call, and then looks at Kurogane.

“We’re going to Atsugi,” he says simply. “You wanted forty-five million. Why don’t you tell them yourself?”

There is no challenge in his tone, only expectation.

Kurogane inclines his head. “Understood.”

They step out of the office together. The main gym is on break; the fighters have just finished their rope session and are cooling down along the walls, shoulders rising and falling in heavy rhythm. The air smells of sweat and canvas. Jump ropes lie coiled near the ring.

As they walk toward the exit, Nakahara stops near Hiroshi, who is wiping down a set of focus mitts.

“I’m heading to Kanagawa to visit Kowa’s office,” Nakahara says.

Hiroshi nods once. “Leave it here to us.”

Near the ring apron, Ryoma looks up from where he stands. His eyes catch Kurogane’s as the man approaches the door.

The look lasts only a second before Kurogane steps outside. And for reasons he doesn’t fully examine, Ryoma feels a quiet sense of relief.

If this works, the old man may finally stop carrying everything alone.

***

After the rope session and a short break to towel off, the gym eases into partner drills. Gloves are tightened, headgear adjusted, and the noise shifts from snapping ropes to controlled footwork and measured breathing.

With Ryohei still absent, the numbers are uneven. Ryoma pairs with Kenta, the closest match in weight and timing, while Okabe works with Aramaki.

Satoru lingers near the ropes, rotating his shoulders as he waits.

“I’ll come to you after this round,” Ryoma tells him.

The drills begin in a steady rhythm; jab–cross, slip, counter, and reset. Everything is rehearsed, meant to carve clean lines into muscle memory.

Across the mat, Okabe and Aramaki start the same way, but it doesn’t take long for the tempo to shift. Aramaki’s slips become deeper, his counters less predictable.

Instead of meeting Okabe’s gloves exactly where the pattern demands, Aramaki angles off early or disrupts the distance with a shoulder bump. The drill slowly loses its symmetry.

“Stick to the pattern,” Okabe says, irritation creeping into his voice. “We’re shaping form.”

Aramaki lets out a faint laugh behind his mouthguard. “Form won’t save you once it gets messy. You always throw it away when the fight turns chaotic.”

“That’s not the point of drills, damn it,” Okabe argues.

“It is, if that’s who you are in the ring,” Aramaki teases him again before smacking Okabe’s glove away.

The exchange sharpens, their movements growing rougher, less rehearsed and more instinctive. What was meant to refine technique begins to resemble a controlled scuffle.

Kenta’s focus slips as he watches. Ryoma notices it immediately and lowers his gloves. Both of them turn fully now, attention shifting to the friction building across the mat.

The gym hasn’t stopped moving, but the air feels different now.

And before long, the rhythm finally collapses. Okabe drops his gloves to his sides and steps back entirely.

“Stop it, stop it,” he says, breathing harder now. “This isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing.”

Aramaki, already mid-motion, doesn’t pull the next punch fully. The glove clips Okabe across the cheek as Okabe turns his head away.

Dsh!

“Hey…” Okabe snaps, hand flying to his face.

“Why’d you stop?” Aramaki shoots back immediately. “Don’t freeze in the middle of an exchange.”

“I stopped because you’re not following the drill,” Okabe fumes.

Aramaki rolls his shoulders, unimpressed. “I am helping you.”

“By messing around?”

“I’m messing around,” Aramaki says, though the faint edge in his voice sounds dangerously close to teasing. “You fall apart when it gets ugly. I’m making it ugly on purpose.”

“That’s not helping. You’re just taking me as a joke.”

Something tightens in Okabe’s posture now, chin lifting, pride stung more than skin.

Before it can spiral further, Sera’s voice cuts clean across the gym. “Hey, you guys! That’s enough.”

Okabe gestures immediately. “He’s not doing the drill properly.”

Sera doesn’t answer him at first. His eyes shift to Aramaki instead. “Stop goofing around and do it as instructed.”

Aramaki exhales through his nose, the brief spark in him dimming. He lifts both gloves in surrender.

“Alright. Alright. Let’s do it again.”

They reset, and this time the pattern holds as it should; jab, slip, counter, reset, finally looking precise and controlled now.

From a few steps away, Kenta lets out a quiet chuckle. “What’s with Aramaki lately?” he murmurs to Ryoma. “He’s usually the adult here, never joking around. And now he’s teasing with Okabe like a kid doing prank.”

Ryoma doesn’t smile. “It was my idea.”

Kenta blinks. “Your idea?”

“I asked him to pressure Okabe’s habits.”

“And you think that helps?”

Ryoma keeps his eyes on the pair across the mat. “Okabe gets agitated too easily. So I think, before we refine his technique, he needs to control that first.”

Across the floor, Okabe forces himself to move within the pattern, jaw tight but disciplined.

Ryoma raises his gloves again and turns back to Kenta. “Focus. We’re not finished.”

Kenta nods, and the rhythm resumes.

***

The partner drills dissolve into bag rounds without ceremony. And the gym returns to its layered rhythm of impact and breathing.

Ryoma works his bag with controlled efficiency, compact combinations landing without wasted motion.

Across the line, Okabe attacks his bag with more force than necessary, each punch thudding louder than the last.

After a minute, Ryoma steps away from his station. He doesn’t announce it, doesn’t call out. He simply walks over and stops beside Okabe’s bag.

And watches.

At first, Okabe keeps his rhythm; jab, cross, hook, and reset. But the awareness settles in quickly. His shoulders stiffen, and his jab extends too far. The rear hand lingers low after a combination. His feet begin chasing the bag instead of guiding it.

Ryoma says nothing, but that silence alone is enough of distraction.

Okabe’s breathing grows uneven. He throws a harder right, over-rotates, and has to shuffle to recover his stance.

Then Ryoma finally speaks. “You’re loading your right like you’re winding up for a home run.”

Okabe ignores him and keeps punching.

And Ryoma starts it again. “Your left drops every time you breathe out. And you’re leaning forward. Anyone decent would step around you.”

This time, the bag swings wide, and Okabe steps in too deep to compensate.

“You’re fighting the bag,” Ryoma adds. “Not controlling it.”

“Can you not?” Okabe mutters.

Ryoma doesn’t stop. “If this is you under observation, imagine you under pressure.”

Okabe turns sharply and swings at him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

But Ryoma barely shifts, and the glove slices past his face as he leans back an inch.

Okabe’s own momentum betrays him. His front foot slips, balance gone, and he drops awkwardly to the mat.

A few fighters glance over. Satoru even holds himself hard just not to laugh at Okabe.

“You wanna fight or what?” Okabe scrambles up, furious. “Damn it. Don’t think just because the old man treats you special you can act however you want in this gym.”

Ryoma looks at him evenly. “How can you ask me to teach you counters,” he says, “when you’re this easy to provoke?”

Okabe’s jaw tightens. “You…?!”

“I was thinking about teaching you something,” Ryoma continues calmly. “But…”

He turns his back. “Forget it. It’s a waste of time teaching you anything if you’re going to throw it away the moment you lose your temper.”

Ryoma walks off without looking back. Okabe stands there for a second, chest rising sharply, humiliation burning hotter than the exertion. Then he turns toward Sera.

“You see that?” Okabe blurts. “First Aramaki, now him. What is this? Just because I’m in the lowest division here, everyone thinks I’m some kind of toy?”

His voice carries more frustration than volume. “Even Aramaki,” he continues, gesturing toward the other end of the gym, “he never jokes around. And now suddenly he’s making me the punchline.”

Sera doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes move from Okabe to Ryoma’s back, then briefly toward Aramaki, who has resumed hitting the bag as if nothing happened.

A faint crease forms between Sera’s brows. Then it clicks; Ryoma is engineering something.

Instead of indulging the complaint, Sera’s expression hardens.

“Enough,” he says sharply. “If you’re that easy to provoke in training, there’s no chance you beat Wakabayashi. Out there, no one will follow your pattern. No one will protect your rhythm.”

Okabe blinks, and then he opens his mouth, seeming to argue. But Sera cuts him off with a nod toward the corner.

“Look at Satoru. He’s already holding his laughter.”

Satoru quickly looks away, pretending to adjust his gloves.

Sera steps closer, lowering his voice just enough to keep it contained but firm. “If you stay like this, you won’t just lose. You’ll turn yourself into a joke in front of ten thousand people at Yoyogi.”

The words land heavier than Ryoma’s insults.

“For now,” Sera adds, pointing at the bag, “Bring back your focus on the bag. Punch properly. Control yourself before you talk about controlling anyone else.”

Okabe swallows whatever protest remains and turns back to the bag, jaw tight, the noise of the gym swallowing his frustration whole.