VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The timer beeps, and the gym transitions smoothly into mitt rounds. The floor reorganizes itself without anyone needing instruction.

Kenta steps in front of Sera, who raises the mitts with quiet authority. Across the ring, Satoru adjusts his headgear as Ryoma slips on the pads.

Hiroshi lingers near the conditioning corner, stopwatch around his neck, watching everyone with the detached focus of someone who measures effort more than technique.

“Three rounds,” Sera calls.

Kenta begins first, snapping crisp combinations into Sera’s mitts. The sound is sharp and disciplined, every punch returning to guard with economy.

On the other side, Satoru works with Ryoma. And as expected from the young prodigy, Ryoma keeps the tempo steady, guiding him through compact mid-range combinations, correcting foot placement with subtle pad positioning rather than words.

Okabe and Aramaki stands a few steps away, waiting their turn.

When Satoru’s round ends, Ryoma removes one mitt and glances at Okabe. “Want me to fix your form?” he asks casually. “I can start with the basics.”

Okabe’s expression hardens immediately. “I’ll work with Sera.”

Ryoma shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He turns instead. “Aramaki. You’re up.”

Aramaki steps forward, rolling his shoulders once before settling into stance. They begin with standard mid-range combinations; jab, cross, pivot, and reset.

Ryoma tests Aramaki’s balance, occasionally forcing him to recover positioning before continuing.

For a while, the work is clean and efficient. Until then, the rhythm shifts.

“Throw the right hook a bit wider,” Ryoma instructs.

Aramaki does, and Ryoma slips inside deliberately.

“Don’t pull it back,” he says quickly. “Step in.”

Aramaki follows through, letting his right arm drape naturally over Ryoma’s lead shoulder as he closes distance.

“Kill the space,” Ryoma murmurs. “Now left. Short.”

The left hook lands tight against the pad near Ryoma’s opposite ear, compact and controlled.

“That’s it,” Ryoma says, adjusting the mitt pads. “I’m not telling you to throw wild punches. But if you do miss, don’t panic like you’ve committed a crime. Step in. Own the space.”

Ryoma’s gaze shifts briefly past Aramaki, just enough to see Okabe’s reaction. “Some people treat a missed punch like a disaster. But it’s only a problem if you freeze and stop thinking.”

He taps the pad once. “Let’s do it again. If you master this, you may take away the opponent’s counter before he even finds it.”

They repeat it several times, starting from normal in-fighting combination.

Ryoma slips inside, and Aramaki closes the distance without pulling his right arm, while delivering a compact left to the head.

Pak!

“Good. Now here’s another thing,” Ryoma continues, raising a mitt to simulate resistance. “When he tries to turn out, use your forearm here, on the collarbone. Keep his head on this side.”

Aramaki adjusts, stepping in faster, the motion becoming smoother each repetition. Ryoma doesn’t stop there, and builds on something else.

“Again, but this time, after I slip and you step in with the left, don’t pause to admire it. Once you collapse the space, you keep punching inside. Don’t give him room to breathe.”

He brings the pads closer together, narrowing the target. “Pressure doesn’t end with the first clean shot. It starts there.”

Aramaki does as told, tightening the space between them until the exchange resembles a controlled collision more than a drill.

“In close range,” Ryoma adds calmly, “you don’t look for openings. You create imbalance and punch off it.”

Okabe’s mittwork with Sera slows for a fraction of a second. This time, Sera snaps the mitt lightly against Okabe’s glove, the sound sharp enough to cut through the distraction.

“Hey. Focus,” he says, voice firm but controlled. “You’re too easily distracted, Okabe. If you want to do mittwork with him, then say so.”

Okabe’s eyes flick past Sera for a split second, toward where Ryoma and Aramaki are resetting.

“I don’t,” he mutters. “I’m fine here.”

Sera studies him for a brief moment, then raises the pads again. “Good. Then if you’re working with me, your attention stays here. Not there. Not on him. Not on whatever he’s saying.”

Okabe tightens his jaw, still looking irritated. Sera steps in slightly, speaking with lower tone now.

“Mittwork isn’t just about combinations,” he says. “It’s about discipline. If your eyes wander every time someone talks across the gym, you’re proving their point.”

The correction lands deep. Okabe squares his stance again, pulling back his focus on Sera.

“Back from the start,” Sera says, lifting the pads.

Okabe fires the combination, cleaner this time.

“If you choose to work with me,” Sera says, “then commit to it. Don’t half-train while listening to someone else.”

The next sequence comes faster. Okabe responds without looking away. Ryoma’s voice still carries faintly as he continues drilling Aramaki. But Okabe keeps his eyes locked on Sera’s mitts.

“That’s it,” Sera says, giving approving grunts. “Control your focus first. The rest comes after.”

Ryoma continues working with Aramaki, and this time, his voice carries a little farther now, making sure Okabe hear them.

“If he shells up, and he will shell up cluelessly… you break the frame.”

Aramaki nods. They run a short combination. On cue, Ryoma angles one mitt inward, elbow tucked as if guarding his ribs.

“Here,” Ryoma says. “Pull the elbow. Create space.”

Aramaki shifts, drives a punch into the exposed target.

“Now close distance immediately. Don’t give him room to fire back.”

Aramaki steps in, nearly chest-to-chest, and unleashes short and tight hooks, shoulders bumping the pads.

After the round ends, Ryoma lowers the mitts but keeps talking quietly with Aramaki.

“Sometimes don’t clinch,” he says. “Fake it. Step in like you’re tying up. When he relaxes expecting a break, cancel it. Punch inside. Then step out half an angle and punch again.”

Aramaki smirks. “That’s nasty.”

“It’s control,” Ryoma replies calmly. “At close range, you don’t win by trading and waiting to see who breaks first. You dictate how it unfolds. But to do that, your head has to stay clear.”

Across the mat, Okabe’s shoulders tighten. The words are not addressed to him. Ryoma hasn’t even looked his way. And yet every sentence feels placed precisely where he can hear it.

His punch lands half a beat late. Sera notices immediately, and the pad snaps against Okabe’s glove again.

“Focus, Okabe! Eyes on me!”

***

Okabe tries to convince himself that it was nothing more than a prank. That Aramaki was exaggerating the drills on purpose, and Ryoma was speaking loud enough just to irritate him, that the entire exchange was designed just to get under his skin.

It would be easier to frame it that way, easier to dismiss the unease settling in his chest as simple teasing among teammates. But the discomfort does not fade when the mittwork ends.

As the gym transitions into sparring, the mood shifts almost imperceptibly. This time, Aramaki carries those same infighting ideas into the ring, no longer rehearsed against mitts but applied through direct contact, directly on Okabe.

And when Okabe steps through the ropes, he begins to realize that none of Ryoma’s rambling was random. The mittwork was only preparation. The real pressure is about to start now.

Just half a minute into the first round, the first nasty trick takes its shape.

Okabe slips inside after a miss wide hook from Aramaki. But instead of resetting, Aramaki steps forward, right arm falling over Okabe’s shoulder, cutting off escape.

Immediately, a short left hook snaps against Okabe’s headgear…

Bugh!

…followed by tight inside punches that force him backward.

“Stay calm, Okabe!” Hiroshi calls from the side. “Don’t easily fall to his trick!”

Okabe realizes what Aramaki just did. His anger flares, and he swings back harder than necessary.

Aramaki sends a compact punch, landing it first…

Dsh!

…and follows it up with another to the other side of the head.

Dsh!

Okabe panics and shells up.

Aramaki simply breaks the frame, elbow pulling just enough to create a gap, and…

Thud!

…a body shot sneaks through before he collapses distance again, bumping shoulders and firing short hooks in succession.

Bugh! Bugh!

Dug. Thud! Bugh! Bugh!

Ryoma stands ringside, arms folded. “Don’t stop,” he says evenly. “Step out, but don’t give him too much space. Keep crowding him.”

The advice is directed at Aramaki, but Okabe hears every word.

Another exchange turns messy. Aramaki steps in as if to clinch, then suddenly frees his right hand and digs a short punch inside before pivoting half a step and firing again.

Okabe’s composure frays. His punches grow wider.

“Control your temper, Okabe!” Sera shouts. “Don’t just swing blindly.”

Kenta watches quietly with a casual smile, fully aware what Ryoma’s scheming now. Satoru leans forward against the ropes, eyes wide, absorbing any lesson he can take.

Aramaki presses just enough, never reckless, always half a beat ahead. Each time Okabe tries to escalate, he is met with tighter, shorter, and smarter punches.

It still looks messy, almost like a chaotic slugfest at close range. But with a clearer idea and a calmer mind, Aramaki dictates the exchanges, maneuvering Okabe at will.

The round ends with the bell cutting through heavy breathing. Okabe stands there, chest heaving, frustration simmering beneath sweat.

Across from him, Aramaki lowers his gloves, expression thoughtful rather than triumphant.

“Don’t get so worked up, senpai. It’s just a sparring,” he says.

Okabe doesn’t say a word, simply walks back to the corner, trying his best to rein himself in.

Ryoma watches in silence, as if the lesson has only just begun.

“That’s it, Aramaki… Keep working on him.”

“His head can deny it all it wants. But his body will remember everything.”