VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The gym feels tighter than usual, as though the air has thickened and settled low over the mats. Every pair of eyes drifts toward the entrance as if the closed door might offer an explanation for Okabe’s absence.

Hiroshi approaches Nakahara with unusual care. “Sir, maybe Okabe is just feeling unwell,” he says gently. “It might not be anything serious.”

Nakahara studies him for a moment, and although he does not argue, he clearly is not convinced. Moments later, his gaze shifts toward the electric bike resting near the wall, a thin layer of dust clinging to its frame from weeks of neglect.

Without another word, he walks over, grips the handlebars, and rolls it toward the shutter.

“Sir… where are you going?” Hiroshi asks, following a few steps behind.

“To Okabe’s house,” Nakahara replies as he pushes the bike out into the daylight. “Let’s hope he is really just feeling unwell.”

When the shutter rattles closed behind him, the gym slowly resumes its rhythm, but the movement feels forced. Gloves rise, feet shuffle across canvas, and the chains of the heavy bags creak overhead, yet the earlier ease is gone.

Ryoma turns back to his bag, though he does not strike right away. For the first time, a subtle crack appears in his composure.

He actually carries more pressure than anyone else in the room, even if he rarely shows it. He stands not only as their best fighter but also as co-owner of the gym and the promotions firm.

Most of the half-million-dollar purse bid now rests in his own account. That much money has its own expectation, and burden.

The injured knuckles were his fault. The aggressive bid was made because of his situation. And the momentum that now feels so fragile began with him.

If everything collapses, he believes the responsibility will circle back to him.

Ryoma resets his stance and begins to punch, and at first the sound is sharp and precise, the familiar rhythm that everyone in the gym recognizes instantly. His form has always been the standard here, and the cadence of his strikes usually carries a clean authority.

However, the rhythm begins to falter. The spacing between punches tightens unevenly, and the impact grows heavier, less controlled.

He drives the bag harder and harder until it swings wide enough to force nearby fighters to step aside.

“Hey, Ryoma, stop,” Sera says as she steps in and steadies the bag with both hands. “Your hands only healed recently. The fractures may have closed, but they are far from hardened.”

Ryoma pauses with his gloves raised at cheek level, his shoulders tight and his breathing uneven, the sound of it louder than he would prefer.

From the office doorway, Kurogane clears his throat. “If this tension is about the numbers, that might be on me,” he says. “There is still no traction, and Nakahara-kaicho may be expecting too much too soon.”

Ryoma lowers his gloves slightly and speaks without turning fully around. “Explain.”

“There has been no call from Kowa yet,” Kurogane replies. “Our meeting was only two days ago. They probably just started moving yesterday, so it is still too early to expect results, even if the chairman is growing impatient.”

“What about the ticket sales?” Ryoma asks.

Kurogane hesitates. “Not even two hundred so far. And again, it is still early.”

Ryoma’s eyes narrow. “Half of our tickets are usually gone on the first day.”

Kurogane blinks. “Seriously?”

“It’s true,” Hiroshi confirms. “That’s how it has been for every event before this.”

Understanding settles slowly over Kurogane’s face as he exhales. Nakahara is accustomed to seeing immediate momentum. It’s reasonable now that this quiet feels unnatural to him.

Suddenly, Ryoma pulls off his gloves and drops them onto the bench before striding toward the exit.

“Hey, Ryoma!” Sera calls. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to meet my generals,” Ryoma says.

Hiroshi and Sera exchange a knowing glance, while Kurogane looks between them in confusion.

“Generals?” he murmurs.

Aramaki shrugs. “You know how they call him here. The Cruel King of Korakuen Hall. And it’s only natural for a king to have his generals.”

Outside, Ryoma walks along the curb with his phone pressed to his ear, his voice steady once more.

“Matsuda-san,” he says quietly, “I need your help.”

***

By the time Nakahara arrives at Okabe’s house, the early afternoon sun has begun pressing heat into the narrow residential street.

He parks neatly by the gate and walks up to the door, straightening his shirt as if he is about to negotiate another sponsorship deal instead of checking on a missing fighter.

Okabe’s mother answers after the second ring, her expression polite but faintly puzzled.

“Ah, Coach Nakahara… Is something wrong?”

“I was looking for Okabe,” Nakahara says with practiced calm. “He did not come to training.”

“Okabe? He left hours ago,” she replies.

Nakahara pauses. “Did he mention anything at all? A friend? An errand?”

She shakes her head gently, then steps aside. “He didn’t say where he was going. Ah, would you like to come in and wait? He might return soon.”

Nakahara considers the offer for a moment, glancing past her into the tidy hallway. But then he shakes his head.

“Thank you, but I still have work waiting for me.”

He takes a step back, then hesitates and turns around again.

“Has he been unwell?” he asks. “Fever? Or maybe fatigue?”

“No,” she says. “He looks fine. Just… a bit strange.”

“Strange how?”

She tilts her head slightly. “He’s become too quiet. Now that I think about it, we have barely spoken these last two days.”

That answer tightens something in Nakahara’s chest. Okabe, who usually fills space with jokes, complaints, and commentary, does not simply become quiet without reason.

“I see,” he says quietly, bowing his head. “Thank you for telling me.”

Nakahara leaves with a measured step that fails to disguise his rising anxiety. If Okabe is not physically ill, then the problem lies elsewhere.

And that possibility unsettles him far more.

***

Ten minutes later, he stops in front of Ryohei’s house and presses the doorbell with more force than necessary.

Ryohei opens the door looking mildly surprised, his hair slightly disheveled.

“Coach? What are you doing here?”

Nakahara keeps his tone casual. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Ryohei replies. “If it’s okay with you, I can return to the gym tomorrow.”

“Good,” Nakahara nods.

Ryohei smirks. “You didn’t ride all the way here just to confirm that, did you? Please, come inside.”

Nakahara remains where he is, his expression tightening. “Has Okabe been here in the past two days?”

Ryohei’s smile widens faintly. “So it’s about Okabe. Yeah, he was here. He just left. Probably heading home now.”

Nakahara clicks his tongue softly and turns away without another word.

“Coach,” Ryohei calls after him, “at least come in for tea.”

“Not today,” Nakahara replies without looking back. “I am not in a tea situation.”

Ryohei shakes his head and closes the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walks toward his room.

But then, the doorbell rings again almost immediately. He opens the door, looks a bit surprised, and then grins.

“Coach, don’t tell me you missed me already.”

Nakahara stands there, face stern and faintly irritated. “My electric bike refuses to start.”

Ryohei squints and steps outside to inspect it. After pressing the ignition twice and receiving nothing but silence, he looks up.

“It’s out of battery,” he says.

Nakahara’s jaw tightens. He stares at the lifeless bike as if it has personally betrayed him.

“Even my transportation has chosen the wrong timing,” he grumbles.

***

Unlike Nakahara and his anxiety, Daisuke Kirizume sits comfortably in his glass-walled office overlooking the gym floor, where gloves snap crisply against mitts and instructions are delivered in short, precise commands.

The atmosphere here carries control rather than strain. Posters of former champions line the walls, each stamped with the Kirizume Promotions insignia in gold, quiet proof of victories already secured instead of ambitions still being negotiated.

A large banner dominates the far side of the gym, featuring Renji Kuroiwa, ranked eighth in the WBC, preparing for his mid-June eliminator against fourth-ranked Miguel Carballo.

Kirizume has booked Korakuen Hall for the bout. The venue is smaller than Yoyogi, but he has priced the tickets higher, trusting scarcity and Renji’s name to do the work.

Yamaoka, his manager, studies a tablet across the desk. “Seventy-three percent sold,” he reports. “And we still have three weeks.”

Kirizume nods, unsurprised. “Increase the remaining ringside by five percent. If they hesitate, they were never the right buyers.”

“Sponsors are secured. Broadcast confirmed. Undercard finalized,” Yamaoka continues. “Everything is aligned.”

Kirizume leans back, satisfied. His events rarely scramble because he refuses to gamble on scale. He prefers controlled ascent, steady leverage, and predictable returns.

Yamaoka scrolls again, pauses, and then chuckles amusedly. “Oh, look at this. Nakahara’s Yoyogi event has begun ticket sales.”

That draws Kirizume’s attention. “Already? How does it look?”

“Not good,” Yamaoka replies. “Around two hundred sold so far. They have time, but it’s unusual for them. Their first-day numbers are typically strong.”

Kirizume lets out a short laugh. “Yoyogi,” he repeats lightly. “He rents an arena as if size alone creates prestige.”

Yamaoka chooses his words carefully. “It is bold.”

“No, it is stupidity,” Kirizume corrects. “You cannot force legacy into existence overnight. You earn it step by step. But that naïve old man is trying to leap three stairs at once.”

He glances again at Renji’s banner beyond the glass. “Well, let him chase spectacle. We’ll see if he’s truly prepared for a war against me.”