VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Okabe does not lower his eyes. He stands his ground, but hatred burns plainly across his face, raw and unfiltered.

“So this is who you are now,” Okabe says, his voice shaking. Not from fear, but from anger. “You talk about contracts and professionalism like some corporate executive. You sound just like the people you said you hated. A promoter who doesn’t care about fighters’ feelings. Only reputation. Only money. Exploiting boxers for your own gain.”

The words hang in the air. For a brief moment, Ryoma says nothing.

The accusation lands harder than the others expect. His gaze shifts slightly, and something flickers behind his eyes.

He does not look defensive. He looks reflective; is there a trace of truth in it? Am I really turning into someone I hate?

The gym remains silent, waiting. But the pause does not last long.

Ryoma lifts his head again, and whatever doubt surfaced earlier disappears beneath a sharper and colder clarity.

“So you feel exploited now?” he asks evenly.

He turns his head slightly toward Nakahara without breaking composure. “Old man, remind me. Who was the one begging to be included in the Yoyogi event? Who was the one insisting on fighting Wakabayashi?”

Nakahara does not answer immediately, but his silence is already an answer.

Ryoma looks back at Okabe. “Do you think it was easy to convince a fighter ranked far above you to accept that match? Do you think one million yen is normal for a local-level ranked bout?”

His voice remains steady, but each sentence presses harder. “You pushed for that fight. You insisted on the opportunity. Now you stand here pretending we forced you into it?”

Okabe clenches his fists, still looking defiant. Ryoma takes one step closer, not aggressively, but with unmistakable authority.

“No one exploited you,” Ryoma says. “You asked for the stage. You asked for the risk. You asked for that chance.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “What you’re afraid of now isn’t exploitation. It’s responsibility.”

Kenta and Aramaki exchange uneasy glances. Even Ryohei’s usual grin fades.

Ryoma does not raise his voice. “If you are injured, say it clearly. If you are not ready, say it honestly. We can address reality. But don’t rewrite history just because the pressure is heavier than you expected, and then run away from us.”

The tension in the gym thickens again, but this time it is different. It is not anger alone. It is accountability settling into place.

Ryoma straightens his posture. “You wanted to stand on that stage,” he says quietly. “Then be a man and stand on it.”

Okabe’s jaw tightens. “I’m not running away.”

“Then what are you doing?” Ryoma presses. His tone remains level, but the bluntness cuts deeper than a shout. “I’ll be honest with you. Out of everyone here, you’re the weakest. Even Satoru is ahead of you now. And your odds aren’t good. You know how skilled Wakabayashi is. Yet you disappear from training.”

The words land without decoration. And this time, Okabe does not argue. He looks away, unable to hold Ryoma’s gaze.

The defiance that once burned in his eyes dims into something heavier. His pride does not shatter loudly. It collapses inward, like a structure that has already cracked before impact.

But he does not protest like how he used to. He does not lash out, no longer accusing anyone of unfair treatment. He just stands there as if he expected this verdict the moment he walked back into the gym.

Ryohei steps forward before the silence grows unbearable. “Hey, Ryoma. I know you’re trying to push him to improve. I heard what you and Aramaki did. There’s nothing wrong with your method. Even Okabe admitted that.”

Ryoma does not respond, but he listens.

“The reason he stayed away,” Ryohei continues, “wasn’t because he quit. He was trying to fix it. He said he wouldn’t step back in here until he dealt with that part of himself.”

Ryoma raises an eyebrow slightly. The explanation creates a narrow space for tolerance, but it does not soften his expression.

“So you’re telling me you’ve fixed that flaw?” he asks, turning his attention back to Okabe.

Okabe remains silent. He does not lift his head.

“Fine,” Ryoma says.

He walks to the equipment rack and picks up a roll of tape. His movements are unhurried. He begins wrapping his left hand with practiced precision.

“Show me,” he says. “Spar with me. One round. If you survive it, you stay.”

A murmur runs faintly through the gym. Kurogane, the new manager, watches this unfold with mild amusement.

Kenta, standing closest to the equipment rack, speaks carefully. “Hey, Ryoma. Aren’t you being too harsh on him?”

Ryoma continues taping his hand without looking up. “You hear that, Okabe? Kenta here thinks I’m being too harsh. Just one round with me is already considered excessive. That tells you how low his evaluation of you is.”

Kenta quickly turns to Okabe, flustered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Okabe does not respond. He walks to the nearest bench and sets his bag down with deliberate calm. He takes out his gloves, and then he looks back at Kenta.

“Tape. Please.”

Kenta exhales and tosses two rolls toward him, and Okabe catches them cleanly. As he begins wrapping his hands, his breathing steadies. He knows exactly who stands across from him.

When Ryoma carries that cold merciless composure, the persona people call the Cruel King, he does not spar to entertain. He dissects, exposes, and punishes weakness without hesitation.

Okabe hates this situation. He hates the humiliation. He hates the truth in Ryoma’s words. But more than that, he hates the version of himself that made those words possible.

His fingers tighten around the tape as he pulls it firm across his knuckles. The sting feels grounding, but necessary.

He understands the risk, and he’s fully aware the gap between them. He understands that one round with Ryoma could feel like drowning under controlled violence.

Still, he keeps wrapping. Not because he believes he can win, but because he refuses to remain the man Ryoma just described.

Around them, the trainers watch in silence. None of them intervene, none of them object. They understand that Ryoma has his reasons. And more importantly, Okabe needs this.

Hiroshi moves to the timekeeper’s table without speaking and picks up the bell along with his stopwatch. He checks the stopwatch carefully to make sure it is functioning.

Sera steps through the ropes and walks toward the center of the canvas. He takes on the role of referee even though the session is scheduled for only a single round of sparring.

From the edge of the gym floor, Nakahara observes everything in silence. His gaze lowers to Ryoma’s gloves, and he immediately notices that Ryoma is wearing his standard fight gloves instead of the high-cushion gloves normally used for sparring.

Nakahara understands exactly what that decision implies. And he realizes that Ryoma intends to make this round uncompromising.

Although concern flickers briefly across his face, the old man does not voice any objection. He keeps his arms folded across his chest and continues watching, fully aware that intervening now would only undermine the purpose of what is about to happen.