VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

The bell rings, and the sound cuts cleanly through the heavy silence.

Okabe steps forward first, but he does not claim the center. He immediately settles into a defensive posture, raising a tight guard that sits slightly lower to shield his body.

He keeps his elbows tucked in, his chin buried behind the headgear, and his head moving in small cautious slips. His intention is clear. He is not here to dominate. He is here to survive.

Across from him, Ryoma does not wear any headgear. He stands bareheaded under the gym lights, as if he does not consider Okabe dangerous enough to require protection.

The decision is deliberate, and everyone in the gym understands the message behind it.

Ryoma does not circle cautiously as fighters usually do in the opening seconds of a round. He does not test distance with light jabs. He moves forward immediately with the intensity of a final round in a title fight.

He closes the space in three sharp steps and plants his feet in a low crouching stance. His shoulders roll once, and then the barrage begins.

Bug! Dug.

Thud! Bugh! Dug. Bugh!

Punches explode at close range without restraint. He mixes angles with frightening precision, slipping hooks around the guard and driving straight shots through narrow openings. His gloves snap against forearms, ribs, and shoulders in rapid succession.

Ryohei’s jaw tightens with irritation. “He’s seriously trying to break him.”

Okabe tightens his defense and absorbs the storm, but Ryoma’s accuracy proves unbearable. Body blows slip through tiny gaps and slam into his ribs and stomach like heavy hammers.

Each thudding impact reverberates across the ring apron and into the wooden floor beneath it. The repeated blows sound heavier than ordinary sparring, and the vibration travels through the ropes with every body shot.

Nakahara winces as he watches, anxiety tightening his chest. He worries about Okabe’s ribs, but he also worries about Ryoma’s knuckles, which have only recently recovered from injury.

The standard gloves offer less cushion, and every clean connection risks reopening something that has not fully settled.

“Hey, Ryoma!” Nakahara barks sharply. “Don’t push it too hard!”

Ryoma hears him. But instead of easing off, he steps in even closer and drives a brutal right straight into Okabe’s forearm guard.

The impact slams against the tightened defense with a dull, crushing sound.

He follows with another, and then another, battering the guard itself as if testing the structure of a wall.

The message is unmistakable. If the guard will not open, he will break it down.

***

Despite the aggression, Ryoma’s eyes remain calm. His breathing stays controlled. His movements are calculated.

When one body shot digs especially deep, Okabe reacts instinctively and shifts his weight to fire back. At that exact moment, Ryoma lifts his head slightly and exposes a clear target.

Okabe sees it and swings. And Ryoma’s right glove draws back, ready to counter with full force.

But at the last instant, Okabe restrains himself. He tightens his guard instead of committing.

And a small smile curves across Ryoma’s lips.

“Interesting…”

He resumes the assault, this time pounding against the sides of Okabe’s headgear. His gloves slam from left and right, rattling the padding.

“Is he showing mercy?” Aramaki mutters.

“How can you call that mercy, senpai?” Satoru asks.

“Don’t you see it?” Aramaki gestures with his chin. “Ryoma deliberately avoids threading punches through the opening at the front. Not once he’s targeting the exposed face directly.”

Ryoma pauses for a brief second and pivots, sidestepping to create a new angle. The movement opens a narrow window.

“See that,” Aramaki says again. “He’s showing mercy again?”

Kenta shakes his head. “He never shows mercy. At best, he’s baiting him to open up.”

Okabe recognizes the trap. He understands that any reckless swing will be punished. Instead of flailing wildly as he once would have, he throws short compact hooks from both hands.

He keeps his punches tight and controlled, relying on shoulder rotation rather than wide swings to generate force.

He does not aim to win. He only aims to create space. His face burns with anger, and his breathing grows rougher. But his punches remain disciplined.

Ryoma keeps his torso in constant motion while barely using his legs. He parries and blocks the short hooks, sometimes pulling his head just out of range. But he never retreats far enough to reset distance, choosing instead to remain in suffocating proximity.

Once for a while, he drops his guard and lets his chin fully open, offering it as bait.

The invitation forces hesitation into Okabe’s mind. Should he take the shot? Or brace for the counter?

Okabe avoid the risk. But the fraction of doubt is enough and Ryoma slips a sharp jab through the guard.

Dsh!

The punch clips Okabe’s face for the first time.

Then a cross follows immediately…

Dsh!

…and blood sprays from Okabe’s nose, staining the inside of the headgear.

For a brief moment, white light flashes across Okabe’s vision. His guard loosens, and Ryoma punishes the lapse with ruthless precision.

He drives three consecutive hooks into the ribs, rolls his upper body to the opposite side, and unleashes a low-to-high combination.

The final hook arcs upward toward the base of the jaw.

BAM!!!

The punch lands against the headgear, but the force still whips Okabe’s head sideways. His body stumbles into the ropes before collapsing onto the canvas.

A collective breath escapes from everyone watching. Okabe is still their friend, and none of them want to see him expelled from the gym because of a single brutal round.

But still, no one cheers. Only concern weighs heavily in their expressions.

Ryoma stands over him with his gloves lowered. His gaze studies Okabe carefully, not with rage, but with assessment.

After a second, Okabe reaches for the ropes and begins pulling himself up. But before he fully stands, Ryoma turns and slips through the ropes.

“Hey,” Okabe says hoarsely. “I’m not finished.”

“But I am,” Ryoma replies calmly. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Bullshit!” Okabe snaps. “You don’t get to decide that. I can still fight. And I deserve to stay.”

Ryoma turns back toward him and gives a small peaceful nod.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve seen enough to know you fixed that flaw.”

He pauses briefly. “Welcome back, senpai.”

The tension in the gym shifts instantly. Kenta and Aramaki exchange baffled glances, expecting Ryoma to punish Okabe ruthlessly. Yet Ryoma calmly removes his gloves, showing an unexpected softness.

Both exhale in relief, realizing that Ryoma is being fierce, but not really heartless.

Ryoma drops his gloves on the bench and begins peeling off the tape from his hands with steady movements.

“Warm up,” he says to the others. “We’re heading out for roadwork.”

The other fighters obey without hesitation. They begin stretching and preparing themselves for the morning run.

One by one, they exit the gym together, their footsteps fading toward the street.

Okabe remains alone in the ring, blood still dripping lightly from his nose, chest rising and falling heavily. However, his eyes no longer carry resentment. They carry resolve.

Meanwhile, Kurogane watches from the office doorway, quietly observing the scene.

People outside like to believe that Nakahara’s Gym only began to rise when Ryoma emerged, that the young fighter singlehandedly made everyone here look like elite athletes.

But today, he sees it firsthand: Ryoma pushes a teammate in his own relentless, sometimes hard-to-read way. And it actually works.

“What an interesting kid,” Kurogane mutters, a faint amused smile tugging at his lips.