VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Now that ticket sales are approaching eight thousand and the market trend continues its steady climb, Nakahara can finally leave the office without a trace of anxiety. The weight of the Yoyogi event eases from his shoulders, leaving Nakahara free to focus entirely on the fighters’ preparation.

The moment Nakahara and Kurogane arrive at the modest gym in the Shonan training camp, the scene unfolds with quiet intensity.

Sera holds the mitts for Kenta, guiding each strike with precise, controlled authority. On the other side, Ryoma mirrors the same focus with Satoru, exchanging measured punches against the mitts.

At the back of the building, Ryohei, Okabe, and Aramaki stretch along the wall, eyes drifting toward the waves, waiting for their turn to step in.

The air smells faintly of sweat and salt, and the soft rhythm of leather striking leather fills the space.

Ryoma shifts slightly, mitts angled with precision. “Keep your guard up,” he instructs, voice calm but firm. “Snap the jab, don’t just swing. Footwork first, then punch. Again. Smooth and controlled.”

Satoru adjusts, pivoting on his toes as Ryoma guides each strike, correcting angles with brief, exact words.

Nakahara watches silently, while Kurogane scans the gym with a skeptical edge, noting the lack of modern equipment.

Kurogane’s brow furrows as he steps closer, voice blunt. “Kaichou, are you telling me this is all they have? No proper ring, barely enough pads… Are you really renting this place because of budget constraints?”

Before Nakahara can respond, a man enters the gym from the same doorway they just used, his steps quiet but purposeful. He moves behind them, pausing briefly as his gaze sweeps across the fighters and the worn equipment.

“Sometimes,” he says evenly, “what you need isn’t the latest equipment or a state-of-the-art facility.”

He is calm, composed, wearing a neutral expression that doesn’t betray irritation. “Being away from comfort, and having to adapt…” the man continues, “that strengthens the mind. For a mega-event like Yoyogi, this kind of environment may be exactly what the fighters need.”

Kurogane blinks, assuming the man is the gym owner. He forces a smile and bows twice. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to belittle your facilities.”

The man tilts his head slightly. “Why would you apologize to me?”

Nakahara bows slightly, more as a greeting than anything else. “Isn’t it Dr. Mizuno? It’s an honor to see you here.”

Kurogane turns toward Nakahara, then back to the man. “Dr. Mizuno?”

“Yes,” Nakahara confirms. “He was the nutritionist Aqualis sent to supervise Ryoma during the Melbourne camp. Thanks to his guidance, we managed to get Ryoma to weight despite a terrible plan we had back then.”

Dr. Mizuno waves the comment aside, expression neutral. “I only provide advice, as any nutritionist would. It’s up to the team and the athlete to implement it.”

Kurogane leans forward, visibly impressed. “So Aqualis sent you again to oversee conditioning?”

Dr. Mizuno nods. “Yes. Ryoma is the main brand ambassador. We make sure he enters the ring in peak condition. Every punch he throws represents their support. His performance is part of their brand as much as his own career.”

Then Nakahara calls out. “Kid!”

Hearing his voice, all those four pause their mittwork. Sera is the first to greet, bowing lightly, while Nakahara gives only a nod before calling Ryoma over.

Aramaki pokes his head out from the back door, the one leading to the backyard. His eyes catch Nakahara standing near the entrance.

“Ah… Coach Nakahara’s here,” he mutters.

Hearing that, Ryohei and Okabe abandon their stretching and head back toward the gym. Okabe calls out from a distance, half complaint, half relief.

“Took you long enough, old man. Now that you’re here, maybe I won’t have to wait forever for my turn on the mitts.”

Nakahara grunts, nodding once without looking up, his attention immediately returning to Ryoma. The serious tension around the gym entrance is enough to slow Ryohei and Okabe mid-step.

“Who’s that guy?” Ryohei whispers, squinting toward the man standing beside Kurogane.

“That’s Dr. Mizuno,” Aramaki answers. “The same nutritionist who helped Ryoma back in Melbourne.”

Ryoma glances at Dr. Mizuno and nods respectfully before following Nakahara’s earlier instruction to remove his shirt, preparing for inspection.

After taking off his shirt, the sweat on his skin gleams under the late morning lights. His muscles are defined and balanced. His tone and conditioning look untouched by any extreme cutting.

“You actually look better than last time,” Dr. Mizuno remarks. “Visibly bigger. What’s your weight this morning?”

“67.4 kg,” Ryoma answers.

Dr. Mizuno raises an eyebrow and looks to Nakahara.

The coach nods, then explains. “It’s been over two years since Ryoma moved up to Lightweight. He’s fully adapted. The extra weight no longer burdens him. We plan for him to enter the ring at 67 kg.”

Dr. Mizuno considers. “Cutting from 67 to 61.2 is ideal. But I wouldn’t recommend stepping into the ring at 67 kg.”

Nakahara blinks. “I thought the added weight would increase strength. Even at 68 kg, his footwork stayed excellent, just as fluid as he was back then at Super Featherweight. It no longer slows him down.”

Dr. Mizuno shakes his head slowly. “Cutting from 67 to 61 kg over two months isn’t the problem. The issue is rehydration. Forcing six kilos back in just thirty hours overtaxes the lungs and heart. By round six or seven, his legs will feel like concrete

Ryoma frowns. “Even if I pace my stamina each round?”

“Even then,” Dr. Mizuno replies firmly. “I’m afraid you’d still lose your footwork by round eight. You’re defending a 12-round title now. Your opponent is known for his durability. If you can’t score a knockdown, the last four rounds will crush you. And Aqualis will see a poor performance.”

Coach Nakahara’s gaze drifts slowly back to Ryoma, tracing the lean lines of his shoulders and the tension in his arms. And a quiet weight presses on him, disappointment mingled with concern.

Just two months ago, he imagined Ryoma stepping into the ring at 67–68 kg, muscles full, movements crisp, every strike optimized.

But now, after Dr. Mizuno’s assessment, he realizes that peak seems fleeting, confined to the first half of the fight.

Perhaps it is true. At 174 cm, Ryoma’s natural division might be Super Lightweight, the same as Ryohei’s. Nakahara clenches his jaw briefly, weighing the compromise: speed, endurance, and safety over raw power.

“No choice then,” he exhales, his voice low but steady. “We’ll keep your walking weight around 66 kg. Get used to moving at that weight before the ring.”

Dr. Mizuno nods in agreement. “It’s still better than back then with Jade McConnel. At 66 kg, your punches might not carry quite as much as at 67 or 68, but with proper conditioning, you can remain lethal through all twelve rounds.”

Ryoma’s expression doesn’t falter. He nods once, accepting the adjustment without protest.

“Where’s Hiroshi?” Nakahara asks.

“He just went back to the lodge,” Ryoma replies. “Preparing lunch for us.”

“Go tell him about the new adjustments,” Nakahara says. “With your target weight shifting, your diet, and maybe some of the conditioning, will need recalibration.”

Ryoma nods without hesitation, a flicker of focus sharpening his expression.

“Understood, Coach. Dr. Mizuno, if you’ll excuse me.”

He heads toward the lodge, leaving Nakahara and Dr. Mizuno standing in the quiet gym.

Nakahara turns slightly, glancing at Dr. Mizuno. “I’m glad you’re here. If this adjustment had come later, we could’ve faced the same trouble we had in Melbourne.” His shoulders relax just a fraction, the tension easing at having expert guidance at the right moment.

Dr. Mizuno shakes his head, expression calm. “The thanks should go to President Fujimoto. He called me in sooner this time. It seems he truly cares about Ryoma. And Ryoma’s performance in the ring reflects that commitment.”

Nakahara blinks, surprise flickering across his face. He hadn’t expected President Fujimoto himself to go this far in supporting Ryoma.

A small, appreciative nod follows, a silent acknowledgment that the boy’s preparation now has backing stronger than just discipline and sweat.