VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

June 22nd, 2017 – Narisawa Boxing Gym, Tokyo

The heavy glass doors of the Narisawa Boxing Gym swing open, but the anticipated roar of a media frenzy is missing.

Lawson and Kiet Anurak step inside, followed by Thanid Kouthai, whose presence alone seems to pull the oxygen out of the room. They stop in the foyer, glancing around the surprisingly quiet hall.

“Are we in the right place?” Kiet mutters, adjusting his collar.

“I saw the sign outside,” Lawson says. “Narisawa Boxing Gym. Plain as day.”

“I thought this was the most prestigious stable in Tokyo,” Kiet adds, his brow furrowed. “Two of their top fighters are on the Yoyogi card. So I expected there would be crowd here.”

Thanid, ever the stoic, adjusted the strap of his gear bag. “Perhaps they wish for us to train in peace,” he says in a gravelly tone. “I’ve heard the Japanese value privacy and silence above all else.”

Takanobu Narisawa approaches them with a professional smile. “Welcome to Narisawa Gym, Mr. Lawsonn, Mr. Anurak,” he says in English. He offers a shallow bow, the kind reserved for respected business partners rather than friends. “I trust your journey from Narita was without complications?”

“Smooth as silk, Mr. Narisawa,” Lawson replies. “We appreciate the hospitality. It’s rare to find a gym in Tokyo with this much… history.”

He emphasizes the word ’history’ as his eyes wander toward the slightly yellowed posters of past champions on the walls.

Kiet Anurak steps forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “The atmosphere is focused. A true fighter’s stable. We thank you for providing a sanctuary away from the Nakahara circus.”

Narisawa’s lips twitch into the faintest ghost of a smile. “In this gym, we value the old ways.”

He gestures for them to follow him onto the main floor. As they step past the heavy punching bags, Lawson’s eyes immediately dart to the spectator bench, spotting only two local journalists; older men with frayed notebooks and bored expressions.

“I expected this place to be crawling with reporters, Narisawa-san,” Lawson says. “This isn’t exactly the red-carpet welcome I imagined.”

Narisawa shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps they already have enough material. They’ve been swarming this gym for a month. Even the press gets exhausted eventually.”

***

Without wasting time, Thanid strips off his heavy training suit, revealing a physique carved from mahogany. His skin is dark, seasoned by years of Muay Thai camps under the brutal Thai sun. His muscles ripple with a functional density that looks more like armor than flesh.

The amateur fighters in the gym watch with a mix of trepidation and awe. From the far corner, Wakabayashi and Hamakawa observe him with narrowed eyes.

Junichiro, the JBC’s top-ranked Lightweight, stands nearby. As a fellow lightweight fighter, he is slated to be Thanid’s primary sparring partner today. And he looks genuinely challenged.

Thanid begins his footwork drills. His movements are static, economical, and grounded. But every step is clean, every footing is iron-clad.

When he starts shadowboxing, the air hisses with the sheer velocity of his extensions.

Then, when he moves to the heavy bag…

THUD! THUD!

BAM!!!

The sound is visceral, a sickening explosion of leather against dense foam. The bag doesn’t just swing; it folds under the pressure.

“Did you hear that?” one of Narisawa’s younger prospects whispers, a jagged smirk spreading across his face. “That’s not a punch. That’s a fucking sledgehammer.”

“I can already see it,” another replies, his voice dripping with villainous glee. “Imagine that right hook sinking into Ryoma’s ribs.”

“Exactly,” a third fighter nods. “That cocky Ryoma thinks he’s the king of the world just because Nakahara puts his face on every billboard in Tokyo. It’s about time someone comes in and humbles that entire arrogant camp.”

They exchange a series of cruel chuckles, their resentment for Nakahara’s sudden success manifesting as a desperate hope for Ryoma’s downfall.

However, when the sparring session begins, that excitement turns into a cold, creeping dread. Because some of them have to step into the ring as Thanid’s sparring partners.

***

In the early sparring session, Thanid dominates those lower-level fighters with terrifying ease. Despite his transition to boxing, his stance remains rooted in the discipline of a Muay Thai king; unfazed, clinical, and predatory.

He doesn’t need to move much. He simply waits for them to enter his range before dismantling them with short, thudding counters.

“He’s so dominant,” one of the journalists notes.

“Sure, he looks like a god against sacrificial lambs,” the other counters, his pen hovering over a blank page. “But slaughtering nobodies doesn’t tell us a damn thing about how he’ll deal with Ryoma’s lateral movement and hand speed. You can’t gauge a storm by looking at a puddle.”

Finally, Junichiro steps into the ring. As the #1 JBC Lightweight, he is one of the best fighters of this gym.

Junichiro showcases slick footwork, dancing around the perimeter and firing off elegant, crisp jabs.

But Thanid remains a statue in the center of the ring. His defense is disciplined, his eyes tracking every twitch of Junichiro’s shoulders with a terrifying calmness.

Junichiro senses an opening and commits to a heavy right cross. Thanid simply parries it with a casual flick of his glove and, in a blur of motion, counters with a straight shot to the chest.

Bugh!

The impact sends Junichiro stumbling back.

Thanid begins to press. The combinations are simple; 1-2 to the guard, hook, then liver blow. But the weight behind them is monstrous.

A stiff jab then snaps Junichiro’s headgear back, followed by a right hook to the shoulder that deadens the arm.

Next, a left liver blow saps the air from the room. And finally, a thudding overhand that sends Junichiro to the canvas.

The gym falls silent. It is clear now: Thanid had just been holding back with the others, but not this time.

Junichiro scrambles up, his face flushed with shame. “I can still go!” he shouts.

Thanid doesn’t understand the Japanese words, but he reads the frantic defiance in Junichiro’s eyes.

With a subtle nod to Kiet, Thanid steps back into his stance, cold and immovable.

But the restart is a massacre. Junichiro lunges forward, desperate to land a lucky counter, but his movements are heavy and telegraphed.

Thanid doesn’t even bother to circle. He ducks a wild hook and counters with a short, clinical uppercut that snaps Junichiro’s head back.

Before the Japanese fighter can reset, a punishing body shot follows, folding him like a lawn chair.

Thanid stares down at him for a moment, then turns his back, signaling to Kiet with a simple wave of his glove.

“My fighter is done for today,” Kiet says to Narisawa in English. “He does not wish to break what he cannot use.”

Narisawa gives a nod. “That’s enough, Junichiro. Step down.”

“No! Not yet!” he wheezes, spitting a glob of crimson onto the canvas. “I can still move… I haven’t shown him my real pace! Give me one more round, Kaichou!”

“Get out of the ring, Junichiro,” Narisawa repeats, his voice dropping an octave. “Don’t make me say it a third time.”

“I’m the number one ranker!” Junichiro roars, his ego screaming louder than his aching ribs. “If I quit now, what does that say about this gym? What does that say about me?”

Narisawa doesn’t flinch. He leans over the apron, his eyes boring into his fighter’s soul. “If you stay in there, you’re not a warrior; you’re just a target. Now, move. Before you lose more than just your pride.”

The silence in the gym is deafening as Junichiro finally drops his gaze. He unfastens his headgear with trembling hands, the weight of the realization hitting him harder than Thanid’s punches.

As Junichiro slips through the ropes, Wakabayashi tries to console him. “At least he’s strong enough to beat Ryoma.”

“Shut up!” Junichiro snaps. “You think I like being a human punching bag for that brat’s opponent?”

Hamakawa scoffs. “If you still want to prove yourself, go beat Shinichi Yanagimoto first. An OPBF top-ranker is clearly still too much for you.”

“Are you saying I’m not even on Ryoma’s level?” Junichiro growls.

“It’s not even a question,” Hamakawa replies coldly.

Meanwhile, the two journalists are now surrounding Thanid for an interview.

“Mr. Thanid, what is your opinion on Junichiro, the top-ranked fighter in Japan?”

Thanid doesn’t sugarcoat his words. “If someone like him is the best this country has to offer, I worry for the fate of Japanese boxing. I don’t mean to insult, but Japan used to dominate the Pacific. Now? After Renji Kuroiwa’s loss to Miguel Cabello… I see only decline.”

“Well… many say the future of Japan rests on Ryoma Takeda now,” the second journalist adds. “The champion you are about to face. Do you agree?”

Before Thanid can answer, a familiar voice catches his attention. He looks up at the TV mounted on the wall.

The screen shows a chaotic shopping mall. Ryoma and Ryohei are surrounded by hundreds of fans, signing posters and posing for selfies. The news anchor reports on Nakahara’s massive promotional push to drive ticket sales.

Lawson lets out a bark of laughter, pointing at the screen. “Look at that desperation! They are turning their golden boys into salesmen a month before the fight. While we are here sharpening the blade, that kid’s busy signing autographs.”

Thanid doesn’t even bother to look at the journalists as he speaks, his eyes still fixed on the chaotic joy on the TV screen.

“Japan’s future?” he scoffs. “If that boy is your answer, then you’ve already lost. I’m afraid you are not building legacy here… but a circus.”