VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Two days later, in Miami, Florida, at the Academia de Boxeo La Isla, the familiar scent of leather and sweat hangs in the air. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting long stripes across the gym floor.

The Cuban-style punching bags sway gently as fighters move through their drills, but at the office tucked in the corner of the gym, tension brews.

The soft ping of an incoming email breaks the monotony. Jorge Rivera, Miguel Cabello’s head trainer, leans over his laptop, eyebrows narrowing. Beside him, team manager Carlos “Lucho” Herrera glances over, curiosity piqued.

“Another one?” Lucho asks, a faint smirk on his face. “Who is it this time? Another promoter trying to throw cash at him?”

Jorge clicks open the message, quickly scanning its contents. “Ryoma Takeda… That cocky brat from Japan. They’re sending a challenge for a fight.” He exhales slowly, shaking his head. “Well, that’s bold. And… potentially dangerous.”

Lucho chuckles. “Bold? More like insane. You’ve seen him in action. He’s a system breaker. This is… well, we expected it, but still…”

Just then, Miguel Cabello walks in, towel draped around his shoulders, having just finished his morning routine. He glances at them, eyes lighting up, clearly heard their conversation earlier.

“So, what about Ryoma Takeda? He finally sends a challenge?”

“Yeah, it’s a fight request,” Jorge explains carefully, gesturing to the screen. “They want you in the ring for WBC rank bout.”

Cabello pauses, letting the words sink in. A slow grin spreads across his face. “I want it. I’ll take that fight. Now.”

Jorge lifts a hand, calm but firm. “Miguel… remember the deal you made with Hugo Ramirez? Everything about your fights, who you face, when and where, needs his approval first.”

Cabello’s grin doesn’t fade. “Yeah, I know. But that’s just a formality. We tell him it’s a good matchup, and he’ll see it. I’ll handle it.”

Jorge exhales softly, shaking his head. “It’s never just a formality. Ramirez doesn’t let anyone step outside the plan. He’ll hear about this, and you can be sure he won’t approve a fight against Ryoma without his own reasons, and controls in place.”

Cabello waves his hand dismissively, still smiling. “Fine. Tell him. Nothing to lose, right?”

Cabello leaves, confident and unaware of the invisible barriers that govern these matches. Jorge and Lucho exchange a glance as their fighter leaving them.

“Well,” Lucho mutters, “there it is. Just like we thought. Fired up, naive, and ready to jump.”

Jorge nods slowly. “Yes. But we have to report this. Ramirez will hear about it. And you know what that means. He will not let Cabello fight Ryoma. Not without control.”

Lucho scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Of course. But let’s see how far he’ll go before the system shuts him down.”

The two men return to their work, already anticipating the next ripple in the carefully controlled world of international boxing.

***

One day passes. Two days. By the end of the week, Nakahara still has no response from Cabello’s camp. No call, no email, nothing. It’s as if the challenge never existed.

He leans back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Kurogane sits across from him, arms folded, watching silently before speaking.

“They’re ghosting us,” Kurogane says flatly.

Nakahara exhales, a low, disappointed sound. “I know. I had hoped… maybe Miguel would at least acknowledge it. But nothing. Not even a hint.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, letting the weight of the unspoken sink in. Finally, Kurogane tilts his head.

“Do we move on, then? Or keep waiting?”

After a moment, Nakahara straightens, decision settling on his face. “Enough waiting. We move on. Next target: Bobby Gibbs.”

Kurogane inclines his head, considering. “Do we tell Ryoma first?”

Nakahara shakes his head slowly. “No. Satoru’s final in the Rookie Tournament is coming up soon, and Ryoma is his chief second. Let them focus. This… this is ours. We handle it quietly.”

Kurogane nods, a faint acknowledgment in his eyes. “Understood. Step by step, then. Watch how they respond before we escalate.”

Meanwhile, the gym floor has come back to life. The steady rhythm of mitts snapping, shoes squeaking on the canvas, the low hum of fighters calling out combinations fills the space.

Okabe jogs past Ryohei, shaking his head with a grin. “Hey, careful with those jabs, or you’re going to hit yourself in the face again.”

Ryohei laughs, dodging a swinging arm. “Please, I’ve got better reflexes than you. Don’t be jealous just because your uppercuts are sloppy today.”

“Sloppy?” Okabe scoffs, mock-offended. “I’ll show you sloppy on the bag in three rounds. Prepare to eat canvas.”

“Bring it,” Ryohei says with a smirk, bouncing lightly on his toes. “But don’t cry when I knock you off your feet.”

Amidst it all, Ryoma is focused, his attention locked entirely on Satoru. The world outside; the challenges, the promoters, the politics, exists somewhere else entirely. Here, in the ring, only the rhythm matters, and Satoru’s growth.

Even as Nakahara watches from the sidelines, the heat of the gym reminds him: the fight for control, for rankings, for the future, all of that can wait. For now, it’s about the fighters and their craft.

***

The response from Bobby Gibbs’ camp arrives quickly, neatly typed and polite. They decline. “We appreciate the interest,” the email reads, “but Mr. Gibbs already has a scheduled fight next February, WBA rank bout.”

Kurogane exhales after reading the email. “He’s fighting Cristhope Pierlot, currently ranked 8th in WBA.”

Nakahara shakes his head slowly, a faint smile forming. “A safe move. He just lost to Elliot recently. Needs to rebuild momentum before taking another top contender.”

Kurogane glances over at him. “Then WBA ranked 5th. Let’s see what Carlos Morales says. Ryoma hasn’t appeared in the WBA rankings yet. Might be a good way to start making a foothold there.”

Nakahara gives a nod, and Kurogane begins typing the document.

They send the challenge the same day, and the reply comes in the next days. The tone is curt, the conditions clear.

“They are asking for a fixed $500,000 purse,” Kurogane says, face wrinkled.

Nakahara’s brow furrows. “Half a million… just for the fifth-ranked fighter. That’s far too steep, even if it’s a foothold.”

Kurogane leans back, expression neutral. “This is how they test you. See if you’ll bend for a price.”

Nakahara leans back slightly, rubbing his temple. “Should we even try to bargain?” he asks quietly, almost to himself.

Kurogane shakes his head slowly. “Forget it. That starting number isn’t an opening bid. It’s a message. They don’t want to accept a fight with us. The $500,000 is more a wall than an offer.”

He folds his arms, eyes sharp. “If we push on this, we’re just wasting time. Better to move to the next target, see who’s actually willing to engage.”

Nakahara exhales, nodding. “Alright… we move on. Santiago Medina. No forcing doors that aren’t meant to open yet.”

Kurogane gives a slow nod and turns to his laptop. Fingers moving methodically, he types up the challenge letter and sends it the same day.

But just like with Cabello, even after waiting five days, there’s no reply. And for once, Nakahara and Kurogane let it rest.

Tomorrow, Satoru’s fight in the East Block Rookie Tournament final takes priority, and Ryoma will be right there as his chief second. And he can’t be there alone by himself.

***

September 18th, 2017. East Block Rookie King Tournament.

The lights of Korakuen Hall buzz softly over the crowd, but the focus in the ring is sharp and unrelenting.

Satoru moves with a rhythm that is still rough around the edges, the pendulum beat of Soviet boxing clearly evident.

Only two tempos, not much variety, but even so, the way he sways lazily and jabs with a seeming lack of interest masks a surprising command of the fight.

Against his opponent, Satoru moves like a seasoned fighter, despite the rookie stage. His adversary tries to time counters, but Satoru’s lazy-looking motions actually control the pace, disrupt balance, and open opportunities he can exploit.

Ryoma stands at the corner as Chief-second, fully engaged. His eyes follow every subtle movement.

“Left foot back, tap the rhythm!” he calls softly.

Satoru shifts instantly, slipping past a jab and landing a clean counter to the ribs.

“Now, step back, one-two!” Ryoma instructs, tapping the canvas with his fist to signal timing.

Satoru obeys; his jab snaps out, the cross lands flush, and the opponent stumbles back.

This time, Ryoma leans forward, pointing at the fighter’s head. “Watch his guard! Overhand right, pull him in!”

Satoru pivots, sidesteps, and the punch grazes the opponent’s shoulder, opening up space for another counter.

Satoru reads them immediately, executing moves that seem effortless but are directly guided by Ryoma. The connection between them is seamless, yet the corner’s active influence amplifies each strike, each step-back counter.

The crowd notices; not just the fighters, but the energy radiating from the corner. Cameras click, fans whisper, and the Satoru-Ryoma dynamic draws attention as if it were the main event, even in a rookie tournament ring.

In the upper rows, a certain figure sits with a tablet at hand, sharp-eyed and understated. Most of the crowd would miss him, but Tanaka, a veteran journalist covering regional boxing, leans slightly toward Sato.

“Look at that man over there,” Tanaka mutters. “Do you know who he is?”

Sato squints, following Tanaka’s gaze. “No… who?”

Tanaka leans slightly toward Sato, his voice low but sharp. “That’s Hideo Kanemura… one of the top executives in the WBO.”

Sato blinks. “Wait… someone like him is here? For a rookie tournament?”

Tanaka doesn’t answer immediately, eyes tracking Kanemura’s gaze over the ring. The man nods subtly to someone beside him, whispering, clearly observing Ryoma’s corner and the dynamic with Satoru.

“Look at how he’s watching Ryoma,” Tanaka says. “That’s approval. Recognition. They don’t waste time on small things.”