VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

That thought lingers with Kenta a little longer. Not quitting isn’t enough. Not when people have put their trust in him, when they’ve looked at him and expected something more than just effort. That kind of belief demands something real in return.

His mind settles on his next opponent almost naturally: Marvin Dela Cruz.

Kenta steps away from the noise and crouches beside his bag, unzipping it before pulling out his phone. He scrolls through a familiar folder, then taps one of the saved clips, and the video plays.

On screen, Dela Cruz barrels forward, cutting off the ring with steady, aggressive steps. His punches come in heavy combinations, each one thrown with full intent, forcing exchanges whether his opponent is ready or not.

“Dela Cruz stepping in again… look at that pressure!” a commentator’s voice bursts through the speaker. “He doesn’t give his opponent any room to breathe!”

“Relentless,” the second commentator adds. “He’s not here to outpoint you. he’s here to break you.”

Kenta watches quietly, eyes steady. The sound draws a glance from across the gym. Okabe tilts his head, then walks over, peering down at the screen.

“That him?” he asks. “Your next opponent?”

Kenta nods. “Yeah. Dela Cruz.”

Okabe watches a few more seconds, his grin fading slightly as another exchange unfolds on screen; short hooks, a body shot, then a clean right hand snapping the opponent’s head back.

“…Damn,” Okabe mutters. “He’s nasty.”

Kenta doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze stays fixed on the screen as Dela Cruz steps in again, refusing to give ground, dragging his opponent into another exchange.

Most fighters would hate this kind of pressure. The constant forward motion, the refusal to reset. But Kenta doesn’t look uneasy watching it. If anything, there’s a quiet acceptance in his expression.

He glances briefly toward Ryoma, still surrounded by reporters.

For Kenta, sparring with Ryoma has always been a different kind of problem entirely, the kind where nothing stays in front of you long enough to touch, where every exchange slips away before it can even take shape.

He shifts his gaze back to the screen, watching Dela Cruz step in again, steady and unapologetic. This is different; clear in its intent, direct in its execution. The kind of fight where it comes down to trading, enduring, and finding out who can keep standing longer.

Okabe keeps his eyes on the screen for a moment longer before nudging Kenta lightly. “So… you see anything? Any cracks you can work with?”

Kenta shakes his head, slow and certain. “Not really.”

Okabe clicks his tongue softly, “Then what? You just planning to stand there and trade with him?”

Kenta doesn’t answer right away. The video keeps playing, the sound of punches landing filling the small space between them.

Okabe glances at him again. “What about Ryoma? Has he come up with something?”

Kenta exhales quietly, leaning back just a little as he lets the question settle. “He did,” he says after a moment.

Okabe raises a brow. “And?”

Kenta’s eyes remain on the screen, but his voice shifts, recalling it almost word for word. “He said… when it’s a title fight, it’s usually not about tricks anymore. Not really about finding some perfect flaw to exploit.”

Another exchange plays out, Dela Cruz stepping in, forcing contact, refusing space.

“Fundamentals still matter,” Kenta continues, calm and steady, “but that’s not what decides it. You need to put everything on the line, show everything you’ve learned, every single weapon you have, and take the title from him. Not with tricks. But by force.”

He lowers the volume slightly, but doesn’t stop the video, letting the rhythm of punches continue to play out in front of him.

He isn’t looking for openings yet. Not analyzing, not breaking things apart. Right now, he’s preparing himself for something simpler; standing in front of a man like Dela Cruz, and not stepping back.

***

The rhythm of punches continues from the phone, but suddenly it’s cut by a sharp vibration in Kenta’s hand. The video shrinks as a call comes through.

It’s a call from Izumi, his younger brother. Kenta blinks once, then taps the screen and lifts it to his ear.

“Yeah, Izumi? What’s up?”

His voice bursts through immediately, bright and overflowing with energy.

>

Kenta lets out a small breath, a faint smile forming. “Yeah. Against the WBO Asia-Pacific champion? This December. In Manila.”

>

“Yeah. Manila.”

>

Kenta leans back slightly. “That’s not really my call.”

Izumi goes quiet for a moment, the line filled only with soft static.

>

>

Kenta chuckles under his breath. “What’s this? Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about going.”

>

Kenta shakes his head lightly. “Manila’s far. You really think they’d go? And who’s going to take care of the shop? And dad… I don’t think he cares that much about my fight.”

>

Kenta’s fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

>

Kenta doesn’t answer right away. A soft smile forms, but there’s something heavier behind it.

He’s not young anymore, not compared to most fighters climbing this far. It took longer than it should have. Too many setbacks, too many moments where things almost ended before they began.

And back then, support at home wasn’t something he could rely on. But hearing this now, it settles somewhere deep.

>

Kenta exhales softly. “Ah… it’s nothing.”

He straightens slightly, eyes drifting back toward the gym floor.

“Anyway, I gotta go. Still have training to finish.”

>

But Kenta lowers the phone, a faint smile still lingering as the call ends, the sound of the gym slowly filling the space again.

***

The training continues as Nakahara raises the mitts again, this time a mitt work with Kenta.

The rhythm resumes; sharp, controlled, precise. But gradually, Kenta’s timing is off. Just a fraction too slow on the return, lacking the usual snap.

It’s subtle, but to Nakahara, it stands out immediately.

“Again,” Nakahara says.

Kenta steps in, throws the combination, but his mind isn’t fully there. He’s recalling the story how his dad has been bragging about him to his friends. For Kenta, that means more than winning a title.

The mitt shifts, and Kenta’s glove grazes it instead of landing clean. Nakahara lowers his hands slightly, studying him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, voice calm but direct. “Don’t tell me you’re getting homesick now.”

Kenta straightens, exhaling through his nose. He rubs his cheek lightly with the edge of his glove.

“Izumi called earlier… and…”

He trails off, unsure how to finish it. But Nakahara doesn’t really need him to.

“You’ve been staying with me too long,” the old man says, almost casually. “Not that I mind. You could stay in that cramped apartment with me until I drop dead, and I wouldn’t complain.”

Kenta snorts, shaking his head. “Hey, hey… old man. Don’t just throw ’drop dead’ into the conversation like that.”

“Why?” Nakahara raises a brow. “You scared I’ll leave you behind?”

Kenta clicks his tongue. “That’s not the point.”

Nakahara lowers the mitts to his sides, his gaze steady. “When you get to my age, you don’t get the luxury of avoiding thoughts like that. And death isn’t something that waits for old men. Your parents are younger than me. Doesn’t mean they’ll outlast me.”

Kenta’s expression shifts slightly.

“You should go see them,” Nakahara continues. “It’s not like they’re halfway across the world.”

Kenta looks down for a moment, weighing it. There’s hesitation there, old conflict, old distance. But Izumi’s voice lingers, along with the image it painted.

Kenta exhales, then nods. “Alright.”

“Good.” Nakahara raises the mitts again, tone snapping back into place. “Now stop thinking about everything else and focus on what’s in front of you.”

***

His training ends early in the afternoon, but Kenta doesn’t leave. He stays behind, moving between the rings, offering small corrections to the younger fighters. It’s quiet work, steady, the kind that keeps his body moving while his mind slowly settles.

By the time the sun dips low, Kenta helps Nakahara gather the last of the equipment, then drives him back to the apartment.

After dropping the old off, Kenta doesn’t turn the engine off.

“Go see them,” Nakahara says by the curb. “Maybe even stay the night for once.”

Kenta nods, and without overthinking it, he shifts the gear and pulls back onto the road.

By the time he parks outside the house, the sky has dimmed into evening. The place looks the same, just as how he left it behind.

Kenta steps out, closing the van door a little more carefully than usual. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the entrance.

There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t quite shake, something closer to hesitation. Then he walks up to the door and lifts his hand. It hovers there for a second before he finally knocks.

Footsteps approach from inside. The door opens, and his father stands there.

For a brief moment, Kenta searches his face, expecting something. But the expression that meets him is flat, the same cold look he remembers.

“Oh,” his father says, tone cool, almost indifferent. “It’s just you. I thought you forgot how to find your way home.”

It seems his father hasn’t changed at all, and something in Kenta’s chest sinks quietly with disappointment.