VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Backstage, the movement settles into a steady rhythm as the event progresses. Officials move between corridors with clipboards in hand, confirming bout orders and checking assignments.

On one side of the wing, three separate locker rooms are assigned to the home fighters. Each space runs on its own pace.

On the other side of the wing, Nakahara’s camp occupies a single room. The space is shared, but not crowded. The three fighters move within the same rhythm, their preparation overlapping without interruption, guided by a single voice that does not need to rise to be heard.

Right now, Aramaki stands in front of Coach Nakahara, gloves up, shoulders relaxed. The sound of mitts echoes in steady intervals as he closes distance with compact movements. Each combination stays tight, built for close range, his weight shifting smoothly as he works inside an invisible opponent.

Nakahara lowers the mitts slightly, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“This is your first fight outside Japan. Don’t make it heavier than it needs to be.”

Aramaki gives a small, controlled nod, keeping his guard steady and posture unchanged.

“We chose this opponent for a reason. Cortez moves well at mid-range, but he doesn’t stay there. He comes forward. He trades. That’s where he’s comfortable.”

He raises the mitts again, bringing them together with a light, deliberate tap.

“For you, that makes this simple. You don’t need to search for openings. He will give them to you.”

Aramaki exhales slowly through his nose, maintaining his stance and steady breathing.

“Just be ready when he does,” Nakahara continues. “And don’t hesitate when it turns into an exchange.”

Nakahara shifts slightly, bringing the mitts back into position.

“Keep your hands tight. Step in, then out. Let him feel your presence.”

Aramaki moves forward, snapping off a series of tight combinations, elbows tucked, wrists firm. Each strike lands with a muffled thump against the mitts, rhythm steady and precise.

Nakahara adjusts his angles, guiding the punches, correcting weight, stance, timing. The session continues with small deliberate shifts, the focus entirely on execution.

But then, a sudden knock on the door freezes them mid-motion. When it opens, President Fujimoto steps inside, a dignified presence that immediately fills the room, followed closely by Dr. Mizuno and Urushido Yoritomo moving quietly behind him.

For a moment the mitts hang in the air as everyone registers the unexpected arrival. Aramaki blinks, lowering his gloves slightly, caught off guard. Nakahara stiffens but does not move, observing.

Ryoma, seated on the bench nearby, immediately rises. Surprise flashes across his face, replaced quickly by a broad, genuine smile. He steps forward a few paces, extending a hand, voice warm.

“Old man! You came all the way here?” he says casually, the familiar tone of camaraderie in his words, as if nothing formal separates them.

Fujimoto lets out a quiet breath and gives a small wave of his hand, easing the attention on him as he looks at Ryoma.

“I was planning to visit our new subsidiary here in Manila,” he says calmly. “And Aqualis Labs being able to enter this market like this, you played a part in that.”

He pauses briefly, his gaze steady. “So while I was here, I thought I might as well come and watch your matches tonight.”

His eyes move across the room, giving a small nod to each fighter, and when his attention reaches Nakahara, the old coach steps forward and bows, expressing his gratitude without needing words.

Ryoma suddenly turns, moving quickly back toward the bench with an energy that breaks the stillness, picking up his robe before turning around again and showing the back of it.

“Old, man… look at this. I put the Aqualis Labs logo on it.”

Fujimoto tilts his head slightly as he looks at it. “You did that on your own initiative?”

“Not just mine,” Ryoma replies, already gesturing toward the others. “Kenta and Aramaki too.”

Kenta lifts his robe without hesitation, turning it slightly so the same logo can be seen, while on the other side, Kurogane picks up Aramaki’s and adjusts it to show the mark clearly.

“I know they don’t have any contract with you,” Ryoma continues, his tone still casual but carrying weight. “But we’re one team, and you’ve done a lot for this gym. So let them carry the Aqualis Labs name into their fights tonight.”

Fujimoto smiles, the expression settling naturally as he looks at them. “I don’t see any reason to object. All of you carry yourselves well, not only as athletes, but as individuals.”

He pauses, then adds, “If the two of you perform well tonight, and keep your fights clean without bringing anything negative to the name you wear, I may consider giving a small incentive to the gym afterward.”

The mood in the room lifts immediately, glances exchanged with quiet excitement. Nakahara bows again in thanks, followed by the others one by one. Fujimoto raises a hand lightly, cutting it short before it turns into something prolonged.

“I guess that’s enough. I don’t want to disturb your preparation any longer.” He turns and heads for the door, Yoritomo following closely behind. “Fight well. I’ll be supporting you guys from the ringside.”

After Fujimoto and Yoritomo leave the room, Mizuno steps forward, addressing Nakahara.

“If you allow it, I would like to stay and assist the team. I want to monitor the athletes’ condition more closely.”

Nakahara considers him briefly before responding. “I don’t mind, but… I can’t include you as a cornerman. You’re not registered, and the role requires a license. We had to arrange one even for Okabe just so he could assist.”

“That’s fine,” Mizuno replies calmly. “I’ll stay here and help however I can.”

A knock comes at the door, and a staff member leans in, glancing briefly inside.

“Aramaki, ten minutes. Be ready.”

The door closes again, leaving the room to settle, but this time the shift is noticeable. Aramaki adjusts his gloves slightly, his posture still composed, but something in his movement becomes tighter, less fluid than before.

Nakahara watches him for a moment, then raises the mitts again.

“Come.”

Aramaki steps in, throwing a short combination, but the rhythm is not quite the same. The punches still land clean, but the timing is just a fraction off, the weight not settling as naturally as it did earlier.

Nakahara lets him finish the sequence, then lowers the mitts slightly.

“What is it?” he asks.

Aramaki hesitates for a brief moment before answering. “Nothing…” he says, then exhales lightly. “Maybe… I’m just too excited. This is my first international fight. It feels a bit like having my debut match.”

Nakahara smiles faintly, not making much of it as he brings the mitts back up. “It’s normal,” he says. “Once you step into the ring and trade a few punches, you’ll settle into it.”

He taps the mitts together once. “Now shake it off. One-two.”

***

Inside another locker room, Nicola Cortez moves lightly across the floor, shadowboxing in front of the mirror, his punches snapping out with rhythm and confidence.

His shoulders stay loose, feet shifting in small steps as he works through combinations, but unlike the usual quiet focus, his voice carries through the room, talking as he moves.

“Listen to that,” he says, grinning slightly as he throws a quick three-punch sequence. “Packed already. Sold out too. Not bad.”

He slips to the side, rolls his shoulder, then fires another combination into the air.

“Guess that rumor about gunshots really did the job. Sold the whole thing for us.”

He slows, letting his hands drop just enough as he turns his head toward his corner.

“Maybe we should try something like that too,” he adds. “Create a bit of hype for ourselves.”

Mateo Salazar doesn’t look impressed. He just stands there, arms resting on his chest, watching without much reaction.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says flatly. “There’s no way you can dodge bullets like what that kid did.”

Cortez chuckles under his breath, rolling his neck once before bringing his hands back up. “I’m not talking about dodging bullets,” he says, stepping forward again into his stance. “Just something else. Something enough to build my own myth.”

Salazar’s expression doesn’t change. “Just focus on your fight,” he replies. “It’ll be a joke if you lose tonight.”

Cortez clicks his tongue, then throws another combination, sharper this time.

“Come on,” he mutters. “A kid leaving home for the first time?”

He exhales lightly, shaking his head.

“Ain’t no way he beats me.”

Salazar has never liked this side of his fighter, the way confidence turns into something excessive, but he also knows it is the same edge that carries Cortez forward in exchanges, the belief that he can outpunch anyone even when the damage starts to build.

Taking it away would mean dulling that edge, and that is not something he can afford tonight. What he can do is bring him back to something simple, something grounded.

He stands up, slipping on the mitts before stepping forward.

“Come. One-two.”

Cortez moves in, but even as he steps forward, his mouth keeps going. “At least there’s one thing I like about my opponent tonight,” he says, sending a one-two into the pads.

Pak-pak.

Salazar takes a step back, keeping the mitts in place. “Again. Step deeper.”

Cortez follows, closing the distance, but still talking. “He doesn’t back down when it turns into a trade,” he says, firing another one-two.

Salazar adjusts the angle this time, bringing the mitts closer, inviting him to work inside. Cortez responds immediately, adding more punches, short and fast, but the talking never stops.

“I just hope he doesn’t freeze the moment he feels my punch,” he mutters.

Despite the constant talking, his breathing stays steady, his rhythm unchanged, the performance unaffected as the combinations continue to flow.

Then the flat screen mounted on the wall shifts, cutting to the arena feed, and the sound of the commentators rises just enough to draw attention. Cortez glances over, then turns fully, letting his hands drop as the screen shows Aramaki making his entrance.

The camera cuts closer, catching Aramaki’s face, the tension there, the hesitation, the look of someone stepping into something new.

Cortez simply lets out a laugh, open and unrestrained. “That’s what I was saying,” he says, shaking his head. “Look at his face. That’s the look of a toddler losing his mom in the crowd. And you think that kid’s going to beat me?”