VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

While Kurogane keeps talking about the gym potentially filling an entire year with title fights and champions, Nakahara quietly rides a tiny electric scooter through one of Tokyo’s wealthiest residential districts.

Cold winter air brushes against the old man’s cheeks as the scooter rolls quietly through the upscale residential streets of Seijō, where large homes sit hidden behind low stone walls, trimmed pine trees, and soft amber garden lights glowing against the clear January night.

The sky remains unusually clear, and the wind has calmed enough that Nakahara can still survive the trip bundled beneath his old padded coat, scarf wrapped thickly around his neck, gloved hands gripping the tiny handlebars.

Even so, the image itself feels absurd. Back at the gym, everyone is discussing world titles and million-dollar events. Meanwhile Nakahara’s electric scooter struggles slightly uphill at twenty kilometers per hour.

“This is exactly how old men catch pneumonia,” Nakahara mutters into the cold air.

A few moments later, Nakahara slowly guides the scooter into the open front approach of a spacious traditional-modern property where the driveway rises gently toward a broad terrace near the entrance.

Two expensive cars are already parked neatly near the upper section, while the rest of the property stretches outward into carefully maintained garden space.

Nakahara parks the tiny scooter near the edge of the driveway, looking almost comically out of place among the luxury vehicles around it.

Then he climbs toward the entrance, presses the bell once, and while waiting, briefly removes one glove and blows warm breath against his stiffened fingers to fight the January cold.

“…Kirizume better at least serve hot tea,” he mutters with a bit trembling lips.

A few moments later, the door opens, and an elderly house servant lowers his head politely. “Ah, Nakahara-san. Please come in. Kirizume-sama has been expecting your arrival.”

Nakahara gives a small nod, stepping over the threshold with a quiet, habitual murmur.

“O-jama shimasu…”

As he enters, he instinctively begins the usual ritual of stepping out of his shoes at the entrance. The servant moves in to help him off with his coat, reaching for it with practiced ease.

Nakahara hesitates slightly and waves a hand. “Oh, no, no… I can handle it myself. You don’t need to go that far. Especially with someone your age, Hasegawa-san.”

The servant pauses for a moment, then lets out a calm smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m still much younger than yourself, Nakahara-san.”

Nakahara glances at him for a moment, exhales, and gives a quiet nod, allowing the coat to be taken.

“…My apologies,” he says simply.

“No need,” Hasegawa replies while neatly hanging the coat aside. “Please, Kirizume-sama is waiting in the inner room.”

Nakahara gives another small bow, then adjusts his socks on the wooden floor before following the corridor inward.

“I often hear Kirizume-sama speak about your achievements,” Hasegawa says as they walk. “He holds your gym in quite high regard.”

Nakahara blinks lightly. “He’s talking about me again? That man really needs new hobbies.”

Hasegawa lets a faint smile slip as they pass through the softly lit corridor lined with polished wood.

“To be of your age and still remain so active… most people much younger would struggle to keep up. Riding a scooter across Tokyo on a winter night like this is not something I would expect from someone in your position.”

The moment Nakahara steps through the inner corridor, the smell of simmering broth and grilled fish reaches him before anything else.

In the dining space ahead, Kirizume is already seated at the table. His wife sits beside him, calmly adjusting a small dishware arrangement with practiced ease.

“There he is,” Kirizume greets, almost amused. “The man who thinks Tokyo winters are best enjoyed on a toy scooter.”

Nakahara lets out a small breath, half resignation, half greeting. “It’s not a toy. It has a motor. That makes it a vehicle.”

Kirizume’s wife gives a faint smile without looking up from the table. “Please sit, Nakahara-san. Dinner is just ready.”

Nakahara pauses briefly, then gives a small, respectful bow toward her. “Thank you for preparing this. I assume this is still going to turn into an intervention at some point.”

Kirizume chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “You say that every year, and yet you still show up.”

Nakahara settles down at the table, adjusting his sleeves as the warmth of the room slowly replaces the bite of the winter outside.

For a brief moment, no one speaks. And in that silence, there is no rivalry, no promotions, no gyms or rankings or titles being measured against each other.

Only an old friendship sitting comfortably over dinner, as if the world outside has agreed, just for tonight, to wait.

For a moment, that is exactly how it should be when two men like them meet here, inside a house like this, under a roof that does not belong to promoters or rankings or public narratives.

The dinner is quiet, unhurried, and for a brief while even their reputations seem to stay outside the door.

It only shifts after the meal is finished. Kirizume’s wife leaves them first, excusing herself with a polite smile as she takes the empty dishes away.

“So,” Kirizume says casually, “you’ve moved already? That new building. Two floors, right?”

Nakahara nods once. “One floor for the gym. The other for management and promotions. The old place was getting too tight for what we’re trying to do this year.”

“Hm.” Kirizume exhales through his nose. “Of course you did. And I assume you’ve already started doing everything yourself again.”

Nakahara shakes his head lightly. “It’s not like that. I’m not really doing much these days. I’m just fortunate to have good, energetic staff around me. And…”

“And the best fighter of the century who somehow became co-promoter at just twenty-one,” Kirizume cuts in immediately, his tone sharper than before.

Nakahara pauses, then gives a quiet nod without arguing. And for a moment, the air subtly tightens.

Kirizume, despite being a composed and rational man, has a habit of slipping, mid-conversation, from casual talk into the language of business and politics, as if the two were never truly separate to begin with.

“He’s not just bringing titles to your gym,” Kirizume continues. “He’s changing the entire structure around him. Those three you used to call promising but unstable? Now they move like they belong at the top level. Even someone like Renji never shifted an entire gym’s identity like that brat has done to yours.”

Nakahara does not answer right away. His expression softens slightly, not defensive, just observant, as if he is looking at a version of Kirizume that has not fully let go of something yet.

Kirizume watches him for a second longer, then clicks his tongue softly as if dismissing his own mood.

“Come on, old man,” he says, leaning back again. The edge in his voice fades, replaced by something looser, more familiar. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m happy for you…Even if it annoys me a little. Actually… quite a lot.”

He lifts his cup and takes a slow sip of tea before placing it down. “And honestly, I’m not surprised. That kid was always going to end up like this. I just didn’t expect it to happen under your roof.”

A brief pause follows, his gaze lowering slightly toward the table. “I’ll admit, part of it was greed that made me try to take him from you. But more than that… I simply thought it would be a waste if he ended up confined there, without being pushed far enough to reach what he’s capable of.”

Nakahara nods, acknowledging the point without resistance. “Honestly, I was only giving myself a year. If I failed, I was prepared for a life without him. But the kid insisted on staying, even when someone like Logan Rhodes tried to take him to America. Guess I’m just lucky to have him at my side.”

Kirizume lets out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. The whole country calls you the ‘giant killer’ now, and they’re not wrong. How many major stables have you overturned so far?”

And Nakahara still denies it. “No, I’m telling you, I didn’t do much. Not as a promoter, neither as a trainer. Most of the maneuvers we took were his ideas, even the way he pushed the other fighters in the gym to another level. Somehow, he’s always found the most effective method to improve them.”

Then he hesitates before continues. “It was also his idea to tell me to come here, and…”

Kirizume’s gaze sharpens with curiosity. “And…?”

“…suggesting you let Leonardo Serrano vacate his title and move on to world-level boxing,” Nakahara continues.

Kirizume’s eyes widen immediately, his expression turning sharply offended by the audacity.

“What did you say?” he asks in a low voice, barely restrained anger threading through it.

But Nakahara continues, steady despite the reaction. “And we believe this is for the better of your gym and management, Kirizume.”