VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Inside the ring, however, that question changes nothing. After being driven back to the ropes, Ryohei takes the risk again, waiting for Ryoma to step in before firing at the exact same moment.

He aims for another dual exchange…

DSH!

…and the result is not much different from the last one. His punch still lands. But most of its force disappears along the way.

”Damn it…”

”So much for a dual exchange.”

Eventually, Ryohei raises both gloves high, tucks his elbows tight, leaning to the ropes as he settles completely behind a turtle defense.

He stops trying to win the exchanges, simply trying to survive. Better this than further humiliation.

At least, being the heavier man against someone deep into a weight-cutting program is enough to help Ryohei make it to the bell.

DING!

Ryoma lowers his gloves, looking mildly irritated. Ryohei immediately drapes an arm over the top rope to keep himself upright, and somehow, he looks even more irritated.

”You really hate me that much, huh?” he scoffs between breaths.

Ryoma frowns. ”What?”

”You treat Aramaki like he’s made of glass, then turn around and try to murder me.”

A few people around the ring laugh. But Ryoma simply turns away and starts walking toward his corner.

”Yeah,” he says flatly. ”I hate weakness. And you’re full of it.”

”Oh, screw you.”

The response only earns more laughter from ringside. Ryohei clicks his tongue and shakes his head, but even he can’t completely hide a reluctant grin.

By the time Ryoma reaches his corner, several journalists have already gathered around him.

”How’s the weight cut going?”

”Smooth so far,” Ryoma says.

”Of course it is,” another journalist says with a grin. ”We just watched you make a Japanese champion look helpless.”

Ryoma waves the comment away. ”There’s no pride in beating someone with that many weaknesses.”

Ryohei immediately shouts from across the gym. ”Hey, I heard that!”

Laughter immediately breaks out around the ring. Several journalists exchange amused looks, while even some of the fighters nearby struggle to keep straight faces.

”This gym always knows how to lighten the mood,” one of them whispers.

”Seriously,” another replies. ”They’ve got two Japanese champions, an OPBF champion, and a WBO Asia Pacific champion under one roof. But somehow they still feel like ordinary people.”

”Speaking of those two champions,” a third journalist says, glancing toward Aramaki and Ryohei, ”isn’t this actually the perfect setup for Ryoma’s preparation?”

”That’s true.”

”He gets regular sparring with fighters at that level without having to rely entirely on bringing people in from outside.”

”Yeah, yeah,” another nods. ”Maybe that’s what makes their tradition so unique. They don’t just train together. They grow together.”

”And judging by what we’ve seen today,” someone adds quietly, ”Ryoma might be the biggest beneficiary of that system.”

Meanwhile, Okabe is still throwing comments at Ryohei from the opposite side of the ring, refusing to let the matter go.

”Don’t worry, Champ. Maybe if you ask nicely, Ryoma will only try to kill you a little next time.”

”Shut up.”

The exchange sparks another round of laughter, including from several of the journalists.

One of them shakes his head. ”You know, I almost forgot that Ryoma almost got run over by a car last week.”

”Right,” another journalist says. ”I was actually worried it would disrupt his preparation. Looks like that concern was completely unnecessary.”

Nakahara overhears the exchange.

Somehow, it brings a small sense of relief.

The incident from a few days ago had lingered in the back of his mind more than he cared to admit. Seeing Ryoma move like this again, sparring at full intensity and joking with everyone afterward, makes it easier to believe that nothing important had been lost.

Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last long.

”Don’t let this mood fool you,” Sera says quietly beside him.

Just like that, Nakahara is brought back to reality.

Sera nods toward Ryoma again, his expression making it clear he still hasn’t let go of the concern he raised earlier about the direction Ryoma’s boxing is taking.

”Just saying, Liam O’Connel isn’t Ryohei. He’s two centimeters shorter than Ryoma. His frame is more compact. Denser. In some ways that’s an advantage for us if Ryoma stays at mid-range or boxes from the outside.

He pauses briefly before continuing. ”But if he insists on fighting Liam in close quarters, he’ll lose that battle. Fighters with shorter frames generate hooks and uppercuts faster at short range. Their rotational path is smaller. Their punches recover faster. Their hands return to guard sooner.”

His gaze sharpens. ”Their rhythm is tighter. The openings are smaller. Smaller openings mean fewer opportunities to survive mistakes.”

Before Nakahara can respond, Kenta climbs onto the ring apron beside Ryoma.

”Hey, can you spare a bit of time for me later? I want that special mittwork again.”

Ryoma nods casually. ”Sure. But I’ve still got one more sparring session with Satoru.”

”Well, take it easy.”

”I’ll try.”

Kenta nods and hops back down.

The exchange is brief, but it reminds Nakahara of something important. For all the concerns surrounding Ryoma’s recent changes, the kid isn’t naive about boxing. He’s a trainer too, a coach like Sera, could be better than Sera himself.

”You know,” Nakahara says quietly, ”I’ve already had this conversation with him. Before I even allowed him to start those slip-and-roll drills. He’s not trying to abandon his style. He’s preparing for the possibility of being forced to stay in close range. That’s all.”

Sera nods several times, not in agreement, more like someone acknowledging a statement he doesn’t fully believe.

”Yeah, yeah. I know. I heard him say it myself. But are you really going to take his word for it? Considering his nature?”

Sera folds his arms. ”He’s entered that zone more times than most fighters ever do. And I bet getting back there becomes a little easier for him now. Doing it as a mid-range counter puncher is already dangerous enough. At close range, it’ll pull him in even harder. The tension. The adrenaline rush. The constant exchanges.”

His expression hardens slightly. ”We might end up seeing something from him that hasn’t surfaced before. Let’s just hope it isn’t the same thing Shimamura had; getting even more excited like a mad man after getting too many hit in the head.”

***

Meanwhile, Liam O’Connel’s preparation continues in the outskirts of Tokyo. And unlike Ryoma, the weight cut isn’t particularly demanding for him.

Being two centimeters shorter and naturally walking around at roughly 64 to 65 kilograms, the journey toward the lightweight limit of 61.2 kilograms is far less severe.

He doesn’t have to sacrifice nearly as much muscle mass, which means he can spend more time training while maintaining most of his physical strength.

Even today, Liam is still carrying out strength work. More specifically, neck training.

Thick resistance bands are attached to a harness wrapped around his head, pulling from different angles while Liam holds position against the tension.

”Hold it there. Fifteen seconds.”

The fitness coach watches the stopwatch in his hand.

”Ten more.”

The band continues pulling sideways, the muscles along Liam’s neck visibly tightening as he refuses to give even a centimeter.

”Five.”

”Four.”

”Three.”

”Two.”

”One.”

”Switch.”

After that comes weighted squats, except the weight isn’t resting on his shoulders. A rope extends upward from a mouthpiece clenched between his teeth, forcing his neck and jaw to stabilize the load throughout the movement.

”Keep the bite. Keep the neck tight.”

Liam sinks into another repetition as the fitness coach walks around him, watching his posture.

”Don’t let your head drift forward.”

”Good. Hold that position.”

”Now up.”

After several repetitions of the jaw-burning drill, the session moves on to something even less comfortable.

Liam positions himself upside down against the corner wall, feet elevated above him. Most of his body weight rests on his neck and upper shoulders as he slowly tilts his head from side to side, each movement deliberate and controlled.

It’s uncomfortable, tedious, but effective. And Liam O’Connel barely looks fatigued after completing the sequence.

Months of doing these drills have turned them into routine, gradually building a neck far thicker than it used to be.

”That’s enough for today,” the fitness coach says.

Liam wipes the sweat from his face and shakes his head.

”I can still go.”

”Not for this exercise.”

”My next opponent is a counter puncher,” Liam insists. Not the kind who just hurts you. The kind who rattles your brain. My body might still be fine after taking one of his shots. But if my brain gets shaken hard enough inside my skull, there’s no guarantee I’ll stay conscious.”

His gaze hardens. ”Doyle said a stronger neck helps reduce that, so I can keep hurting him.”

The coach exhales. ”And if you push beyond the planned volume, you risk injuring the very thing you’re trying to strengthen. A sore neck is manageable. A strained neck two weeks before fight night is a disaster.”

Finally, Liam clicks his tongue and relents.

”Fine.”

Liam walks away without another word, heading toward the mirrored wall normally used for shadow boxing.

For a few moments, he loosens his shoulders, rolls his neck, and shakes out his arms.

Then he begins shadowboxing. The stance is compact, knees bent, weight constantly flowing from side to side. There’s only small adjustments, small angles, always balanced, always ready to explode.

Then the punches come; a short left hook snaps through the air, immediately followed by a right uppercut.

Whump! Whump!

The transitions are frighteningly quick. There is almost no space between the punches, no unnecessary recoil, no visible loading.

Everything travels through tight arcs, compact, efficient, and violent. Every rotation begins from the floor, transferring through the hips before reaching the shoulders.

The result is a kind of power that looks completely disproportionate to the distance traveled by his fists.

The mirror reflects a fighter who seems perfectly built for close-range combat; fast hands, dense frame, endless pressure, and enough power to punish every mistake.

Two weeks remain before the fight night. And perhaps, Ryoma is about to discover what his limits actually look like.