VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Sunday, April 29th, 2018.

Late morning, the area surrounding Yoyogi Gymnasium is already alive with activity. Streams of spectators continue pouring through the entrances, many carrying event merchandise, others stopping to take photographs beneath the giant promotional banners hanging outside the venue.

Unlike most Japanese boxing events, today’s schedule begins unusually early. The opening bout starts at eleven o’clock, a deliberate decision to accommodate the American market.

Now, even during the opening curtain-raiser, thousands of seats are already occupied. Inside the ring, there is little sign that either fighter cares about television schedules or international audiences.

”Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Yoyogi Gymnasium in Tokyo, Japan!” the lead commentator announces in English. ”Good evening to everyone watching us across America, good afternoon to our viewers in Australia and New Zealand, good day to everyone joining us across Asia, and to those of you still awake in Europe... welcome to what promises to be an incredible day of boxing!”

”And if you just tuned in,” his broadcast partner adds with a laugh. ”you’re not looking at the main event. This is the opening bout!”

The camera pans across the stands, where spectators continue streaming through the entrances despite the event having only just begun.

Two young B-Class boxers tear into each other with the intensity of men who seem to have carried a personal grudge from the moment they left home that morning.

”Left hook! Right hook!”

”Another right hand crashes home!”

Neither boxer seems interested in pacing himself.

”These two are supposed to be the curtain-raiser!”

”But they’re fighting like they settled a personal score before they even got to the arena!”

”Forget footwork. Forget conserving energy! They’re throwing everything they have!”

”And honestly, I don’t blame them. Ronin Fight Management has become one of the hottest promotional companies in Asia. A performance like this can change a young fighter’s career overnight.”

Before this, Nakahara Gym had struggled for years just to get its fighters onto an event. Old man Nakahara often had to go from promoter to promoter, asking for nothing more than a chance to place one of his boxers in an opening bout.

Now the roles have completely reversed. It is the young fighters who desperately fight for a place on Nakahara’s stage. And judging by the violence unfolding in the very first bout, neither of the men inside the ring has any intention of letting that opportunity slip away.

***

Several corridors away, inside the locker room reserved for Alvin Della Cruz, even his team can’t help turning their attention toward the mounted flat screen.

”They are insane…”

”And that’s only the opening bout?”

And the second fight delivers the same relentless pace, drawing another wave of thunderous reactions from the crowd.

Then the third bout raises the bar even higher. Two A-Class super featherweights turn the ring into a war zone.

”Yoyogi is already on fire!” the lead commentator exclaims.

”Whoever walks into that ring later tonight is going to have to match this atmosphere,” his partner says.

Every punch lands with a heavy thud. Faces quickly become swollen, noses redden and bleed, yet neither man gives ground.

”Is it always like this in Japan?” Hermosa mutters almost to himself. ”Nobody’s trying to survive. They’re all trying to be remembered.”

He keeps watching the screen for another moment before turning toward his fighter. ”Alvin, we’d better start getting ready.”

Then he pick up the mitts resting beside the bench. ”I’ve got a feeling the fourth bout is going to be the same. And if they decide to go to war as well, it won’t last very long.”

Della Cruz rises from the bench without a word. Somehow, the atmosphere inside Yoyogi is affecting him more than usual. It stirs something inside him, not excitement, but the kind of tension he doesn’t enjoy.

Normally, a regional champion like him would feel at home in an arena like this. His own style has always been built around the same pressure, heavy exchanges, and the willingness to walk through punishment. Yet today feels different.

Before joining Hermosa for mittwork, Della Cruz begins shadowboxing alone. His movements are slow, almost absent-minded, as though his body is moving while his thoughts remain somewhere else.

They drift back to Manila, to the final two rounds against Kenta, where he had been made almost completely helpless before the ringside physician stepped in.

It remains the most humiliating win of his career. That memory is exactly why he demanded this rematch himself. He wants to erase it.

But now, Alvin Della Cruz finds himself haunted by a different thought.

”What if he is still that dominant?”

”Can I beat him?”

Then Hermosa’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

”Enough. Let’s get to work.”

Della Cruz blinks, exhales quietly, and turns toward his trainer.

At first, his mittwork lacks its usual sharpness, his focus still clouded by the memory of Manila. Hermosa notices it but says nothing, allowing the mittwork itself to pull Alvin back into the present.

Gradually, the hesitation disappears. The punches regain their speed and authority, each combination flowing into the next with crisp precision.

Before long, the Alvin Della Cruz everyone recognizes is back, strong and fast, driving tight combinations into the mitts with the relentless intensity that made him the WBO Asia Pacific welterweight champion for years.

***

Meanwhile, Kenta looks remarkably calm inside his locker room, a sharp contrast to the feverish atmosphere echoing throughout Yoyogi Gymnasium. As one of Ronin’s fighters, this kind of environment is no longer unfamiliar to him.

He knows he’s about to face a dangerous champion, the kind of opponent who filled him with genuine apprehension back in Manila. But that feeling no longer exists. Kenta still believes he was winning that fight. Della Cruz is no longer a man he sees as unbeatable.

More importantly, this camp has been completely different. For weeks, Ryoma has worked alongside him, helping refine every aspect of his preparation.

And even today, Ryoma walks over with the mitt pads already strapped on.

”Come on, Kenta. Let me help you tuned up.”

Kenta nods, rises from the bench, and slips on his gloves.

The mittwork begins conventionally at first, a few familiar combinations to loosen his shoulders and find his rhythm.

But once Ryoma senses Kenta is fully tuned in, his footwork changes. He settles into the same tight, rhythmic movement he had used while preparing Kenta for Liam Kuroda, quietly transforming an ordinary warm-up into something far more demanding.

”Tight, tight, tight!” Ryoma calls between exchanges. ”Don’t think too much for now. Focus on the rhythm.”

Instead of simply presenting the mitts as targets, Ryoma begins attacking with them. Every block or parry is followed by an immediate counter from Kenta, turning an ordinary mitt session into a continuous exchange.

”Don’t hold back,” Ryoma says. ”You won’t hurt me. I’ll catch every punch.”

Unlike conventional mittwork, Ryoma uses the pads as weapons, giving Kenta complete freedom to counter, confident in his ability to read punches. At least, he limits the drill to compact straight shots to the head, allowing him to focus entirely on timing.

But then, all at once, Ryoma suddenly feels a chill run down his spine. Before it can go any further, he takes a step back, catches Kenta’s final straight on the mitt, and holds it there.

”I guess that’s enough,” he says.

Kenta blinks, and the tunnel forming around his vision gradually fades as everything returns to normal.

He says nothing at first, but confusion lingers in his eyes. Because this isn’t the first time Ryoma ends the session this way.

The same thing happened during their sparring. Just as Kenta felt himself approaching that familiar state, Ryoma disengaged.

And over the past two weeks of mittwork with him, it has happened again and again. He got the feelings standing on the edge, and Ryoma abruptly ended the session.

”You...” Kenta finally says. ”You knew I was about to enter the zone.”

”I just...” Ryoma responds with an uncertain smile, ”kind of felt it. Was I right?”

Kenta nods once. And that affirmation immediately catches Nakahara’s attention.

”Huh? Really?” he asks. ”Wait… I understand you can recognize it after someone’s already fully settled in the zone. You can see it in the way they move. But before that?”

Then he turns to Kenta. ”Did you really have that feeling just now? The feeling of standing on the edge of it?”

”Yes,” Kenta says, turning back toward Ryoma. ”And this isn’t the first time. You’ve done it every single time. How did you know? And... why do you always stop me? It’s almost like you don’t want me to enter it.”

Ryoma falls silent for a moment before answering. ”I think you’re already good enough to beat Della Cruz without depending on it. You know the zone has its risks. So why force yourself into it before you actually need it?”

He slips off the mitts and hands them to Nakahara. ”Here, old man. He’s all yours.”

Then he walks over to the bench and sits down, his eyes drifting toward the fight playing on the mounted television.

However, his thoughts remain on the brief chill that ran through him during the mittwork. The reasoning he gave Kenta is true. Yet it isn’t the reason he stopped the drill.

The moment Kenta reached that edge, Ryoma backed away out of instinct, not decision, as though something inside him had taken control before he could even think.

Kenta’s confirmation only convinces him that the feeling isn’t paranoia anymore. The problem is, Ryoma still can’t control it. Whenever that fear surfaces, his body simply moves before his mind can decide whether it should.