VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma understands exactly what Ryohei demands of him. At least he hasn’t lost his senses. He goes home, gives his exhausted body the rest it needs, only to begin punishing it again afterward.

Just like every other morning, Ryoma sets out with Aramaki for roadwork, except this time he deliberately makes it harder, repeatedly charging up and down the steep embankments along the Tama River instead of staying on the flat riverside path.

By the time they arrive at Nakahara’s Gym, Ryoma gives himself no chance to recover. Every break grows shorter, every footwork drill longer.

”Fifteen-minute break,” Sera calls out. ”Then resistance-band shadow boxing.”

Not even ten minutes later, however, Ryoma is already wearing the resistance suit, driving weighted punches through the air while the rest of the gym is still catching its breath.

Aramaki watches him for a moment before calling out, ”Hey. Pace yourself. You’ll burn out before fight night.”

”I don’t have that luxury,” Ryoma replies without looking up.

The bands stretch as Ryoma explodes forward.

Jab. Cross. Slip.

Pivot. Left hook. Right uppercut.

He resets for less than a heartbeat before firing another sequence.

Double jab. Cross.

Roll beneath an imaginary counter.

Step outside. Left hook. Right cross.

The resistance bands snap against his shoulders and waist with every movement, constantly trying to pull him backward.

His lead foot digs into the canvas.

Pivot. Jab. Cross.

Left to the body. Right upstairs.

Slip, and pivot again.

And then three-punch burst.

Four-punch burst.

Pivot.

Then six-punch burst.

He doesn’t look like a boxer rehearsing combinations anymore. He looks like a man trying to punish yesterday’s version of himself with every punch.

The gym gradually falls quieter. One by one, the others slow their own routines, their attention drifting toward the far corner where Ryoma continues throwing combinations without a hint of fatigue.

”He’s overdoing it,” Hiroshi mutters at last.

”No,” Sera says quietly. ”He’s punishing himself.”

Ryoma doesn’t even bother saving any energy for the rest of the day. Whether he still has to function as Ronin’s CEO is the least of his concerns.

He has already fallen behind on countless responsibilities, but right now, none of them matter more than becoming strong enough to defeat Cabello.

***

By noon, everyone has showered, changed into clean clothes, and gathered near the entrance, ready to visit Ryohei at the hospital.

”Hiroshi, can I have the van keys?” Kenta asks.

”They’re on my desk,” Hiroshi replies.

As Kenta heads off to retrieve them, Okabe glances toward the ring where Ryoma is still having his own training.

”Ryoma!” Okabe calls. ”Are you coming or not?”

But Ryoma doesn’t answer. His focus remains locked on the phantom Cabello projected by the Vision Grid System.

”Hey!” Okabe raises his voice. ”You know why he ended up in that hospital. Can’t you put your damn pride aside for once?”

Still, Ryoma isn’t even sparing him a glance. The complete indifference is enough to make Okabe’s temper flare, but before another word can leave his mouth, Kenta casually hooks an arm around his neck and starts pulling him away.

”Leave him,” Kenta says quietly. ”He’s just trying to make up for lost time.”

Okabe finally gives up, only for his irritation to shift toward Aramaki, who remains standing quietly beside the ring.

”Hey, Aramaki! Aren’t you coming?”

”You guys go ahead,” Aramaki says. ”I’ll visit him tonight with my wife and kid.”

Okabe keeps grumbling all the way out of the gym, his irritation showing no sign of fading even after everyone climbs into the van.

”Seriously, what’s wrong with that guy?” he mutters. ”Ryohei ends up in the hospital because of him, and he can’t even spare a few minutes to visit?”

”Maybe he’s blaming himself,” Satoru offers.

”Then he should apologize to Ryohei’s face,” Okabe snaps. ”Not hide behind another training session.”

Sera glances at him from the front passenger seat. ”Not everyone deals with guilt the same way.”

Okabe folds his arms and looks out the window. ”Looks more like he’s running away to me.”

The van pulls away, leaving the gym unusually quiet. Only Hiroshi remains now, busy putting the equipment back in place, while Aramaki stays where he is beside the ring.

It isn’t concern keeping Aramaki there. It’s curiosity, because this is the first time Ryoma has ever used the Phantom Mode in front of him.

Every movement seems to follow a clear purpose. From Aramaki’s perspective, it almost looks as though Ryoma is hunting an invisible man through the ring.

Under any other circumstances, it would look ridiculous. But Ryoma no longer seems to care. Whether people think he’s a genius or a lunatic has become completely irrelevant.

***

The session goes on far longer than Aramaki expects. By his rough count, Ryoma has already gone through eight full rounds, even observing the one-minute breaks between them exactly as if he were fighting under real match conditions.

As Ryoma walks back to his corner for what appears to be the break before the ninth round, Aramaki finally climbs onto the apron.

”Is this some new training method?” he asks. ”Or something you came up with specifically for Cabello’s Cuban style?”

Ryoma wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove and gives a small nod, taking a moment to choose the simplest explanation.

”I’m simulating a fight where I have to keep chasing Cabello for round after round,” he says.

Aramaki frowns. ”And you’re doing that without a sparring partner?”

”I can already picture the way he fights,” Ryoma replies. ”Besides, this isn’t real sparring. The point is to train my patience. To stay composed, keep making the right decisions, and resist the urge to force the fight just because I’m desperate to hurt him.”

”Now that you mention it...” Aramaki says. ”I barely saw you throw any punches.”

Ryoma’s expression shifts slightly. ”Want to give it a try? I’ll pretend to be Rikiya Miyamoto.”

”Sure,” Aramaki replies, stepping through the ropes.

”To make it simple,” Ryoma says, ”here are the rules. Keep a high guard the entire time. Unless you’ve cut me off against the ropes, you’re not allowed to throw more than a two-punch combination.”

He raises his gloves. ”This isn’t about offense. It’s about patience... and having the discipline not to rush.”

Ryoma understands that the greatest obstacle waiting for him at Tokyo Dome isn’t power or technique. It’s physical and mental endurance.

After pushing his own body to exhaustion, now he forces himself to imitate the constant movement of a Cuban stylist, training to think clearly under fatigue instead of relying on instinct alone.

Even with sweat dripping from his chin and every breath coming heavier than before, his eyes never stop processing.

”Your angle,” he says, giving the side of Aramaki’s glove a light tap. ”Adjust first before you attack.”

Aramaki makes the adjustment without hesitation, resetting his angle while maintaining a disciplined high guard.

”And don’t ever let me relax,” Ryoma continues, already circling away. ”Stay patient, but relentless.”

As Aramaki takes a cautious step in, Ryoma flicks his right glove just enough to sell a punch. The reaction is immediate. Aramaki instinctively shifts backward, only to realize he has bitten on nothing.

”Even feints can wear your opponent down,” Ryoma says. ”Put real intent behind them. Make Rikiya believe you’re about to throw every single time. Keep forcing him to move, over and over, until he never gets the chance to settle.”

The ego-free sparring continues for several more rounds before the front door finally slides open.

Nakahara steps inside, removes his cap, and lets out a long, weary sigh. But the moment his eyes drift toward the ring and find his two best fighters still training well past noon, the complaint dies before it ever reaches his lips.

For a while, he has worried that all the responsibilities waiting outside the gym would leave his boxers to fend for themselves. Looking at those two now, he realizes he never had to worry in the first place.

”Coach,” Hiroshi calls as he walks over. ”You’re back. How did it go?”

Nakahara gives a single nod. ”Hamakawa accepted. I also stopped by Umemoto’s camp, and they accepted too.”

Then his jaw tightens. ”But that bastard still couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Even after I walked out of their gym, he was still trash-talking us in front of the reporters.”

Hiroshi shrugs. ”Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do to answer him.”

Nakahara slowly shakes his head. ”Not until Ryohei gets back into the ring.”

***

Ronin’s official announcement naming Shoji Hamakawa as replacement for Umemoto’s opponent for the interim title eases much of the backlash surrounding the Tokyo Dome card.

The attention soon shifts elsewhere, as Japanese media becomes increasingly consumed by Umemoto’s relentless insults toward Ryohei rather than his upcoming fight with Hamakawa.

”Let’s stop pretending this changes anything,” Umemoto tells the reporters. ”Whether he got stabbed or not, the result would’ve been exactly the same; he was never beating me. People keep calling him unlucky. I call him fortunate. At least now he has an excuse that sounds better than getting knocked out.”

The growing anticipation isn’t limited to Japan. Around the world, attention gradually shifts toward the Tokyo Dome main event as WBO lightweight champion Miguel Cabello officially begins his preparations on Japanese soil.

Having arrived earlier to attend Ramirez’s sentencing, Cabello chooses to remain in Japan instead of returning to United States. Although Ronin Fight Management is only responsible for his accommodation during the final three weeks, the world champion quietly settles into a secluded camp in Chichibu, Saitama, beginning his own countdown to the biggest defense of his career.

”They’ve spent two years building Ryoma Takeda into Japan’s next superstar.”

Cabello says it without stopping his speed bag drill as cameras surround him from every direction.

Reporters push closer, but he shows no sign of being distracted. If anything, he seems to enjoy every second of the attention.

”Six weeks from now,” he adds, ”I’ll remind them there’s still a difference between a superstar...”

His next punch lands harder than the previous ones, sending the speed bag snapping violently back.

Cabello then turns to the reporters with a vicious grin.

”...and the best fighter on the planet.”