VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Ryoma doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drift to the three men, and a blink later, the Vision Grid system overlays its scan results across his sight. But he barely glances at the data, because he already knows them well enough.

Haruto Aizawa, lanky but has a quick-hand counterpuncher, two wins by knockout, four wins by decision, and seven losses. Beside him is Shuji Okabe, a compact relentless infighter, eight knockouts and six decision losses. Both fight in the Featherweight class.

The third man, Ryohei Yamada, shares Ryoma’s division in Super Featherweight. And he has also cut weight to stay in that class.

However, he has no upcoming fights, and isn’t on a strict diet. One look at his current size clearly qualifies him for the lightweight.

Still, Ryoma accepts Coach Nakahara’s challenge without hesitation.

“I don’t mind,” he says.

Coach Nakahara keeps his eyes locked on the three. “Hiroshi. Tell them to get ready for a spar.”

Hiroshi heads out and explains the situation. It doesn’t take long for contempt to settle on their faces. Their sour looks fix on Ryoma as Hiroshi lays out the rules and the reason behind this sudden test.

Truth is, they never like him. From the day rumors spread about a “golden boy” joining the gym, they’ve been agitated by his present. Only Ryoma’s unfailing respect toward his seniors has kept things civil.

But today is different. Being used as stepping stones for a kid who’s gone starry-eyed over a single debut win lights something uglier in them.

“To think Coach Nakahara would even entertain his demand…” Ryohei mutters, more baffled than angry.

“So he thinks he can finish me in three rounds,” Aizawa says, his face twisting with disgust. “Fine. I’ll make sure that naivety doesn’t survive the first.”

“You’d better humble him good,” Shuji growls, jaw tight. “If you don’t, I’ll be the one to beat him so bad he won’t step in a ring again.”

Aizawa grabs his headgear from the rack and straps it on with deliberate care, the leather creaking under the pull. There’s no lazy warm-up bounce, no casual grin. He moves like a man walking toward a real fight.

He climbs through the ropes, eyes cold, jaw clenched tight. Each practice swing of his fists cuts through the air with sharp precision, the pop of leather on leather echoing like small gunshots.

Ryoma watches him without blinking. The Vision Grid hums quietly, tracing Aizawa’s range, his rhythm, the angles of his hips and shoulders. But none of that changes the fact that the man isn’t here to spar. He’s here to make a statement.

“Don’t just stand there, golden boy!” Aizawa calls out. “Get your gloves on. I’m about to end your little fairy tale.”

Ryoma doesn’t say a word. He peels off his sweater, folds it once, and drops it on the bench. Sitting down, he starts wrapping his fists with slow, deliberate pulls of tape, each stretch tight enough to bite into the skin.

Coach Nakahara steps in, crouching to help him lace up the gloves. The leather squeaks as he pulls the ties snug, testing the firmness with a tug.

“Have you warmed up?” Nakahara asks.

“Just got back from a seven-kilometer jog,” Ryoma replies.

Nakahara’s brow lifts. “And you think you’ve still got enough in the tank for three straight spars?”

Ryoma meets his gaze. “You might think I’m just some naïve kid, Coach… but you have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose, shaking his head. He reaches for a headgear from the rack and holds it out. But Ryoma doesn’t take it.

“If this spar is to prove I can walk away without a scratch,” he says evenly, “then I have to do it without that.”

Nakahara’s eyes narrow, the leather headgear dangling from his hand. “Fine. I’ll ref your little stunt. But if they break you in half, don’t expect me to throw the towel.”

He steps through the ropes, jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he swallows the mountain of irritation in his chest. Still, beneath the simmering anger, a part of him burns with curiosity.

He wants to see exactly how Ryoma handles Aizawa, which is why he volunteered to referee. This way, he can watch every second of it from up close, without a single thing blocking his view.

In the opposite corner, Aizawa bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, the air around him charged with eagerness. But the moment he sees Ryoma step into the ring without headgear, his rhythm falters and his brows draw together in a sharp frown.

“What is this?” Aizawa snaps, glaring at Nakahara. “You’re letting him go bare-headed?”

Nakahara doesn’t flinch. “What’s the matter? Worried you might hurt him?”

He takes a step closer, voice dropping so it cuts sharper.

“You’re the one who’s lately been talking about whether to hang up your gloves or keep fighting. If a debut kid without headgear puts you down, maybe take that as your answer.”

The line lands like a slap. Aizawa’s jaw tightens, and his stance shifts, sharper and meaner. Whatever this was before, now it’s personal.

DING!

Both fighters step out from their corners, their footwork measured, eyes locked.

Aizawa, despite the storm of irritation still burning in his chest, reins himself in. He lets his style take over, the patient counterpuncher.

“Easy… no need to rush. He’s the one with the clock breathing down his neck, not me.”

He circles with light steps, gloves high, letting this first round be his study.

“Three rounds to put me down? Hah… let him burn his gas trying. I’ll make him dance in circles until he trips over his own damn pride.”

Ryoma, in turn, matches the pace without overreaching, his own eyes quietly mapping Aizawa’s foot placement and reaction time.

The space between them becomes a silent chessboard, each waiting for the other to make the first real move.

Barely fifteen seconds in, Ryoma whips out a jab. It’s quick but light, testing the waters. Aizawa’s guard rises smoothly, the punch thudding harmlessly against his glove.

The second and the third jab from Ryoma come sharper, but Aizawa is already tilting his head aside, read it clean, stepping just off the centerline so the glove skims past his cheek. His eyes narrow, not from strain, but from the satisfaction of seeing Ryoma’s rhythm unfold, piece by piece.

Ryohei Tanaka watches from ringside, arms folded, his brow furrowed in something between worry and disbelief. His has similar outlook in boxing as Ryoma, both fighting in the same weight class.

He has all the reason to be unhappy with Coach Nakahara’s special treatment toward Ryoma. After a few seconds, he drifts closer to Coach Hiroshi, keeping his voice low.

“Why is Coach Nakahara even entertaining this kid’s selfishness?”

Hiroshi doesn’t take his eyes off the ring. “He’s not a kid anymore.”

Ryohei blinks at him, but Hiroshi’s gaze stays fixed on Ryoma.

“You know… Ryoma used to be shy, always stammering when talking to the coaches. I can still picture him yesterday, looking timid and unsure. But earlier… it didn’t feel like we were talking to the same kid. More like… a grown man.”

Ryohei snorts softly. “Maybe his debut win has gone to his head. Naivety at its finest.”

His eyes then narrow at the ring.

“Just look at him. He knows Aizawa’s a counterpuncher, but he keeps throwing the same three-jab pattern. Same rhythm, same angle. That’s rookie stuff. It won’t be long before Aizawa breaks his pointy nose.”