VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

That little warmth at Shimizu’s soba shop lets Ryoma forget Kirizume for the night. And only after two days of break since his sparring with Renji Kuroiwa, he’s back at the gym.

The place is still quiet, hollow, like the air hasn’t woken yet, though the shutters are already up. Nakahara is in his office, hunched over paperwork.

Ryoma doesn’t stop to greet him. He wraps his hands, rolls his shoulders, and heads straight for the bag.

Then the rhythm begins.

Dsh, dsh, bug!

Dsh, bug, dsh… BAM!

Dsh, dsh, bug!

Dsh, bug, dsh… BAM!

The cracks echo sharp in the silence.

In his office, Nakahara pauses, pen hovering above the page. He glances at the clock, it’s still 7:10. At this hour, there’s only one person coming to his mind.

He pushes out of his chair and steps onto the floor. As expected, it’s Ryoma, his fists blur, feet pivot with clean precision, each strike rolling into the next.

Nakahara doesn’t look surprised. Instead, he watches with that steady, measuring gaze. The boy isn’t just hitting the bag. He’s speaking through it with rhythm, with intent, with something raw that catches even Nakahara’s eye.

Then Hiroshi arrives, a gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Morning!” he calls out.

But no one answers. Ryoma is locked into his rhythm, fists cracking against the heavy bag with machine-like focus. Nakahara only gives Hiroshi a brief nod, and then turns back, eyes fixed on Ryoma.

Still that’s all the explanation Hiroshi needs, to make him understands that the coach doesn’t want to break Ryoma’s flow.

He drops his bag onto the bench and walks over quietly, though his gaze never leaves Ryoma.

“What you always hope to see in someone with talent,” Hiroshi murmurs, voice low. “Discipline to match the ambition. And look at that form… at his age? Makes you wonder just how high the ceiling goes.”

Nakahara exhales through his nose, arms folding across his chest. “And how steep the drop could be. Impatience is normal especially for someone like him. The real test will be his first loss, because no one survives in this game without tasting defeat.”

Hiroshi nods at the warning, but his eyes still shine with quiet awe. For their humble gym, seeing someone like Ryoma feels almost unreal.

“That posture, those snaps, that rhythm… And he swears he picked it up just from reading manga. Can you believe that?”

Nakahara glances at him. “Then that manga must’ve had good bones. But it’s more than that. If you can hold a clear picture of the form and map it onto your own body, imagination can bridge the rest. And this kid…” his gaze sharpens, following Ryoma’s every pivot… “he’s got the eye, perspective, timing. You don’t build a defense like his without a mind that sees faster than most.”

Then his tone shifts. “He has the best form and technique for amateur league. But technique alone is not enough to secure a title in professional boxing.”

“You planning to add something to his arsenal?” Hiroshi asks, eyes bright with anticipation.

Nakahara stays silent, weighing the question. After a moment, he exhales and shakes his head.

“Too soon.”

“Why?” Hiroshi blinks. “Wouldn’t it be better if he starts now?”

“Only if he hadn’t demanded a title shot within a year. Then we’d have the time to polish him properly. But cramming in new weapons while chasing a tight fight schedule? It’ll just break down his form. No guarantee he’ll even learn it right.”

“So you’re just going to wait?” Hiroshi frowns. “What if someone figures out his weakness first?”

Nakahara glances at him, and then chuckles under his breath. “For now, he’s only fighting Class-C kids in the rookie tournament.”

“Rookie tournament, huh…” Hiroshi lifts his brows. “That’s a good start. But the risk is still there. Some hidden gem out there, same as Ryoma, dangerous, raw. If we don’t cover his flaws…”

“We’ll cover them when he faces one,” Nakahara cuts him off, waving a hand. He turns and heads back toward his office. “Now, why don’t you fetch him? I’ve prepared the registration documents.”

Hiroshi approaches Ryoma, claps his hands once, loud enough to cut through the sound of Ryoma’s punches.

“Come here for a sec. Coach wants a word.”

Ryoma exhales, finishing his last combo with a sharp bam before peeling off his gloves, shooting a side-eye at Hiroshi.

“What is it this time? Another lecture?”

“Nah, nothing heavy,” Hiroshi grins. “Just paperwork. Don’t worry, no push-ups attached.”

Ryoma grumbles but follows him into Nakahara’s office. Inside, he sees a neat stack of papers waiting for him on the desk.

“Kid,” Nakahara begins, his tone even. “I know I was the one who stopped that sparring session, but it’s too soon to chase a title shot. Go with Hiroshi, register for this year’s rookie tournament. Everything you’ll need is here.”

“Rookie tournament?” Ryoma squints, stepping closer. “That’s for boxers with less than three fights. Coach, you saw me almost beat Renji Kuroiwa. And you want me wasting time with these weaklings… until I can’t even hold Super Featherweight anymore?”

Nakahara snaps. “This might be your shortest road to a title. Just three, maybe four fights to reach the final. Win that, face the western rookie king, and the champion comes next. That’s fewer fights than our original plan.”

Ryoma opens his mouth, but Nakahara cuts him off.

“No more arguments.”

Resigned, Ryoma grabs the documents and heads out. Hiroshi trails after him, hands folded behind his head, whistling like it’s no big deal.

“You know, rookie tournament’s not as bad as you think,” Hiroshi starts casually.

Ryoma side-glances at him. “It’s literally for beginners. Kids. What’s the point?”

“The point,” Hiroshi smirks, “is that the Rookie King gets his name printed in the sports papers. People start remembering your face. Pretty girls too.”

Ryoma rolls his eyes. “I don’t need a kids’ trophy to get recognition. I almost beat Kuroiwa.”

“Almost doesn’t put food on the table, kid,” Hiroshi teases. “Win the rookie crown, and even the obaasan running the tofu shop down the street will know your name. Plus, makes for a nice line in your future biography: From Rookie King to World Champion. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Ryoma snorts, shaking his head, though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.

“More like: From wasting time in a kiddie bracket to finally fighting real opponents,” he scoffs.

“Eh, either way, it’s a Chapter worth reading.” Hiroshi chuckles.

But really, to Ryoma, the whole thing feels beneath him. It’s not because he’s a two-time Interhigh gold medalist or almost beat Renji Kuroiwa. But because deep down, as a 29-year-old who’s already lived through so much more, it feels like a kids’ competition.

And when they finally step into JBC headquarters at Korakuen Hall, that feeling only deepens. Every eye turns toward him. Dozens of rookies, all with fewer than three fights on their record, stare as if a heavyweight just wandered into their playground.

Especially those in his weight class, their faces pale, jaws tighten.

Some whisper under their breath:

“That’s him… the guy who went toe-to-toe with Kuroiwa.”

“Damn it… please don’t let me draw him in the first round…”