VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

Once the misunderstanding is cleared, and Kirizume’s supposed tricks are dismissed, everyone drifts back to their routines. Though the whispers don’t stop, they just get quieter.

Hiroshi, visibly frayed, claims he needs to cool his head and leaves the gym. That leaves Ryoma in the manager’s office with Coach Nakahara.

The door shuts, the noise of the gym muffles, and suddenly it feels less like a conversation and more like a cross-examination.

Nakahara is still unable to hide the emotion after hearing Ryoma put so much trust and respect in him. It’s still visible on his face, even though he tries to hide it.

“True or not,” he says, voice steady, “injuries are part of this sport. Anticipation and prevention matter most, especially for someone your age who’s still finding his footing. Too many talents vanish after a long recovery, lost momentum… or even retirement.”

After those words, Nakahara’s face hardens. Ryoma is too precious, and he can’t afford to lose him this soon.

“Which is why,” he continues, “I’ve been thinking about sharpening your defensive instinct.”

“By telling me to keep running away?” Ryoma scoffs. “Is that why you made me spar with Ryohei earlier?”

Nakahara exhales slowly, the sigh of a man still unsure of himself. Even now, he doubts his worth as a trainer. And Ryoma’s trust, unshaken and almost absolute, only makes the weight on his shoulders heavier, feeding the inferiority complex he tries to bury.

He turns his chair toward the window, stalling for time. And Ryoma waits patiently, as if already familiar with this side of him.

Now Nakahara’s mind retraces every step of Ryoma’s path: the boy’s first day at the gym, his rapid progress, and the way his debut fight against Tōjō that seemed to transform him overnight.

Then the memory sharpens, a glint of revelation sliding into his eyes.

“Yes, that’s it…” he mutters. He turns back to Ryoma, gaze locked. “During your debut fight… did you feel anything different in yourself?”

Ryoma squints. “The fight with Tōjō?”

Nakahara nods, his gaze sharpens, not just as a coach, but as a man dissecting a puzzle that refuses to sit quietly.

Ryoma feels it, as though his secret is only one answer away from being exposed. That’s when his Vision Grid pulses alive:

***

[Target Scan: Kenji Nakahara]

Gaze Duration: 7.6 sec → sustained, unbroken.

Facial Muscle Shift: tightened brow, narrowed eyes → heightened scrutiny.

Behavioral Projection: analysis mode engaged; comparison of past vs present self.

Emotional Leakage: conflict between trust in pupil and doubt in perceived reality.

Conclusion: Subject suspects anomaly in performance. Suspicion level: high.

Recommendation: Deflect or downplay. Do NOT reveal truth.

***

After reading that readouts, Ryoma shakes his head slowly.

“What about during your fight with Renji Kuroiwa?” Nakahara presses.

Again, Ryoma shakes his head, this time with a small shrug. He lets a hint of uncertainty slip into his expression, as if he himself isn’t sure what happened.

Coach Nakahara lowers his gaze, thinking deeply. After a long exhale, he looks up again, his tone calmer.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of this,” he says. “But there are moments when a fighter feels all his senses sharpen to the limit. The brain speeds up so much, it feels like the world around him is slowing down.”

Ryoma’s eyes flicker. Now he realizes the coach isn’t suspecting his oddity about the system or anything about him being too mature for someone so young.

“You talk about the zone?” he asks.

“Ah, yes.” Nakahara nods. “That’s what they call it. I’ve never experienced it myself, but plenty of athletes have. Boxers, basketball players, footballers. Suddenly, they become hyper-aware, and everything feels slow.”

Ryoma stays silent for a moment, and then gives a small reluctant nod. It’s weak, but enough to ignite something in Nakahara. The old man feels his chest tighten with excitement at the thought that his boxer might be something truly special.

His eyes brim with amazement, but not for long. “You did feel it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But I can’t rely on it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think it’s something I can do at a whim. With Tōjō and Renji… it just happened. And I took advantage when it did.”

“Sigh. I get it.” Nakahara nods again, thoughtful. “But we can work with that. Maybe I can’t teach you how to master it, but I can help you find a state closer to it. At the very least, it might stop you from injuring yourself in the ring.”

Ryoma lifts a brow. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Simple. You’re going back in the ring with Ryohei.”

“Again?”

“Yes,” Nakahara says as he rises from his chair. “But this time, we’re making the ring smaller.”

Ryoma scratches his head. Making the ring smaller? He knows the gym’s ring has a fixed size. How’s the coach going to pull that off? And what’s the point?

“Coach,” he calls, catching up to him. “You know Ryohei’s also an out-boxer. Make the ring smaller, and I’ll beat him even easier.”

Unfortunately, Ryoma says this just as Nakahara opens the door. And standing right there, mid-sip with a water bottle, is Ryohei. He freezes, water untouched, his face tightening at the words.

“Coach,” Ryohei says slowly, voice caught between offense and disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re asking me to spar this kid again.”

“Yes,” Nakahara answers simply. “And the condition’s still the same. He doesn’t throw a punch at you.”

Slowly, Ryohei’s smile widens. “Oh, great.”

And Ryoma throws his hands up. “Oh, come on. That’s unfair!”

“It’s for your defense,” Nakahara says firmly as he climbs into the ring with a coil of ropes.

Ryoma comes closer, watching curiously. Soon the rest of the gym stops what they’re doing, eyes following Nakahara as he strings up the ropes, building a new inner wall that cuts the ring smaller by about half a meter.

When he’s finished, he signals Ryoma and Ryohei inside, and tells Okabe to take his post at the bell.

“We’ll start with this,” Nakahara explains. “Step by step, we’ll narrow the space even further.”

Ryoma slides on his gloves, his expression flat with disinterest. The logic behind the drill makes sense, sure. But being forced not to throw a punch? Against someone like Ryohei, who’s practically riddled with openings? It’s maddening.

And if the space keeps shrinking, the temptation to strike will only grow stronger, turning the restraint itself into its own kind of torture.

Ryohei, on the other hand, looks thrilled. His grin spreads wide, silly and smug, as if he’s already won.

“Muehehehe… Since you’re an out-boxer too, kid, shrinking the ring just means you can’t run. Just don’t break too quick, ’kay!”

And so…

Ding!

The spar begins.

This time, Ryoma understands the reason behind the drill. But does that make it any easier? Not at all.

Changing a fighter’s instincts is never simple, especially when the one in the ring is not completely a rookie.

He is someone carrying the soul of a twenty-nine-year-old, a soul with so much regrets, and the weight of impatience to make things right.